by Julie Kenner
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.”
“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.
Chapter Nine
MISHELLA
Scott 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 a
nd 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.”