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

by Angel Payne

  I hope for a smile in return, perhaps even one inviting a new kiss, but her nose crinkles, and her gaze remains somber. “This decision…the new contract…” She traces the pattern in my sweater with the tip of a finger. “It is not a ‘win-win’ for you, is it?”

  “That’s not for you to worry about.”

  Tighter nose crunch. “To be plain about it, Cassian, that is bullshit.”

  I struggle not to laugh. “Is that so?”

  “I have a mind,” she asserts. “And two ears that work.”

  “I never doubted either, favori.”

  “I know what Father’s voice sounds like, when he is trying to justify a business choice to a colleague. Yours sounded the same way during several calls on your cell phone today. You have walked out in a tree because of this.”

  “Walked out in a—?” Deep frown. “Do you mean…gone out on a limb?”

  She huffs. Waves an impatient hand. “You have taken a risk. A huge one.” Her hand slides up, sneaking a little beneath my sweater, caressing the side of my neck. Once more, the breath I’ve just regulated is a wind storm in my chest. Outwardly, I suck it in as calmly as I can…praying to God the tempest between my legs is equally obedient. “I want to be worth that risk for you, Cassian.”

  I swallow hard. Run a hand along the back of her arm, up to her neck, around to her nape. “You already are.”

  “Bullsh—”

  I kiss her into silence, but with lingering tenderness. “Ssshhh. We’re not even halfway through the flight.” She draws breath to speak but I yank it right back out of her with another kiss—still lingering, not as patient. “We have time,” I grate. “Lots of time, all right? Let’s just—”

  And suddenly, I’m the one being cut off with a kiss. Correction: a kiss, borrowing my idea but very little else; incinerating my temperance on the sacrificial pyre of her passion. Correction: her passion. She is a fireball in my arms: a groaning, grabbing, greedy burst of need, twisting her slender fingers into my hair until our mouths are meshed, our chests are fitted, and our crotches are grinding with inescapable heat…and lust.

  Annnnd, the discreet hard-on is officially in my rearview. Who the hell have I tried to fool about that, anyway? Discretion is my Dulcinea when she’s near. A glorious, impossible dream.

  A soundtrack for another time—definitely not when my balls pulse like this, rocketing my shaft to a solid ten on the pain scale. The fucker fills and lengthens, punching at my fly in response to her incredible little mewls and erotic little writhes. She is going to kill me, and right now, I can think of no better way to go.

  When she finally relents, we are both breathing like goddamn freight trains—but she barely waits before pulling my hand free from her nape then guiding it down, down, down, until it’s formed to her inner thigh. With our gazes still bound, she rolls her hips…sliding her soft flesh against my trembling touch.

  But that’s not my undoing.

  Her awkward little swallow. The tentative flick of her tongue along the seam of her lips. The questioning glint in her eyes, so unsure about what she is doing but trusting herself—trusting me—enough to follow the instinct of her desire, and do it anyway…

  “Wh-what if…I do not want to waste any more time?”

  Now I kiss my restraint goodbye.

  With a long, slow, growl, I dip my head back down while inching my fingertips up. There’s a method to the madness—and with her, it feels like madness—of being able to read her better through her lips. Their stillness or hesitation will tell me that despite what her brain dictates about honoring my “risk,” her body is on an entirely separate page.

  So far, we are very much on the same page.

  Holy fuck, what a page.

  As I sweep deeper into the heat of her mouth, my hand explores the silken valley between her thighs. Her skin is soft and shivery beneath my fingertips; her muscles bunch as she undulates in ready response. Pain pricks my scalp as she clings to me tighter, tighter still. “Yes,” I hiss, blowing the sound along her lips. “God, yes. Make me feel it, woman. Every shred of it.”

  She moans and shakes…as I trail my touch higher.

  Every. Fucking. Shred.

  She arches up. Strangled sounds vibrate in her throat. I kiss down that strained column, reveling in her tension. She’s a drawn bow, coiling deeper as I glide a path toward the erotic triangle at her apex. It’s shielded by modest panties. I palm her mound through them, my lips hitching as she gasps.

