by Tina Donahue
Claiming Magique
Tina Donahue
Book one in the Appointment with Pleasure series.
A man at the center of power. A woman who won’t be ruled. They call her Magique…
Sought out by the District’s elite, she’s no ordinary call girl, deciding who will pleasure her for the evening. Her preference is for several men at once. Games of bondage and submission heighten her desire to be taken by a strong male.
Hunter is only looking for a good time, not a woman who unleashes a hunger so deep it changes his world. He won’t stop until Magique is his alone. He’s a prisoner of his lust, powerless against his growing need for her body and heart.
With this man, resistance isn’t allowed. For this woman, he’ll create a world of sensual delight and yearning like none she’s ever known.
Claiming Magique
Tina Donahue
Dedication
To libraries—my favorite places on earth—may they always have funding and never go out of style.
Author Note
Lust transformed to tenderness…attraction that becomes intolerable need. These elements fuel Claiming Magique, the first book in my Appointment with Pleasure series. Join me in a world of wealth, power and sex where a woman’s past has colored her future. Meet the man who’ll do anything to have her.
Chapter One
She’s not your ordinary call girl.
Hunter Prescott recalled that assertion he’d heard from a client—or was it simply a tease—as he and his friends arrived at the private residence on R Street.
The historic building was three stories and of a French design, its façade a pale yellow. To the average individual it might have belonged to a senator or housed a foreign dignitary, rather than being used for what Hunt knew would go on in its rooms tonight. A female intent on pleasure greeting him, her delicate hands stroking the planes of his body, her sweet little tongue licking his balls and cock, preparing his shaft for her welcoming cunt.
Warmth settled in his groin, radiating to his belly and thighs.
It was an effort, but he waited on the sidewalk, his erection hurting as Tim paid the cabdriver in cash and David scanned the tree-lined street, ever alert to see if they’d been set up.
Not an impossible prospect. The public loathed Washington’s lobbyists—known as K Streeters in this part of the world—even though they fought for policy that made sense and kept things equal in a decidedly unequal world. Hunt figured some reporters would have given up their own vices for a chance to expose him and his friends in a compromising position, bringing them down, along with the international corporations they represented.
While the risk worried David, it energized Hunt. Heat continued to suffuse his body. He lifted his face to the cooling breeze, mild with spring, perfumed by the area’s ubiquitous cherry blossoms. Falling petals danced on air currents before raining down, creating a surreal scene some might have found romantic and sensual. The deserted street was almost too quiet. Even the night seemed to be waiting for what would happen next.
The name she uses is Magique.
French for magic. According to Hunt’s client, who’d paid close to twenty grand for tonight’s “date”, Magique was available only when the mood hit her.
Hunt had laughed at the notion, asking, “Seriously?”
“You won’t be grinning if she doesn’t choose you,” Jack Kilhan had said.
Nearly as rich as Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg, Jack was a VIP client at Givens and Strobe, the firm where Hunt, David and Tim worked. Hunt had helped get legislation passed that saved Jack’s companies a lot of bucks and regulatory headaches. As a reward, Jack was providing the coming hours with Magique.
That is, if she chose Hunt.
“Seriously?” he’d asked the man again, dutifully sobered this time.
Jack pursed his lips and drew hard on his illegal Cuban cigar, releasing aromatic smoke with his words. “She doesn’t do this for the money, Hunt.” He offered a knowing smile. “She doesn’t need to.”
Really. “She has a day job? She’s a lobbyist too? Someone’s aide? Part of the POTUS’s inner circle? His mistress?”
Jack smoked his cigar.
Hunt pressed on. “If she doesn’t need the money for living expenses, then why does she do it?”
“Why do you or any man?”
Dumb question. They craved sex, the high of an orgasm, the warmth of a body and close comfort without any of the nasty complications.
“Hey,” David said, real quiet as though he feared being overheard. His Asian features were tight with concern as he studied Hunt. “You all right?”
He was horny as hell and hadn’t even seen her. What the fuck was the matter with him? He enjoyed women, always had—for sex and an occasional friendship, not anything soul shattering, knowing how easily love could become a weapon. He’d seen enough of that shit as a child.
Had Jack been putting him on with that she-might-be-inaccessible crap? There was only one purpose for tonight…unrestrained indulgence. For her, him and his buddies.
“She prefers three guys at once,” Jack had informed. “Rather than one on one.”
Hunt wasn’t about to question why.
“I’m fine,” he said in answer to David, then cleared the tightness in his throat as he headed for the front door.
Tim followed, his strides decisive, his blond good looks downright preppy and at home in this well-to-do neighborhood.
The cab hummed down the street, leaving a whiff of diesel the breeze washed away. Branches tapped the home’s windows. The glass glowed with amber-colored lights, the gentle illumination spilling onto the darkened walk. Hunt thumbed the doorbell. Its chime was feminine and soft, tempering his impatience, though it didn’t keep him from jabbing it again.
A woman answered. She wore black slacks and a demure white blouse. Hardly the stuff of any man’s X-rated fantasy. Given the faint lines at the corners of her eyes and around her generous mouth, Hunt guessed her to be around thirty-two, the same as him.
