1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Five

by Julie Kenner

  A sound chugs from his chest, full of sensual approval. I swear I am glowing from it, though instantly he is all animal impatience again, prompting, “And what else?”

  “And…for you to come too,” I rasp.

  The husky approval again. Brighter glow.

  “Like this?” he encourages. “With my bare cock in your cunt?”

  Oh. My.

  This. Man.

  How does he do this? How does he know the exact angle for his mental scalpel, dipping it into the exact place in my psyche that holds my naughtiest triggers…my deepest arousals?

  And right now, does that answer even matter?

  “Yes.” I shove my hips back, grinding in time to the raw pace he sets. “Yes, Cassian…with your naked cock inside me.”

  “Right here? Fucking you in my back seat?”

  “Right here, Cassian. Right now. Here, in the back of your car.”

  “Spilling my hot, thick come inside you…as anyone on this street can hear you screaming because of it?”

  I cut into his last word by embodying it. My climax rips straight from my fantasies and rampages my body, tearing a shriek from my throat, and filling my sex with a storm. Within seconds, it spirals into a tempest. With a violent groan of his own, Cassian gives me the flood of his seed, relentless with his thrusts until we are both breathless, limp, and sated.

  Slowly, he relents his grip on my hips. Though I melt forward a little, he follows me down. With his body still locked inside mine, he trails kisses down then back up my shoulder. Continues around, to the dip between my shoulder blades. His breaths are long and lingering, turning my perspiration into tiny shivers. When they trickle the length of my body, my walls clench around him once more.

  “Christ.” He grits it before zigzagging the tip of a finger down my back, causing me to grip him harder. He reprises the word, harsher now.

  I cannot help a little laugh. Add a saucy glance over my shoulder. “It is your own fault.”

  “Yeah? You may just make it my ‘fault’ again.” His face, defined by taut arousal, is still an ideal pairing with his tuxedo. He was probably one of those children who play-acted James Bond for the martinis and the girls, not the bad guy butt kicking. “Holy fuck, woman. I’m half-hard again already.” When I tighten all my muscles again, deliberately this time, he delivers a sound slap to the cheek that didn’t get it the first time. I yelp. He purrs.

  “You are a beast,” I tease.

  “A beast who has to make an appearance at this goddamn gala. So tell your sweet body to let me go…please.”

  With as much care as we can give my gown, we slide away from each other. “At least the ball is at the library,” I offer, while he scoops a towel from the limo’s bar and helps clean me up. “I can sneak off and read while you hog-nog with your people.”

  “Hob-nob?” he prompts.

  “Hm. That too.”

  “Well, there’s only one ‘knob’ that concerns me.” His face contorts as he wraps a second towel around his sex—which backs up his honesty with its beautiful, half-erect state. “And yes, it misses you already.”

  “Well, I miss him.”

  He stills, towel still on his groin. “Him?”

  Quick shrug. “Well, of course. He is part of you, so…”

  “So is it just ‘him’?” His lips twist once more, as he tucks himself back in. “Or is there a proper name involved here? How about…Eugene? Or something more basic? Bill? Bob?”

  I hold up both hands. Return with a chuckle, “All right, now. There is such a thing as carrying things too far.”

  “We just fucked like animals from the Upper West Side to SoHo. How far would you consider too far?”

  I do not miss the tightened corners of his eyes, nor the tension now twining his tone. Perhaps he already feels the difference in the air between us…how I have stuffed away my heart the same way he has pushed down his penis. Clinical? Yes. But survivable? That is the more important yes. Nothing has proved that more clearly than what has just happened between us—a joining that blazed my heart and soul more thoroughly than his essence seared my sex—making it doubly necessary to re-shield them both.

  Before he can take over any more of them…

  Before they swell too huge, even for the shields.

  I smooth my skirts. Pull some tissues from the built-in dispenser in the ledge behind the seat, dabbing at the lipstick that now must be all over my face. “I simply think that boundaries are a smart idea…in some circumstances.”

  Cassian stiffens. His gaze turns the shade and texture of jade. “In what circumstances?”

  I draw in a breath. You knew this might happen. Remember what you mentally rehearsed.

  I re-set my shoulders. Force my stare to align with his. Creator help me. A little of my resolve weakens. His eyes are still jade—but now cut into battle daggers. Comprehension has started to seep in.

  “In this circumstance,” I state, folding calm hands around the tissues. “Everything you said earlier, Cassian…it is true, of course. We enjoy a good connection. A blend of chemistry that is…very nice, and—”

  “Nice?” As his growl slams the air, his brows descend over his glare. “Fuck. Are you really doing this? Nice?”

