Jasinda Wilder’s Madame X series is irresistibly suspenseful and sexy, and now the highly anticipated final book in the series—Exiled—is coming next week and I’m thrilled to be able to share with you a never-before-seen excerpt! Plus, make sure to scroll to the bottom of this post for an epic series giveaway!
New York Times bestselling author Jasinda Wilder presents the conclusion to Madame X’s thrilling saga of discovery.
My name is Madame X.
My heart is torn in two.
And now I have to choose…
Caleb is everything to her: lover, caretaker, the man who gave her life meaning when she had none. But as she seeks the truth about herself and her past, she discovers that unravelling Caleb’s web of lies might very well be impossible.
Logan is everything she never knew she wanted: freedom, joy, and a passion she couldn’t anticipate. But is Logan’s love enough to save her from herself, from Caleb, and from the tumultuous truth of her past?
Caught between two equally compelling men, X must make the ultimate choice. But there’s more at stake than just her heart…
I want to run my hands over his body. Taste his skin. Feel his muscles under my palms. Take his hardness into my hands, feel him love me the way only he can. I don’t move, though. I can’t do that to him. I don’t deserve that with him. Not anymore. Not until I’ve come clean, admitted my sins and begged him to forgive me, if he can, for betraying him, cheating on him. That’s what it was, betrayal, infidelity. I love Logan. Only Logan.
But I am addict. Weak, hooked, unable to control myself.
Logan must see or sense my inner turmoil. He grips the towel and moves to kneel beside me. “Hey. What’s up?”
I shrug. “It’s just a lot.”
I laugh, a bitter, humorless sound. “Everything, Logan. My life. Just . . . everything.”
He sweeps a palm across my cheek. “Talk to me, Isabel.”
I shake my head. “Why? The last thing you need right now is to take on my stick-in-the-mud angst. You need to rest. To heal. Not to worry about me. I should be worrying about you.”
He blows out a breath. “Isabel, why don’t you get this? I am going to worry about you. I am going to care about your problems. They’re my problems, because I want them to be. It’s what you do when you’re in a relationship.”
In a relationship. My gut lurches. “I don’t know how to do that. How to be . . . that.”
“Who does? You make it up as you go, babe.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Not easy, but simple. You trust me, I trust you. We confide in each other. Depend on each other. Give freely so we’re both getting what we need.”
“That sounds . . . lovely.”
He’s close. One knee on the couch, near my hip. Staring down at me. Indigo eyes warm, inviting, fiery with desire. God, those eyes. That look. The expression that says he wants me, all of me, only me. Needs me. Can’t go another minute without me, without tasting me, feeling me.
I take a breath to unburden myself of the guilt, but he steals it with a kiss. Buries his palm in my hair, cupping the back of my head. Lifting me up into the kiss. Grabbing a handful of hair at the roots and tugging my head gently but firmly backward so he can plunder my mouth. Leaning farther over me.
I can’t not touch him, when he kisses me like this. Smooth my hands over his sides. Roam the curves of his shoulders, the broad plain of his back. Somehow, the towel comes loose. I find myself brushing it away, cupping, gripping, clutching, scratching his backside. Pulling him closer. Feeling him harden between us.
He’s propping himself up with one hand, searching for the hem of my dress with the other. Tugging it up, out of the way. Probing with a finger, sliding it under the gusset of my panties. Finding me wet. Hot. Ready. Touching and touching and touching, until I’m gasping against his kiss and stroking his hardness. Lifting my hips, needing him. Ready for him. Eager. Hungry.
He’s ripping at my panties, and I’ve got him gripped in my fist. I can feel by the tension in his belly and the way he’s breathing that he’s ready. Beyond ready.
“Is . . . God, Isabel.” He murmurs in my ear. His voice is low and rough, but it blasts me with remembrance.
He touches his forehead to my chest for a brief moment, but then he’s leaning back, upright. Cock jutting hard and ready, eyes tortured with need. “What do you need, babe?” He stares down at me. “If you’re worried about me, don’t. I’m perfectly healthy enough for this, I promise.”
“It’s not that, Logan.” I close my eyes tight, summon courage.
I can’t look at him, or I’ll forget it all. The desire to obliterate everything with the heat of his kiss and the hardness of his body and the glory of feeling him orgasm in and on and all over me is too strong. If I look at him thus, naked, hard, ready, I’ll forget what I need to do.
“Isabel?” Logan’s voice, prompting me.
I suck in a breath. “We can’t do this, yet. I want to, need to, but I can’t.”
He shifts, plops to the cushion beside me. Drapes the towel over his lap. It tents, somewhat comically, over his massive erection. I force my eyes to focus on his face.
He sees now. This . . . isn’t good.
“Shit.” A breath, a palm passed over his face. “Spill.”
“I don’t even . . . I don’t know where to start.”
He eyes me. There’s an anger and a hardness in his gaze. “Well, then let me venture a guess: Caleb mind-fucked you again. Got you all mixed up and feeling sorry for yourself or for him, or something. Worked whatever magic hold he has on you, got you to sleep with him again. Is that it? That’s it, isn’t it? You let Caleb fuck you again.”
A tear slides down my cheek. Another. A whole host. “Yes.” A broken sound, a shattered word, a shredded syllable.
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