She was Magique?
He warned himself against disappointment or asking the wrong questions as he regarded her. Compared to his six-three, she was possibly five-five and as scrawny as he’d been as a pre-teen. From his peripheral vision, he saw Tim was also sizing her up. David remained focused on the street and coming doom from reporters, cops, whatever.
“Welcome,” she said without a hint of warmth, a trace of an accent or any inquiry as to who they might be. “Please come in.”
The foyer was expansive, its walls the color of butter, the same as the outside façade. Recessed lighting coupled with mahogany furniture and gold-leather wing chairs added to its erotic allure, creating images of an upscale brothel where scantily clad women waited for a man to choose them, the rosy tips of their nipples evident through sheer lingerie. Intricate floral designs were inlaid into the beige marble floor. A sweeping staircase with wrought iron railings led to the upper rooms.
She locked the door and gestured to the stairs. “Second floor, to the left. All the way down the hall to the double doors.”
With that, she pivoted and went into a side room.
David leaned close to Hunt and Tim. “Who was that?” he whispered.
Tim mumbled, “You noticed it too?”
David stared at the wedge of light spilling from the room she’d disappeared into. “Noticed what?”
“How familiar she looks.” Tim rubbed his temple, then dropped his hand. “Oh shit, didn’t she used to report for CBS?”
David looked like he wanted to hurl. Hunt elbowed Tim’s gut.
“Ow,” he complained and continued to laugh.
Privileged from birth, Tim expected the world to cave to his every whim,
never to question his motives no matter how base. His father owned most of the land in New England, his mother the majority of the buildings on it. No one denied Tim Bellamy, nor did anything worry him.
David on the other hand… He’d been poor like Hunt, clawing through a lot of unpleasant shit to get where he was now. He released a quiet groan. “Quit screwing with me.”
“Relax,” Hunt said. “Magique’s going to be doing that.” That is, if she found David fuck-worthy.
Hunt frowned, trying to picture her denying David or himself. He didn’t much like the prospect. Ever since high school he’d pretty much had it easy with women. They liked how he looked. He adored their silken voices, the way they smelled and felt beneath his body and hands. In college, he’d fallen hard, craving his girlfriend’s love. He would have done anything for Paula.
She rewarded his loyalty and trust by sleeping with one of his best friends.
To this day, Hunt wasn’t certain which had come first, his pain or anger. However, the intensity of his rage disturbed him the most. No way would he ever be like his mother’s boyfriends, battering women to ease his hurt or to get his way. Reining in his emotions, he’d ordered himself to move on and had, enjoying the sex, not hoping for anything more. The same as tonight.
Magique might not be an ordinary call girl, but he wasn’t her usual client, trapped in a bad or boring marriage, wanting a female to mother him. Hunt damn well knew how to make a woman whimper in delight, which excited him more than anything else. Her satisfaction, that drowsy look of a lady well fucked fueled his passion.
He took the stairs two at a time. Tim caught up but didn’t pass. Good choice. Shoulder to shoulder they marched to the landing.
Expensive prints of pastoral scenes graced the walls, lit from above by brass light fixtures that made the artwork seem older than it probably was. Oriental vases in lacquered greens and golds stood on cherry wood accent tables, the roses, lilies and other flowers they held sweetening the air.
“This place is amazing,” David said from behind.
Hunt turned to him. So did Tim.
Mussed by the breeze, David’s straight black hair grazed his forehead and right cheek, making him appear more boyish than his thirty-four years should have allowed.
“Magique must really be something,” he added.
“Definitely not ordinary,” Hunt said, then went down the hall to where the woman had directed them.
Smoky jazz played from inside the room, a sax and strings making the piece sultry and tempting. Not bothering to knock, he opened the doors.
Japanese murals decorated the walls, depicting gardens in tones of beige, light brown and pale green. The faint scent of newly mown grass and something citrusy provided a refreshing touch. Crystal chandeliers drizzled light onto the polished hardwood floors, a buff-colored fireplace, the sofa and chairs in bronze leather. A bank of tall windows stood to the right, the raw silk drapes drawn over the panes. To the side of them was a door. Leading to a bedroom? Possibly.
On the other end of the room was a wet bar. And Magique.
Hunt stepped closer, unable to help himself.
Her back was to them. She made no move to turn around despite David’s nervous throat clearing.
Her hair was glossy and black with blue highlights, worn so long the ends dangled over her ass. From his vantage point, Hunt could see her right leg. She wore strappy gold heels, three inches high. He estimated her to be about five-seven or eight without them. Her dress, a simple sheath, was of an amazing gold material, slightly shiny and so snug she might as well have sprayed the damn thing on.
It wasn’t gauzy lingerie, but it did reveal her every curve.
Adrenaline pumped through Hunt, making it difficult for him to stand still. His mouth went dry.
Her figure leaned more toward a Victoria’s Secret model than the waiflike look of high couture. The dress’s left strap had fallen down, making her seem more accessible, oddly vulnerable. Light glanced off her bare shoulder and arm as she moved, lifting a glass, tipping a bottle. Her skin was an ivory shade, looking delicate and seductive as hell.