  “C-Cassian!”

  I growl again. Rub fingers along the fabric’s center panel. “Wet panties, sweet Ella. They feel so fucking good.”

  “Mmmm,” she stutters. “I—I am glad you—ahhhh.” She jerks upward as I circle my fingers. I can feel her clit even through the barrier, trembling…hardening.

  “Tell me they’re white.”

  She shoots a confused stare. “Wh-what?”

  “Your panties,” I clarify. “So help me God, if we were in this airplane alone, I’d be hiking up your skirt to look for myself, but for now, you’ll have to let my imagination do the work.” I let my gaze grow heavy hoods while running fingers along the inner seams, never delighting in teasing a woman more. She’s slick with perspiration and arousal. She smells like tropical flowers and honey.

  The crown of my cock is wet now too.

  “Color,” I manage to command again. “Tell me the fucking color, Mishella.”

  She gulps again. “Wh-white.”

  I hiss, exposing my bliss. Knew it.

  “Ohhhh.” It’s the only option of a response I give her, working my fingers inward, against her bare flesh. “By the Creator. That is…that is so…”

  I watch it all take over her face—the wonder, the awe, the heat, the passion—in a transfixed state of my own. Though my cock throbs, damn near screaming for emancipation, it isn’t as important as the horizon to which I’m guiding her. “Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”

  “Cassian.” She sighs. “Oh…my…”

  “My gorgeous girl.” I swipe my thumb in, testing the taut bundle at her very center. She jolts then mewls, fisting my sweater. “You’re a virgin to this too, aren’t you? Nobody has ever touched you like this before…right here?”

  “Oh!” Her head snaps back. “Oh, by all the powers!”

  “Tell me, favori. Has anyone—any man—ever stroked you here? Made you this wet and hot?”

  “N-no,” she finally blurts. “Nobody, Cassian. Only you have touched me like this.”

  I kiss her softly, conveying my approval. “Now tell me…the naughty way. Tell me how you like my fingers in your pussy. How your wet, succulent clit likes my strokes. How you want me to play with the edges of your tight, virginal tunnel…like this.”

  “Yes!” It is more rasp than exclamation, though I’m still grateful Doyle has the bedroom door closed. But another part of me mourns the fact, wishing the ass could hear every note of her gasping arousal…wondering if he’d glare at me now for the crazy contract commitment. “I—I like your fingers there. Want you…stroking me…touching my clit…”

  “And playing with your entrance?”

  “And—and playing with my entrance.”

  “With my cock getting harder, as I think of fucking you there? Ella?” I charge it when her lips go still. She’s back to remembering the white panties instead of the gorgeous vixen beneath them. But finally she pulls in a harsh breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and forces the obedient words out.

  “Yes,” she blurts. “Yes—all right—I like it when you think a-about f-fucking me.” She breaks in on herself with a moan that has to be the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. Curls my sweater tighter in her grip, using the hold as leverage for her whole body, shoving herself against my fingers. It’s completely unnecessary. Her fever has infected me too. I flick her erect pearl as fast as I can, snarling in satisfaction when her eyes reopen and her mouth drops in arousal.

  “Oh, I’m thinking of fucking you, Ella. Be sure of it.” I thrust up my h
ips until the swells of her ass embrace the head of my cock, and we groan together from the torturous friction. My boxers are soaked, a cruel reminder of how badly I want to be pumping like a heathen inside her tight core. “Hard and hot and deep. You’d be feeling me in your eye sockets. Screaming for me. Pleading to let you c—”

  She lurches her head up to deliver the kiss—or maybe yanks mine down, as if it matters—joining our mouths as our bodies crave, an unthinking collision of fire and fervor and flesh as she writhes toward a climax that has me breathing just as hard…needing just as much.

  “Let me come, Cassian. Oh, by the sweet fucking Creator, make me come now!”

  SIX

  *

  Mishella

  This is not me.

  It cannot be.

  These are not my words. Not my lips, rambling with these filthy, wanton things; certainly not my body, pulsing with desire I never dreamed possible…heat I never knew existed…

  It is all so good.

  Too good.

