Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (5 page)

The man now surging deeper into me.

Stretching me.

Throbbing deeper than he ever has before.

Then groaning, harsh and low, his breath filling my ear…his essence erupting in my sex.

“Fuck,” he grates. “
Fuck
.”

One of his hands wraps around my head. The other is still flat between our bodies, finding the tender pearl at my center…coaxing it with harsher tugs, unstopping and unforgiving, bringing fresh flutters to the channel in which he is still embedded so tightly.

“Cassian!” I grab him, though am unsure whether to welcome him or punch him. It is so much.
Too
much. “I—I
cannot
—”

“You can.” His snarl shakes the chest upon which I am now pressed. “You will.”

Tears stab my eyes. The sensations he elicits…they begin to demand more than orgasms. A
more
I am not sure how to give—or if I
can
give. Not holding the knowledge that I do now.

Not while I still look the whale in the eye.

Not while I think of a faceless ghost named Lily—and the fact that she once wore Cassian’s wedding ring.

And the fact that I did not know about it until the night he was shot.

How can I give him everything I am…when he has not done the same? Or even considered doing the same—until he was forced to? Outed by a sloshed ex-girlfriend who finagled her way into the gala we were attending and blurted the truth about Lily in front of a crowd of New York’s social elite…

The
ugly
truth.

“
No,
Cassian. I
cannot
.”

The violence in my voice punches the air—

And him.

He pushes back. Erupts with a fierce sound from deep in his chest. Slides out of me as if yanking a knife from his ribs instead.

Our breaths are still fast and fevered—as synched in our frustration as they were in our passion. Wordlessly, with my juices still coating him, he stuffs his cock away. Just as silently, sweeps a napkin from the table and dabs at me, attempting to help my own clean-up. After a few seconds, I take over the task—but do not stop watching him from beneath my lashes.

Reading him like a neon sign.

On the surface, his face is stoic and gritted—but in the shimmer of his eyes and the grit of his jaw, I see the true torment biting at him.

The anguish of recognizing the whale too.

And the acceptance that we can no longer let the damn animal suffer like this.

*

Cassian

Remorse is the
old sweater in the closet of my life.

It fits entirely too well to throw away—no matter how many times I’ve attempted to throw it out, give it away, or burn it.

Now, the thing falls over my shoulders again. All too familiar. All too disgusting. No ignoring it anymore. No giving it a glossy shine or turning the dirty threads into silk with another glamorous date—because Mishella Santelle doesn’t care about the silk. She sees right through the shit, because her life has already been draped in too damn much of it.

She actually wants the filthy sweater.

She wants my honesty.

Even after everything.

After knowing I wrote a check to be with her—and that her parents didn’t blink about telling her to jump at the chance. Knowing that initially, my dick drove the decision as much as my brain did—then after arriving here, knowing that the “sweet deal” of her billionaire benefactor came with a past full of fucked-up and a lover full of lies.

All right…not lies, exactly.

Then what
is
it called when you take a woman thousands of miles from her home, claim her virginity a day later, then profess you’re falling in love with her a few days after
that
—without bothering to tell her about the woman you were once
married
to
?

So maybe I withheld a few things for too long.

So maybe I lied.

But now it’s time to suck it up, swallow my pride—and my fear—and put on the goddamn sweater.

Starting this very second.

Only that’s impossible.

Not without dragging her on one final journey.

I should feel better about the decision. Aren’t difficult choices supposed to be easier once made?

Fucking fairy tale.

As I angle back toward her, my bones are like lead, my tendons turned to steel cables. I move with matching heaviness, lifting an awkward hand. At least I’m grateful she accepts it. Gently, I help her down from the balcony’s ledge. Greedily steal a moment to hold her tight to me again, pushing the gold curls back from her face, marveling at how the candlelight dances across her features…though she’d light up the night without the extra illumination.

So. Fucking. Beautiful.

Her lips, pursed in curiosity, are still stung by my kisses. Her gaze, wide and searching, is as pure as the heart of a flame. Even the tiny stains of mascara on her upper cheeks are breathtaking—because I know exactly how they got there. Can still practically feel each of her orgasms, fluttering around my cock…

Thoughts for another time.

A much
different
time.

It’s time to take care of things even more important than that.

“Cassian—”

“Ssshh.” I take her lips in a small but insistent kiss. Tug her toward the door leading back into the museum offices.

“But the food and wine—”

“Will be appreciated by someone around here, I’m sure.”

She stops. Pulls me back. A glorious flush suffuses her cheeks. “I—I did not mean to ruin the whole night.”

“
Ella
.” My second kiss isn’t so benign.
Ruin.
I’m not sure the woman even grasps the meaning of the word as a verb. “The night has hardly started—so that’s null and void as well.”

She doesn’t move. Tightens her lips. “‘Null and void’, Mr. Court?”

“Rolling our eyes, Miss Santelle?”

“And now with the royal ‘we’?”

“And now with the sass that’s begging for another spanking?”

