Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) (15 page)

For the first time in my life, I roll my eyes at a man.

Partly because he deserves it.

Partly because I know I can.

Mostly because it feels so,
so
good.

In return, his own eyes go dark with sage smoke. “Christ. Did you roll your eyes at me?” When I do it again, the desire takes over the rest of his face—and his cock slots against my most sensitive tissues, zinging heat to every nerve ending in my body. “You know what I want to do with that expression, don’t you, young lady?”

The grate in his tone brings me more boldness. I toss a flirty glance up, tugging at my lip with my teeth—and his erection with my fingers. He hisses. I clutch harder. By the Creator, I love touching him.
Everywhere
—but especially here. Feeling him pulse beneath my palm. Watching his jaw clench. Savoring the power that I, for once, have over
him
…

“Hmmm,” I murmur. “I…have no idea. Maybe it is best that you show me, Mr. Court?”

His throat vibrates with a low, snarly sound. “Maybe it’s best that I do.”

My breath clutches. Holds. I hope, perhaps too desperately, for my backside and the shower seat to become best friends again. Instead, Cassian shifts his hold to my shoulders, urging me down. The action is too brusque to let me trail him with kisses, but I am able to take a tactile exploration. My hand travels the hills of his abdomen, glides into the indent of his hip, savors the perfect plateaus of his thighs. “Beautiful,” I rasp. “You are…so beautiful, Cassian.”

He lifts his hands, burying them in the wet tangles of my hair, as I kneel before him. With his hold digging into my scalp, he grates, “Then wrap
your
beauty around me.”

I cannot refuse. I do not want to. In my most illicit dreams I have already imagined doing this for him…and for me. Taking over him like this, hoping I can enthrall his body as he does mine…I am flushed all over, intoxicated and afire…all my senses swirl, aroused and alive.

“Fuck.” His groan is as tight as the sinew of his legs, clenching as I grasp them, pushing him deeper inside me. His flesh, musky and wet, pushes at the confines of my mouth. So huge. So delicious. His hands brace the back of my head, soon setting a pace for each new lunge over his pulsing length. “Beautiful…
favori
…take me…take me…”

His words are like the steam, curling around us, dissolving my thoughts into nothing more than particles on the air. I’ve evaporated, now just a swirl myself, my actions completely controlled by his passion…his will.

“Touch yourself, Ella. Stroke your clit.”

I obey at once. Release a moan around his girth.

“Touch
me
with your other hand. Around my balls.
Yes.
Like
that
.”

I moan louder. So does he. He rams into my mouth at a quicker pace. The sac beneath my hand throbs and writhes. His cock grows, testing the limits of my throat.

Faster.

Hotter.

Sucking.

Stroking.

Climbing.

Coming.

As the zenith hits my pussy, I scream—welcoming the ropes of cream he gives my throat. I drink burst after burst of his perfect completion…his beautiful passion. And embrace all the beauty he sees in
me
too…

And am glad the water cascading down our bodies can mask the sheen of my tears, born of an exquisite, inescapable realization.

In being owned by him…

I have been set truly free.

Leaving only one insane dilemma.

How will I ever set
him
free now?

*

Cassian

I have to
turn from Ella while buttoning up my shirt.

First, the sight of her in the chair next to the window, dressed in nothing but my bathrobe, is too fucking tempting. She’s only five feet from the bed I yearn to throw her back onto, keeping her captive for three more days.

Second—my fingers are shaking.

Trembling.

Me.

Like a fucking cat in the rain.

And I never want it to end.

The same way I never wanted to leave that bed. Or the shower—dear
fuck
, that shower—or the magical wrap of her arms, her eyes, her body.

How the hell am I ever going to set her free?

Because in another five months and three weeks, she’ll be properly purged, man. Spoiled and fucked into perfect oblivion. With any luck, she’ll even be like all the rest: another Amelie, ready to stomp all over your space with the social engagements, the photo ops…perhaps even the pre-business trip hissy fits…

The argument has merit.