  Not me. Not me. Not me.

  Not true.

  For as Cassian swirls his thumb in then presses it there, punching the hot bundle at my core, I slam back into myself like a soul returned from the dead. I know all of myself, suddenly seeing the past and the present and even the future, for time ceases to exist or matter. Only sensation does, pure and perfect. As my sex screams with ecstasy, my blood is made of stars. My vision is made of light.

  My spirit is flown to completion.

  “Fuck! Yesssss!”

  I ride wave after wave of the silver-white miracle, now unable to utter a sound. Cassian carries me through with words in a baritone gone husky, keeping me from drowning with his strength and his touch. He is my rock…my haven…my all.

  The thought is like an icy tide.

  Too soon. It is much too soon.

  And yet, I cannot deny it.

  He bought me. For the next six months, everything I am is his.

  Yet every new moment with him brings me closer to…

  me.

  Whoever that is.

  Do I even know? Do I even want to? Will she be a woman I find, only to be forced to hide upon returning to Arcadia? Not being bound to an arranged marriage does not excuse the rest of Father and Mother’s proprieties…the remaining walls of their boxes.

  Even more terrifying: what if she is a person I do not like?

  Questions that must remain secrets. I ensure that by dragging my eyes shut as I lift my head, a rag doll in reverse—appropriate, since my body is now limp as one. Cassian assists the feeling by gently massaging my thigh while pulling out from beneath my skirt. His other hand duplicates the pressure along my shoulders. Soon, my head droops to his chest, my senses tempted back toward subconsciousness. I fight them, despite his disciplining growl.

  “Sleep, Ella. You need it, favori.”

  “Mmmm. Noooo.” I sound slurry and silly, the rag doll animated…sort of. “You,” I insist. “I need to…take care of…you.” Despite the lethargy, I am all too aware that his body is still the stiff opposite of mine—especially the part nestled right against my backside. And yes, even in my partial coma, I am aware of how deliciously good it feels.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That is why you sound like a jungle snake is strangling you?”

  He grunts. “Why don’t you let me worry about the snakes?”

  I trump his sound with a giggle. “Or maybe one snake?”

  His laugh rumbles beneath my ear. “Dirty girl. Are you trying to corrupt me?”

  “Hmmphh? No…no corruption. Education.”

  “Ohhhh. Hmmm. Right. Education. I can…understand that.”

  “Have to know the differences between snakes, Cassian.” I nestle a little deeper against him. As a yawn takes over, so does a distant memory. Maybe not so distant. Was it just yesterday, about this time, that I sat drinking sun tea with Brooke and Vy, being subjected to my own lesson in corruption…and snakes?

  “Is that so?” His murmur is warm in my hair. “And what about them?”

  “Well, according to Brooke and Vy—”

  “But of course…”

  “Some are small and harmless,” I go on, disregarding his wry tone. “And others are anacondas.”

  “Huge and dangerous?”

  Little frown. “But you are not dangerous.”

  My dulled logic delays my mortified gasp, though not his chuckle. He tilts up my face, lowering a soft kiss on my nose before murmuring, “Sleep, my little armeau. You have a bigger adventure ahead than you think. The anaconda agrees with me, whether he likes it or not.”

  His firm tone demands obedience—and I am too tired to push back anymore. But his sarcasm also dictates a laugh, and on that, I am unable to deliver. I am the one choked now—by a thrill that curls down to my toes.

  Armeau. He’s deliberately labeled me with another Arcadian word.

  It means…

  Gift.

  *

  Cassian

  I’ve lived in New York for nearly ten of my twenty-eight years. Have taken this journey back into the city more times than I can count, gazing at the manmade forest across the Hudson before the Lincoln Tunnel makes the skyline disappear—but over the years, have come to think of those buildings as just collections of rooms with collections of people who have nothing but collections of meetings, contracts, conference calls, action plans, presentations, power plans…endless demands of me. Endless lists for me.

  The work that rescued me from grief four years ago has become my Manhattan cage.

  Until now.

