Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) (16 page)

“Oh.” Her mouth is a rose around the syllable now…dark as the areolas sprouting her erect nipples. Her hair cascades around those lush swells, turning her into my very own Aphrodite…ready to be claimed by her worthless mortal once more. “And—and then what?”

The dusky cue in her gaze is all I need. “And then…I’d be able to spin you around, and march you to the window seat.” I twist her hair around a hand and push her forward. When we’re in front of the bench built into the curve of the window, I angle her over until her cheek is pressed down—and her ass is presented high. “Like this.”

“Oh…
my
.” She wriggles a little, spreading her legs for better balance…exposing the tight entrance now gaping on the air, its glistening layers begging to be filled. Because denying myself air would be easier than rejecting her needs, I give the sorceress what she wants. With one finger, then two…and three. “Cassian!” she cries. “Oh, by the Creator…”

“If you were taking protection, Ella, I could unzip my pants…like this. Then pull out my cock…and line it up to your weeping little cunt…”

“Please,” she begs, when I only follow through with the first half of that promise. Instead, I let her listen as I fist my length and begin to pump, in perfect cadence with the three digits inside her sex. “
Please
!”

At first I say nothing, letting her arousal spiral with mine, continuing to fuck my fingers into her, keeping a perfect rhythm. But then I pivot my hand, letting my thumb hook up, toying with the rosette between her ass’s perfect spheres. “I could play here, too…while I fuck your sweet pussy. Spread your gorgeous ass, then press into it…like this…”

The filthy scene, playing out in both our minds, brings on a mutual shudder. I delve my fingers deeper into her pussy…and her other entrance, so tiny and tight.

“Yes,” she keens. “Oh, yes…take me…”

“In both places?”

“In both. I need it. I need
you
. Cassian…Cassian…”

There are more words, long strings of them, but the Arcadian spills from her in such a heated slur, I can only assume she’s continuing the dirty theme. At least that’s what my cock wants to believe. Engorged and pulsing, pre-come slicking the length, the beast roars through my fist, over and over again, screaming for release as desperately as Mishella does.

And Christ, does she scream.

Openly.

Gloriously.

“
Ardui! Faisi-banu-ardui
!”

I can translate only the last word but it’s enough.

Harder.

My enchantress’s wish is my command.

We orgasm together, her gasps mating with my roar. Her walls squeeze around my fingers. My fist milks my cock. Streams of my essence fall across her back, like white chocolate poured against vanilla ice cream. Though I am spent, the sight of it keeps me hard…craving to lean over and fill her with my dick instead of my fingers.

Instead, as our breathing normalizes, I force myself to step back. Scooping my robe back up, I improvise it into a towel, cleaning her back and my cock before scooping her back up against me…yearning to hold her like this all damn day.

Well, not exactly like this.

Doing it in bed would be so much better. Naked and sated, limbs twined, heads sharing a pillow…

For a moment, I consider it. Strongly. Nothing sounds better right now than fucking the day’s demands—but even amenable Rob will point out that canceling on Flynn Whelan is professional poison. The man has clout with both the Greek and Croatian governments, contacts we’ll be needing once operations in Arcadia move forward in full force. And right now, staying close to the Arcadians has leapt high on my priorities list.

Close
.

It’s never felt like a flimsy word—but right now, drawing Ella even closer, it comes nowhere near to what I crave to share with her…what I still burn to have beyond this. I’ve just compared her to a decadent dessert, and stuffed my senses full of the damn thing, yet I’m ravenous for more. So much more.

But will it ever be enough?

I hope so.

Dear fuck, I hope not.

The breath I fan into her neck is full of that rough conflict. She responds with a quiver, rolling down through her whole body, making her skin pebble beneath my touch. I firm my roaming caresses, partly to warm her, partly to memorize the feel of her nakedness.
Something
has to get me through the day, goddammit.

She finally breaks our silence with a hitched murmur. “Cassian?”

I wrapped myself tighter around her. “Yeah?”

“I will go to the appointment. With your friend.”

I tilt my head in. Press lips to her temple. “Thank you,
armeau
.”

She cocks her own head. There’s an impish smile on her lips. “You can thank me later. In
very
thorough detail.”

I growl lowly. “Yes, ma’am.” Then set about proving how I fully intend to follow through—by stealing that smile off her lips with the attack of my own.

*

Mishella

S
cott drops me
off at the front door of Kathryn Robbe’s medical office, which is attached to her home somewhere in a neighborhood on the other side of Central Park. It is far from the sterile environment I spent the morning dreading, and I am more relaxed than I ever thought possible—under the circumstances. There is even a little cartoon bubble taped to the ceiling overhead, emblazoned with the words
I Hate This
. It eases the discomfort, perhaps a little, of having my womb examined from the inside out.

“Okay, then. All finished.” Her tone is crisp but friendly as she pulls out the speculum, and I release my breath in a relieved whoosh. Does any woman ever “breathe normally” through a pelvic exam? “Why don’t you get dressed then join me in the other room?”

“Of course.”

The “other room” is a cozy office reminding me a little of similar spaces in Palais Arcadia at home. The furniture is just as grand, though made of darker woods. A pair of Turkish carpets overlap on the polished wood floor. Bookshelves line an entire wall, and the big desk looks like the workspace of a busy but happy person.

A few elements
not
like home: the pair of plush chairs in the center of the room, also formed of dark wood but cushioned in cream velvet. The upholstery matches the colors of an ornate tea table, centered between the chairs.

“Do you like tea?” Her eyes, the color of sherry, smile as much as her lips. Her hair, pulled into a stylish French twist, is almost the same hue. She would be described as a handsome woman, and looks enough like Cassian that she could pass as his older sister. “If not, I can grab some lemonade from the fridge.” She motions to a kitchenette, off to my left.