Except for one major snag.

I
like
thinking of Mishella Santelle in those scenarios. Yeah, even the hissy fit one.
If
there would ever be any need to leave her behind on a trip, and
if
she ever found the need to launch such a tantrum, defusing her anger might be more fun than stoking her passion. The woman’s pretty damn adorable when she’s miffed. Her gaze turns to blue fire, her neck cords with tension, and she turns all Queen Victoria proper, practically using the royal
we
on everybody.

We are mad at you, Mr. Court…

We would like you to keep sucking on our nipples…

We would like to suck on your cock…

We would enjoy coming for you…

Yep. Shaking.

I finish with the damn buttons. Not a miracle yet. That comes when I remember how to secure a Windsor knot…that is, when I recall where I put the fucking tie…

My search doesn’t last long. It ends with a punch of violent feeling, at finding the strip of red silk trailing from elegant fingers that I long to kiss once more—and do. Ella’s smile fills her eyes before her lips, a sequence reaffirming my newfound buy-in to Arcadian voodoo, before she loops the tie around my neck and focuses on the knot. I’m actually jealous of the thing, watching the attention it receives for the better part of a minute, until a more disturbing thought sets in.

“How’d you learn to do this?”

Translation:
what man did you learn it for
?

She smirks. My subtext isn’t the subtlest, and I don’t give a fuck. “My brother.” She tugs softly, taking her time, and I sense the quiet intimacy of the moment means as much to her as me. “All the kids on Arcadia wear school uniforms until our last year of secondary level. Saynt never perfected his knot, at least not to
Maimanne
’s satisfaction, so I just did the job and let her believe what she wanted.”

More emotion wallops me. This time, fierce protectiveness. It pushes my hand up, clasping one of her wrists. When she looks up, I don’t ease back on my probing stare. “Would an imperfect knot have been that much of a sin?”

I expect her to drop her gaze. When she doesn’t, for a very long moment, she lets me see in…allows me to really view the panorama of her life up until now. It is filled with shifting sands, fickle winds, even a fear of where the next step may take her. Steps that have, until now, all been orchestrated by her parents—down to the threads in her and Saynt’s clothing.

Finally, she looks away. Her arm drops too. “And perfection was not expected of
you
, Mr. Court?”

Clearly, my sadness has come off as pity—not a surprise, if the filter of her pride is considered—so her defensiveness isn’t a shock. Nor is the logic behind her words. I’ve tracked her parents’ “research” into Court Enterprises. Undoubtedly, they’ve told her I didn’t inherit the money behind all this. In her mind, two and two are now snapped together—and sum up to a pair of demanding parents.

Little Ella. If only the world were so tidy.

“Perfection,” I echo, arching a brow. “Of course it was expected of me. Every day.”

She nods, face full of
I-knew-it
.

“By the guy in the mirror.”

The nod halts. “But your mother—”

“Was usually at work by the time I got up for school.” I square my shoulders. It’s not a new move, even with the onslaught of those distant memories—things not even her parents’ probe could have divulged about me. Mom prefers to let me live the public life, and now enjoys the garden she never had while I was growing up, in her dream house out in Connecticut. The way it should be. “She had to take a bus and two trains to get to the Four Seasons on time for clock-in.” I cock my head. “You know those rich New York farts. They all don’t have much patience when their toilets have to be scrubbed.”

She doesn’t bite on the levity. Instead mutters, confused frown in place, “But your father surely—”

“Wasn’t around.” I manage to get it out smoothly.

“A brother or a sis—”

“Wasn’t. Around.” Not so smooth this time. By half. But Damon is nobody’s business. Ever.

“So…it was just you?”

Yes. In an apartment smaller than this room, with the cocaine addicts on one side and the schizophrenic lady on the other.
At least the crackheads were quiet in the mornings.