  Until, through the eyes of Mishella Santelle, the forest has become magic again. And those eyes, huge as serving platters made from the blue quartz on her island, don’t miss a damn thing. Practically bouncing from one side of the limo to the other, scrambling over the bench seat we share to see it all, she is a conduit of enchantment—a sorceress given new powers, courtesy of New York City.

  “How do all those buildings fit?”

  “How many kinds of cars are there?”

  “What are the yellow ones called?”

  “Can we take a ride in one of those big ones with the seats on top?”

  “The horns are like music. So pretty.”

  “Wait. It is…a tunnel…under the water?”

  “So when the lights turn red, everyone just…stops? What if someone does not agree to that?”

  “All those people, moving together…they are like pods of dolphins, only on the land…”

  She trails into rapt silence after that one. Freezes in place, crouched like an awed kitten over my lap. I rip my gaze away from the perfect curves of her profile, following the line of her stare. It’s a quarter to six, so the crowds along 5th are still dominated by business suits and headphones, but she watches the scene as if memorizing every face she sees. I am filled with the same feeling, only my focus frames only one face. I need to remember this moment. Everything about it. The azure glitter in her eyes. The twilight breeze in her long curls. The way she’s yanked off my blinders and made me see the poetry in New York City crowds.

  Don’t forget this. Don’t forget this.

  Especially not now, as she angles her gaze back to me. Blushes a little, as if discerning exactly what I’ve been up to. “It is incredible, Cassian.”

  I don’t tear my stare from her. “It certainly is, Ella.”

  She laughs softly, and sucks in her bottom lip in that go-to move she has for awkward times. Little siren; she doesn’t realize that shit makes me yearn to replace her teeth with mine—and use that as only the first place I’ll bite her. Maybe one day, I will.

  Maybe right now I will.

  I reach a finger up. Tug at that strawberry-colored pillow, still caught beneath her teeth. Let my gaze dip there, fully informing her of my intention.

  I’m going to kiss her. Hard.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Court!”

  I refrain from lunging out of the car and driving a fist into Scot
t’s cheerful grin. The kid isn’t responsible for me losing all track of time and place; I should be grateful he didn’t yank open the door and get an eyeful of me lunging down Ella’s throat—and maybe up her skirt. Likely up her skirt.

  I clench my jaw, forcing a smile, before climbing out. “Thanks, Scott. Good to be home.”

  Things become more fun when his grin turns into curiosity, clearly wondering why I hang on to the back door instead of letting him close it. Scott’s love for the Jag XJL is no secret; he exploits every chance to caress his “car baby.” Inside five seconds, he’s actually a little antsy.

  Until I reach back inside, and help Mishella step out.

  And suppress a chuckle, witnessing the normally smooth college kid become a puddle of astonishment.

  If Ella notices the influx of Shar-Pei in his brow, she doesn’t show it. Instead, extending a hand with openness and grace, she says, “Bon sonar. I—uh—mean, good afternoon. My, what a lovely tie.”

  Scott runs a hand down the strip of navy-colored satin—and his puffed chest. “Well, thank you.” I throw a smug smirk from behind her. If he’s not going to mention the tie is part of his required uniform, neither will I.

  “Mishella, this is Scott Gaines. He’s usually around to drool over the car.” I cock a trenchant brow. “And not a lot of anything else.”

  Scott clicks from astonished to stunned. Plenty of women have disembarked from this car before—there’s no getting around that, especially with Scott—but to this day, I doubt if the guy knows any of their names. I’m irked with myself about that, until confronted with one irrefutable fact. None of them have stopped to compliment his tie, either.

  “So nice to meet you. I am—”

  “May I present Mishella Santelle, of the Island of Arcadia.” The caveman has stomped in, inspiring my interruption, but I’m not sorry. Handling the introduction allows me to answer the rest of the questions in Scott’s gaze. “She’ll be staying at Temptation for…a while.” Though I am the one who set it, the idea of a time limit on her stay is suddenly repellant—but I accept the twist in my gut. It’s likely the first of many to come.

  “Oh.” At first Scott’s response is pleasant. Why wouldn’t it be, when basking in the sun of this woman’s smile? A second later, my statement sinks in. “Oh. Really?”