“Tea is fine.” I smile as I sit, folding my hands in my lap and crossing my ankles. “And those cookies look even better.” There have to be at least three dozen of the assorted confections, arranged on a multi-tiered tray.

“Ohhhh. Someone else with a sweet tooth.” She winks. “Cas told me I’d like you.”

Cas
?

I hide the jealous spike with an answering smile. “Thank the Creator I ate a filling lunch.” A salmon filet, served by a sedate Prim—who has decided to warm to my presence, inch by agonizing inch. I think she even stopped scowling, for a flash, when I complimented her about the meal.

“Well, these are light. And calories consumed during business don’t count.” She shrugs and chuckles. “And I kept the lab coat on, so we can consider this business, right?”

I try not to smile too brightly. If she only knew how close to “business” this really is for me. Or maybe…she
does
know. By the powers, how much information has “Cas” supplied her with?

I lick my lips. Decide to borrow a gutsy page from Vy’s book, and “suck it up” with the direct approach. It is not graceful—but sometimes in life, one simply cannot be.

“So…exactly what
is
your relationship with…
Cas
?”

She concludes a sip of tea. To my pleasant surprise, gives a smiling nod. “Bull by the horns. Now I
really
like you.”

That is not my answer but I feel far from pressured to point it out. Sure enough, as soon as the woman finishes nibbling a pink macaron, she replies, “Do you mean am I a lover? Or an ex?”

I take a fortifying bite of cookie for myself. To quote my best friend again,
Gawd…delish
. “I suppose that
is
what I mean.”

Once more she nods, that
atta girl
sparkle in her oh-so-American eyes. “The answer is no, and no,” she offers. “I went to university with Cassian. We went on one date, which nearly ended in disaster.”

I scowl. “How so?”

“Depends on who you ask: him or me.”

“Well,
you
are sitting here.”

“But
he’s
at the front of your mind.” She arches knowing brows at my confirmation of a blush. “Long story short: the man is too damn serious.”

I practically choke on my next bite of cookie. “You are speaking of…Cassian? Cassian
Court
?” The man with the charm that will not stop captivating me? With the smile that will not let up on assaulting my heart, and the laugh that flips my stomach each time it takes over his lips?

“Six feet-three? Eyes like the Emerald City skyline? Hair so perfect, it belongs on a kid half his age auditioning for a boy band?
That
Cassian Court?”

We laugh together. That is a very good thing, since it disguises my urge to wistfully sigh at her description instead. I finish with a curious cock of my head. “And yet…you fought with him on your first date.”

“On our
only
date.” She settles back a little further, crossing her legs at the knee, absently circling her raised ankle. “Half of one, at that—thank God.” An impressive eye roll gets inserted. “All that damn intensity, in one man. He was out to set the world on fire before we were able to legally drink. ‘Relax’ definitely wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, even with dorky bowling shoes on his feet and beer disguised as soda in his hand.”

“Bowling…shoes.” A frown sets in before I can help it. Racking my brain for the Arcadian translation of the word equates to a blank screen—but this “bowling” must be important. They even have special shoes for it.

Kathryn breaks into another laugh. “Hard to believe, right? The man of Kiton and Berluti, kickin’ it casual with a girl in a beat-up bowling alley on a Friday night?” She rests her head against a raised hand. “Neither could he.”

“Ambition is not an awful thing.” I almost cannot believe the words are coming out—even in defense of Cassian. Firsthand, I have seen ambition’s toll on a person—
two
of them—and on a marriage that was really never a marriage. But thanks to Cassian and the benefits of
his
drive, I shall never be prisoner to that loveless cage. It is all my choice now—and in a flash, I recognize there is a good chance I will never choose it. Not if I cannot have—

What?

What you have with Cassian? What you are only going to have for six months?

Forever is a long time to be alone, Mishella.

“Of course it’s not.” The woman’s murmur, lined with sincerity, saves me from the miserable turn of my thoughts. “But in this city, it’s a drug as lethal as crack or meth—in some cases, more addictive.”

I swallow hard—letting my mind follow her lead. Hating myself for every step into that dark, uncomfortable place. “In Cassian’s case?”

She barely blinks before answering quietly, “I was starting to fear it…yes.”

“Why?”

At that, she
does
blink. “I think he’s still purging demons.”

I gulp again. No use. My throat is tight and dry—because I feel the truth of her words. I
know
it. “Wh-what demons?”

Kathryn lowers her leg. Scoots forward. Pulls in both elbows to her knees. Murmurs as if apologizing, “They’re not my stories to tell. And I don’t even know all of them. But…they’re there, Mishella. Spurring him. Haunting him.” The faraway lilt in her voice is suddenly counteracted…by the new smile edging her lips. “Well, they
were.
Until today.”

I straighten. “Huh?”

“Until today,” she repeats. “Actually, just an hour ago—when he called, right before you got here, and all but ordered me to take great care of you.”

Tiny zings of pride and warmth chase each other through my chest. “Oh,” I blurt.

“Yeah,” she returns, adding a new chuckle, “
oh.
The man who never
attempted
his bossy-boss act with me since the bowling alley catastrophe…” The chuckle mellows. “But now, because of you, he’s pulled out his full Smokey the Bear again. It gives me hope.”

I don’t even hear her last words. “He has a
bear
?” I recall the moment, in
Paipanne
’s study, back on the island. He had offered to buy me a dog but said nothing about—

“Why don’t we make sure he doesn’t have a cow, much less a bear.” She returns to her soft laughter, clearly proud of herself for the “humor,” but sobers when I cannot even feign understanding of the line. Not for the first time in my life, I yearn for a transplant into Vylet’s body. The woman is able to laugh even at watching grass grow—and actually has.