Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (20 page)

Hiding does not take away the fear.

And only makes the vulnerability worse.

I refuse to accept weakness about something that has brought me such strength—someone I want to give strength
to
. No moment coalesced those conclusions more than standing with Cassian in the living room this morning, and embracing him in the spirit of that bright, amazing courage.

You’re serious.

Yes. I am.

In that case, you’re also crazy.

A new smile lifts my lips from the memory. “I am crazy about
you
, Cassian Court.”

I confess it as quietly as I can but the vibrations tickle the valley between his biceps. His snore cuts short. “Huh?” he mumbles, inciting my tiny giggle. The boyish sound, together with the dark gold waves tousling his forehead, make me brush a kiss across the spot I have tantalized.

“Go back to sleep, beastie.”

Though his eyes do not open, a scowl compresses his face. A growl works up his throat. “The fuck, woman?
Beastie
?”

I laugh again. “It is an endearment.”

“Hmmph. You mean like ‘stud muffin’ or ‘schnookums’?”

I trace a finger along the plateau of his collarbone then the perfect hill of his shoulder. “I
mean
like ‘beastie’—as in, you remind me of a lazing lion.” I explore the sleek lines of muscle down his arm, reveling in how they tighten slightly beneath my touch. “You are beautiful…but sort of lethal.”

His sulk changes. His eyes form assessing slits. “
Sort of
?”

“Well, you will not be chomping off anyone’s head in the near future.”

“And that’s good?”

The incredulity in his tone makes me slap his bicep. He snickers, still watching me from a narrowed but smoldering gaze. By the
powers
. In Vy’s terminology, the man is wicked hot.

“For the record, Mr. Court, that is very good.”

He slides a sensual smirk. Clearly, the painkillers are still working, and I am glad—perhaps even tempted to take advantage of his diminished guard and dig in about where he disappeared in Doyle’s truck this morning—but he still looks in need of more slumber, and that is more important than prying about what cannot be changed.

“Well, I hope all those spared skulls are grateful.” He resettles, pushing his head closer to mine on the pillow. “And in my not-so-humble opinion, should still be writing you letters.”

“Letters?” I retort. “What on Earth for?”

“Thank-you notes.” The sheets rustle as he slides his lower body closer, hooking an ankle around one of mine. “They owe you. For taming the lion.”

I teasingly purse my lips. “That was the lion’s choice, not mine.”

“Bullshit.” He growls low, nudging my nose with his. “The lion knows who holds his balls in her hand.”

“Your balls are nowhere near my hand.”

“That can be rectified.”

Another laugh spills free. “Now I think the lion’s painkillers are talking.”

His leg yanks on mine. Aligns our bodies even tighter, slotting the bulge between his thighs into the cushion between mine. I shudder through a gasp. He savors it with a stare as mysterious as rainforest depths, capturing his lower lip beneath his teeth.
So hot.
“I’m not completely numb,
favori
.”

“Oh…my,” I whisper. “Well, clearly…ahhhh!” The cry bursts out as his fingers slip in, grazing one of my nipples through my bra.

“What are you still doing in this?” He slides that touch down, pushing at the waistline of my panties. “And these?”

By the Creator’s angels
. His caresses make me feel like crystal artwork, a treasure adored. My lungs hitch. My blood trembles in every inch of my veins. “The lion tamer has to have a costume.”

His throat rumbles roughly as he slides even lower, palming my backside. “Well, this sure as hell isn’t the one for public consumption.”

I fight not to rub up against him. “For the lion’s eyes only.”

“Fucking right.”

I swallow hard. Force rational thought to return. “But as long as we have broached upon that subject…”

“Of your costume?” He swirls enticing circles across both my cheeks. “Or my eyes only on it? Or my fingers underneath it?”

“Of what I am wearing on top of it.”

“Huh?”

“T-tomorrow m-morning.” I forgive myself the stammering. Right now, with him stroking up the valley between my buttocks, it is a miracle I can think, let alone speak. “For the interview. With—with Chantal Dunne.”

His hand stops. His nose flares, Blows out a lengthy snort. “Even painkillers won’t make me amenable to the subject of her right now,
armeau
.”