He pulled at his tie’s knot, needing to loosen it so he could breathe more easily. The air, so fresh a moment before, seemed suffocating now. His fingers ached. He’d been making fists. To control himself? Damn right.
He longed to cross the room and turn her around so she’d notice him, her expression saying she not only approved, she wanted him more than the others, her actions affirming her reckless desire. Burying her face in the hollow of his throat, she’d take her time smelling his skin, gauging his excitement. He’d fight a sigh at her tongue licking his Adam’s apple, her thumb running over his bottom lip. What other choice would he have except to draw her finger into his mouth, gently biting the digit? The small intimacy would have her sagging into him, her weight and exquisite warmth making Hunt feel invincible, prepared to protect her from any harm.
David made a strangled noise, no doubt appreciative of the temptation she generated and his own shameless thoughts. Tim whistled softly.
At that, she turned.
Hunt stared, not even trying to hide his surprise. She was…amazing…striking…dazzling. He couldn’t settle on one description. Although she wasn’t classically beautiful, she would easily stop men cold, making them sneak another peek just to see if she was real. She had the kind of looks that grabbed a guy by his balls, keeping his attention.
Surely no more than mid-twenties, she wore her long hair parted on the side, framing her oval face. Her features were a mixture of European and Asian—Vietnamese, Japanese—Hunt couldn’t be certain. She didn’t appear to be wearing much makeup, just mascara and lip gloss that somehow made her even sexier. Her lips were full, a dark-rose color, the bottom one jutting out slightly in a gentle pout. Her almond-shaped eyes were a velvety brown, her manner dignified, damn near regal as she regarded Tim, then David and him finally.
Hunt’s pulse jumped at the flicker of heat in her gaze. A simmering sexuality that was honest, unexpected and she couldn’t quite hide. However, she made no move to look away, giving him her full consideration instead.
He liked that.
“Gentlemen,” she said, far warmer and more encouraging than the woman downstairs. Although she’d addressed them as a group, her attention remained on Hunt a bit longer before she regarded his friends.
He really liked that.
“Welcome,” she said.
For once, Tim didn’t seem to know how to respond. Speechless, he drank her in, the same as David, their Adam’s apples bobbing with their hard swallows.
She accepted their silence as though moments like this had played out before with countless other men who were fascinated by her presence and confident sexuality. Jack had claimed she didn’t like one on one, preferring group sex. As far as Hunt was concerned, Tim and David no longer existed. He and Magique were alone in this room.
His mind went into overdrive, picturing her facing the wet bar, obedient to his every demand. He had dozens, but contented himself with the most pressing first. With his hands on hers, he directed Magique to grip the edge of the counter. She turned her face to his, their mouths so close he could smell her sweet breath. It warmed and tickled his skin. Kissing her shoulder, he guided her to bend at the waist. Her hair tumbled over her arms, away from her ass, his sole focus. Inch by delicious inch, he edged up her wicked dress, exposing her buttocks. Two lush globes that begged him to squeeze them.
In his fantasy, she wasn’t wearing panties or a thong. He wanted nothing separating her skin from his, not even a condom. According to Jack, there wasn’t any worry about getting her pregnant. She protected herself well. She also knew that he, Tim and David had submitted to testing and passed with flying colors, free of any social disease. None of them would have been here tonight if they’d been a threat. It was one of her many demands.
Images unwound in Hunt’s mind of him kissing the crease at the top of her thigh. The scent of her sex washe
d over him. He suppressed a groan of delight and touched her slit. Slick with her arousal. Ready for—
Her sleek muscles rippled beneath the shimmering gold fabric as she turned back to the bar, pulling Hunt from his outrageous fantasy. He stared stupidly at the tray she held.
On it were three glasses of varying heights. The squat one with the amber liquor was bourbon neat, no water or ice. His favorite drink.
He wondered if it was Jim Beam and suspected it was. Had Jack told her his preference in hard liquor? Most likely.
With the grace of a runway model, she moved toward them, her heels clicking lightly on the floor, her steps in rhythm with the music’s beat. Slow and suggestive. In front of David she stopped, her slender fingers circling a Manhattan, what he always ordered, complete with three, not one, maraschino cherries. Just as he liked.
Ice tinkled in the glass as she lifted the drink to him and murmured, “Nĭhăo ma?”
David stared as if she’d just spoken Martian, rather than what sounded like Chinese. He blurted, “Wŏ hĕnhăo.”
Whatever he’d said had her commenting again in the same language. To Hunt’s surprise, David actually relaxed. Hell, he started to flirt, his tone husky and provocative, making her arch one slender eyebrow.
Before David could react or say anything else that might get him banished from here, she moved to Tim, offering him the tallest glass with a wedge of lime at the top…his usual scotch and soda.
“Et comment allez-vous ce soir?” she asked him, her French as effortless and flawless as the last language she’d spoken.
Amazing. Not only was she multilingual, she seemed to know that Tim had spent several years after college screwing around in Paris, blowing his trust fund before his father cut him off and ordered him home.
Unlike David’s initial reaction, Tim grinned. His fingers caressed hers as he took his drink.
“Bon!” he said, “Mais j’espère être encore mieux.”