“This isn’t the right time for this discussion, Ella.”

She nods once more. The
I-knew-it
is gone but I instantly wish for its return. Anything but the terse lurch into which the action has become. “Of course it is not. I…apologize.”

“Dammit.” I seethe it beneath my breath, to myself more than her, before wheeling back, grabbing her, and tucking her close. “No apologies,” I utter into her hair. “Ghosts are just better left buried; that’s all.”

“I understand.”

But she doesn’t. Not really. After courageously unlocking her emotional gates for me, she has met padlocks and guard dog growls from me in return. Not a damn thing I’m going to do about it either.

I tried exposing the pain once before. Forced the gates open.

Was given just another ghost to bury.

Headstone carved with flowers to match her name…

Fresh dirt over the plot, contrasted by the February snow over the graveyard…

I grit the memories away. Gaze over the top of Ella’s head, out the window. It’s May but the morning sky roils over the city, thick with thunderheads, as if even the big guy beyond them challenges my call.
Go ahead, bastard
.
Give it a try. You turned my secrets into sunshine once, then ripped the sun away. Now, the secrets stay with the ghosts. Buried. For good.

I pull in a deep breath. Normally, it’s enough for fortification. Not now. I dip my head, seeking the solace of her warmth, her kiss—but as soon as our mouths meet, I revise the descriptor. This isn’t just solace. It’s healing. She might hate that my gate is closed, but she accepts it…and simply fixes what she can from where I
do
let her stand.

She really is a gift.

I’ve never considered it hell to stop kissing a woman before. Today marks
that
first, giving new meaning to the words
fuck
and
no
. Somehow she deciphers it properly, and giggles a little.

“Off with you, Mr. Court.” She adjusts my tie one last time, giving me an accidental eyeful of her cleavage. “The sooner you get done ruling the world, the sooner you can come h—” She barely snatches back the rest, but it’s enough to shatter our pretense of domestic bliss as she revises, “The sooner you can get back.” She lifts a little smile over eyes turning rich turquoise. “And remember, you have a physician’s appointment today.”

Oh. Yes. That.

I step back, guiding her hands into mine—deciding to just broach the subject, now that she’s gone there anyway. Clearly, the more “formal” moment for which I’ve been waiting is not coming soon—especially with her standing there, soft and scrubbed and naked in my robe.

“I had Rob make that appointment,”—I deliberately engage her gaze—“for you.”

Nose crinkle. Slow blink. “Me? What? Wh-why?”

No better tactic than a direct one. “It’s with Kathryn Robbe. She’s a friend. And a gynecologist.”

“A gyne—” She’s confused more than upset. Good sign. “But Cassian, you know my history. Well, my lack of one. You are my first—”

I stop her with a kiss. It’s as much for me as her. Hearing her speak it out loud, that I’m the only man who’s ever been inside her, fires primeval urges I don’t even want to subdue. After a long minute of claiming her with my tongue, I pull back far enough to speak my full, transparent intent.

“It’s just to make sure everything’s working fine,
favori
.”

She spurts a little laugh. “After the last three days, you are not sure it is?”

“And to talk to Kathryn about birth control.”

More blinks. But no more frowns. Just a gorgeous little
O
of her lips, followed by the same sound in a rasp. “Oh,” she repeats. “You…errmm…that is what you want?”

I lower my head. Inhale deeply. Attempt to absorb the clinical scents between us, not the sensual. Toothpaste, deodorant, shirt starch—
not
body cream, vanilla soap, even the sexy place at the curve of her nape, where her citrus shampoo blends with beads of her perspiration. So many more places like this on her to discover. Marvelous places…

“What I
want
,”—Christ, what I
need
—“is to get my body inside yours whenever and wherever I want.” Her all-over shiver conveys I’ve made the point, but my imagination’s off and running again. “For instance, I’d be able to tear this robe off of you. Kind of like…
this
.”