I scoot my head back a little. Look up at him through my lashes—on purpose. “But you agreed to sit down with her, in front of the cameras, for me.” My hand lifts to thread adoring fingers through his hair. The stuff is so thick, it is still damp next to his scalp. “I am…beyond grateful, Cassian.”

He dips his forehead against mine. “For the light in those eyes, I’d give Chantal Dunne an interview on Mars.”

“The TGN studios are much closer,” I deadpan.

“Thank fuck, because my navy Tom Ford is going to be a sauna tomorrow.”

Puzzled frown. “So why are you wearing it?”

“Because it goes best with my cobalt tie, and
that
goes best with the dress you picked out.” He flashes a cockier version of the lip-tug grin. “Yeah, I spied on you picking it out in the other room before I showered.”

Groan.

I let out a real one while rolling to my back. Instead of shaking off his hold, the move just drags him up and over, until I am returning his probing stare with a glower. “‘Spied’ is right,” I accuse. “You were
not
supposed to—”

“Listen to everything you were muttering at the same time?”

At least the assertion unseats his grip on my ass, forcing his hand up to stop the face palm I prepare to indulge. I battle him with a not-so-ladylike grunt.

“I—I do not know what you—”

“Yes you do.” His voice is lenient but his grip is not, locking my arm into the pillow next to my head, his thumb digging into my palm. “Things like ‘what the hell was I thinking’ and ‘all these dresses make me look like a cow’ and ‘Cassian will have me on the next plane home after this’.” His thumb pinches deeper. “Sounding familiar, beautiful?”

At first, he receives only my peeved hiss.
His
face is like a lake from a European postcard: breathtaking and serene. Dammit.

“The idea was mine!” I debate. “You remember
that
, yes?”

“Of course I do.”

“So I had
no
bloody right to feel so nervous about it.” The past tense reference is useless. Just thinking about it
now
turns my stomach into an emulation of the designer fountain in the Court Towers lobby, with bile and nerves instead of chrome and water.

“Bullshit.” Cassian leans down, pinning me tighter with the pressure of his whole body. “You had every goddamn right. You still do.” Impales me with even deeper intensity in his gaze. “You think I was kidding when I called the idea crazy?” he charges. “Chantal Dunne is a hell’s hare in bunny’s clothing—fluffy on the outside, vicious on the inside. Think Barbie meets Maleficent, marinated in a subtle Nurse Ratched.”

“Huh?”

He snorts. “I have to stop picking spy thrillers on movie nights. But for now,”—he moves his hold to the side of my neck, brushing a thumb along my jaw—“I’m in this with you, Ella. All the way. Though the idea may be crazy, it’s also brilliant.” The kiss he presses is quick but intense, sending tingles down to my toes. “Now, we just need to make sure it’s
really
brilliant.”

I twist my head a little. Dip a frown. “‘
Really
brilliant’. I hope that comes with an instruction manual?”

“Not a word of one.” He releases a long breath. “But we’ll write it the best way possible. Together.”

I counter him with a deep inhalation. “All right.” Give him the steady trust of my gaze. “How do we start?”

“By recognizing where Chantal will start,” he asserts. “Beer pong or not, her staff has undoubtedly been ordered to do their homework on us.”

My belly floods with fresh anxiety. Brims over, sluicing a chill through my bloodstream. “H-homework? About what?”

His touch still reassures, but his brow furrows. “I don’t know yet. Doyle and
his
team are doing what they can to find out, but we likely won’t know everything she’s got until we’re face-to-face with her on set tomorrow.”

The chill becomes ice. “Everything she—” I push against him. “Cassian.” Sit straight up, clutching a hand over the wild pounding of my heart. “Do you think she will find out…about the real terms of the contract?”

He pushes up. Then a little more. The sheet obeys gravity—and the thirst of my gaze—to slide away from the crests of his chest and the ladder of his abs, puddling between his thighs like a loincloth on an Italian statue of gold marble.

“Not if the people who know about it value their relationships with us—or their status at Arcadian court.” His commitment to every word is engraved across the solemn angles of his face. I nod, believing him. Nobody on the short list of insiders about the contract terms, Mother and Father included, has any reason to spill the sordid fine print about our agreement. At least I hope…

“
Ella
.” He cups a hand around my shoulder. I look up, already craving the look on his face—the one saying he has listened to every thought in my head, and now has the perfect answer for them. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You do not know that for sure!”