No eye roll—but a deliberate pout full of just as much cheek. Little minx. She can rout my bullshit as easily as I catch the drift on hers.

I’m so fucking tempted to cap it with another swat to her delectable ass, but remembering what happened after the last spank makes me overcome the lure. The next time I’m inside her, we’ll be more than simply skin-to-skin. We’ll be twined again, spirit inside spirit. Thoughts so meshed, they’ll feel like one. Hearts so bonded, they’ll hammer in the same perfect time. No more secrets—and dammit,
no
more ghosts.

Tonight, it all ends.

The only ending I
ever
want with her.

And I am a man used to getting what he wants.

Because I am a man willing to pay for it. No matter what the price.

No truth has been less of a shock, while clanging through me exactly like one. It makes everything more real. More…permanent. A future I now envision having with her, despite the “strictly business” deal I struck to get her here. The contract that officially frees her to return home in just four months.

Home. To an island nearly five thousand miles away.

Unacceptable.

But
that’s
an action item for another day.

Another price I’ll have to pay.

Worth it
.

No matter what…she’s fucking worth it.

Is there some mental baggage in that one?
Bet your ass.
If I learned anything from the years with Lily—the knowledge I bring to every step I make now—it is that love doesn’t pay lip service to every goddamn cliché ever conceived for it, but a lot more that haven’t been.

Flowers and honey.
Victor Hugo. Got it. Check.

Smoke and sighs.
Shakespeare’s always good for this kind of shit.

Wonder of the wise. Amazement of the gods.
Plato lends credibility.

But now for the Cassian Court entries in that journal.

Love…

is a gift.

This
woman’s love…the most priceless of them all.

Which throws the onus on the asshole peering back at me from reflections in the museum’s glass cases, as I guide her through the now-empty museum.

Great gifts require great gratitude. And the great commitment toward caring for them. And the actions proving exactly that.

And the recognition that many times, fate doesn’t offer tomorrow for that proof.

There is only today.

And by this point, only the four hours we have left of it.

As if I need any further justification for rushing our steps out the front of the museum.

We emerge into the sticky summer night and make our way toward the Jag XJL limo, my driver Scott waiting with an open door and a lopsided smile. I climb inside after Ella—to find her already pivoted in the seat, waiting for me with an expectant frown. I settle in, letting her curve a hand into mine, but answer the questions in her eyes with steady silence.

For a few minutes, as we speed along the Henry Hudson, she seems content with that. But I know better.

The river begins to glow blue and silver instead of gold and red. The GW Bridge rises into view, its sweeping suspension cables lined in aqua lights.

Sure enough, as the bridge and the park disappear behind the bend in the road, Ella blurts, “Where are we going?”

I’m ready for it. I’m actually ready for a lot worse—not that she’ll receive a different answer from me either way. From now on, I hide nothing from this woman.

Famous last words
?

I pray they won’t be.

With every goddamn bone in my body, I
swear
they won’t be.

I made it through private school and college by shining shoes and slinging newspapers. Began a global empire with my own sweat and smarts. I can sure as fuck figure out how to do an open, honest, healthy relationship with a woman willing to bring the same thing to the table.

Starting with this.

“We’re going where we can punch the restart button,
armeau
.” I squeeze her hand. Kiss her forehead. “With the truth.”

“All right.” Her answer is like music, filled with her sweet trust and soft affection. “Where is that?”

“Home.”

*

Mishella

“Y
ou’re back early.”

Mallory Court leans over the kitchen’s granite counter as she murmurs it like juicy tabloid gossip instead of a statement of the obvious. Her green eyes sparkle. They are a shade lighter than her son’s, like leaves in the sun compared to leaves in the shade, though her shoulder-length hair is the same shade and texture. Her bone structure is so similar to his, looking at her is like beholding Cassian with colored contacts. And—well—as a woman.

Unbelievably, that fact is secondary to another—for as much as Mallory Court resembles her son on the surface, she is a startling replica of Vylet Hester on the inside.

Vy
.

A twinge of melancholy hits. Yes, my best friend and Mallory would be quite a pair. While night and day on the outside, both women are full of dry wit and raunchy imagination, balanced by huge hearts capable of delivering just the right encouragement at just the right time. That has made me love Mallory—and miss Vy—in increasing chunks each day.

“It would appear so.” I scoot onto one of the dark wooden stools on my side of the counter. Follow that by tugging a knee beneath my chin: a simple feat since changing out of my “date dress” and into comfier attire of a T-shirts and cotton shorts, per Cassian’s instructions as soon as we got back. It appears he is still off doing the same, though I would not put it past the man to sneak in a call to the office, his assistant, or both.

Ugh.

I tack on a heavy sigh. As if that will change anything.

And once again, doubt the decision to become the man’s “girl next door,” Temptation Manor style.

The guest bedroom certainly does not lack for comfort—with the exception of moments like these, when Mr. Court and his capital
A
personality determine it is acceptable to override medical orders and—

The same medical directives you let him violate an hour ago, between your thighs
?

Maybe it is best that the sleeping arrangements remain as-is.