“I don’t,” he concedes. “But I
do
know she has no reason to even look there. That’s not what she’s after.”

“Then…what
is
she after?”

His reaction is not what I first expect. The little jog of his head and the sly smile on his face are such a switch from his earnest scowl, I wonder if
my
mind has gotten looped instead of his—especially when he moves with such startling speed, my yelp of surprise springs from it.

And then…arousal.

A lot of it.

By the Creator.

I have heard it said that fear and lust balance on the same razor’s edge, but never believed it…not until now. Not until, in the space of three seconds, I am pulled from shivering in a sheet to falling against sculpted muscle, my nipples mashed to golden pecs, my hips held by forceful fingers, my thighs spread—

And fitted around the most glorious erection Cassian has ever had.

He pulls me closer with an effortless tug, calling to all my feminine instincts. I feel so small in his arms, though our new positioning places me slightly higher than him. The angle gives me a chance to explore the beauty of his upturned face—and enjoy the fit of his arousal, moistening my panties as he punches against my sensitized cleft.

Ohhhh…
my
.

How are we doing this?
Why
are we doing this? There are pressing things we must discuss. What were those things? I will remember…in a moment. I
have
to remember…

Cassian pushes his face up another inch. The edges of his lips curve, once more all Italian artwork god come to life, before he scrapes the curve of my chin with the edges of his teeth.
Rasping quivers. Heated vibrations. Melting limbs.
Oh, Creator help me…

What on
Earth
did we need to talk about?

He finally speaks again, lips still along my skin. “I have an interesting idea about your answer.”

“Oh, dear.” I half-laugh it, letting the sound husk from my throat. “You and me and our interesting ideas…”

“I think you’ll like this one.”

I run my hands up his arms. Over the bulges of his shoulders. Plunge them into his hair, savoring the thick softness between my fingers. “I certainly like how it has started.”

His hands roam up my spine. The gauze of his bandage adds extra abrasion, making me writhe from the vibrations. “Why don’t
we
figure out what she’s after?” He answers my shot of a quizzical stare by deepening the smile. “All by ourselves. Right here. Right now.”

I study him harder. Bring fingers down, stroking across the proud planes of his temples. “Hmmm. Your proposal is certainly interesting so far, Mr. Court.”

His head tilts, lending him a smug air—a tactic I imagine him using on business partners in the boardroom. And why not? It is sure as hell working on
me
. My senses revel in him. My body tightens and pulses and aches for him.

“I’m very happy to hear that, Miss Santelle.” His fingertips dance down the dip of my spine. Tease at the back of my panties. “Do you prefer Miss Santelle? Or may I call you Mishella?”

I rock backward by a little. “Excuse me?”

He dips his head the other direction. The boardroom rogue is still having his fun. “Well, which is it?” he charges. “Chantal
will
ask, you know.”

Comprehension teases like the flick of a match. I let it spark the edges of my own lips. “Ah…yes. She probably will.”

“And…?”

I lean back in, looping my arms around his neck. Engage his gaze from just inches away, playfully nibbling on his bottom lip. “I prefer to be called ‘sweet
armeau
.’ Or ‘my precious Ella.’”

His gaze narrows. “Anyone in that studio calls you either, they’ll be visiting our friend Yago in the ER.”

I am tempted toward a feminine preen. Funnel it into a feigned gasp of scandal, while lifting an invisible microphone between us. “Hmmm. This is quite an interesting side to you, Mr. Court.” I jab the “microphone” toward him, adopting my best Chantal Dunne face, with wide eyes and overly pouting lips. “Normally, you take up pen and ledger for your battles. Care to comment for our viewers about accessing your inner warrior?”

He chuckles. Jabs his head up to bite into the flesh between my thumb and forefinger. “Warrior?” Soothes the damage with a seductive lick. “Why stop there, Chantal? Why not go with…caveman?”

“Hmmm.” I barely maintain the teasing guise, especially as he loops that talented tongue between the bases of all my fingers. “Primeval over medieval. That is…an interesting choice.”

He lifts a sultry stare through his gold lashes. “I like to eat what I hunt.”