  I toss the tissues aside. Recollect myself. I have vowed to remain clear about this, even if he cannot view the situation accurately. Not if we are both to emerge from this arrangement as sane entities. “We…enjoy each other,” I venture again. “In many ways.”

  He matches my determined inhalation. Wraps one hand around his knee, the other on the back of the seat. A posture of openness—

  and challenge.

  “Fair statement,” he replies. “And in many ways, correct.” His stare sobers. The car glides through a small dip and sways gently, becoming the expectant metronome to his follow-up. “But…?”

  “But…” I fill my lungs again. “I cannot keep ‘enjoying’ them as thoroughly as I have been. This is for the best, Cassian. I truly believe it, and need you to do so, as well.”

  CASSIAN

  I don’t know whether to throw a punch through the back window, or just throw up. Neither option is comforting. Both are confusing as fuck.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard those words from a woman. If I had a dollar, right? It’s damn near the borderline of my norm. Cassian meets girl. Cassian screws girl. Cassian tells girl she gets the Court charm, the Cassian cock, and the designer-clad arm at a few parties. Even pillow talk is part of the package…perhaps a few jokes as bonus, if things are going well.

  No hearts. No flowers. And goddammit, no life story sharing.

  Which brings us, at some point, to here. A here I am just fine with. Perhaps, in many instances, am grateful for.

  But this time, the confines of this car—of this fucking life, and the price fate has demanded from me for it—render me nothing but gutted. Same effect, anyhow.

  I grit my teeth, pumping air like a bull as bile hollows my belly and self-disgust dices my intestines. I combat both by focusing on the floor near her feet. Minutes ago, my knees were planted there in order to pleasure her. I’m not above dropping there again, if I have to beg her.

  But I wonder if even that will make a difference.

  Her regal strength, one of the qualities that blew me away when first meeting her, is now my worst enemy. It retaliates from the depths of her eyes, dark and serious as a graveyard before dawn. In short, her resolve looks pretty fucking set.

  Dammit.

  Dammit.

  “All right.” Concealing the gravel from it is as hopeless as hiding bird crap on this car. Poetic fit, since my psyche is about the same texture. “I’d ask you to define ‘for the best’, but it looks like you’ve got that figured out too.”

  A heavy gulp moves down her throat. “I—I have to take care of my heart, Cassian.” For the first time since our bodies broke apart, her voice shakes. “I have not even been here a month, and I already feel it…”

  “You fe
el what, armeau?”

  Her gaze flares into a glare. Armeau. I’m exploiting her hesitation and we both know it.

  “Disappearing.”

  Hell. Her tactic is worse than mine. Honesty—as only she can use it against me. Like a laser wielded by a master surgeon, aimed right at my ugliest tumors…my deepest fear.

  A world without connection again.

  A world without her again.

  “It is disappearing, Cassian…into you.” Her hands rise, covering her whole face. The tips of her fingers turn white as she shakes her head, fighting the very words she’s just confessed. “But there is nothing there for it,” she rasps. “Nothing…except…”

  “Walls.” I take the responsibility of it from her. Let the word weigh my shoulders instead, praying like hell that somehow it will—

  what?

  Change anything?

  Because it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

  Her heart is still her heart—a gift too precious for my keeping.

  And mine is still mine—a mess too morbid for her to handle. For anyone to handle. So many have tried—Kate, Prim, and the countless others who thought they had “the right key” to me—but the truth is, only one person has even gotten close to that entrance. To breaking me open.

  Shattering me whole.

  And like an idiot, I reach again for her now.

  I thank God—and any other entity who cares to take credit—when she lets me pull her closer, fitting her cheek atop my heart, spreading her warmth over my whole body. And yes, enticing the twitch parade to carry on in my dick—though that need comes a very distant second to getting an answer to the question on my lips now.

  “So…what happens now, Ella?”

  She shifts, nuzzling closer. Good sign?

  “Are you asking if I want to go home?”

  Bad sign.

  “Yeah.” I practically choke on the syllable. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I am asking.”

  I remember something about her taking special courses on Arcadia, about courtly arts and practices. Undoubtedly, the fine skill of torture was in that mix. Her silence is nothing less.

  “I do not want to go home, Cassian.”

  I breathe in, claiming back the year she’s just stripped out of me. “Thank you.” It needs to be said. Perhaps more than once. Maybe from that position I was contemplating, at her feet.

  “But I need to move into one of the guest rooms.”

  “Sure.” It spews too quickly and too eagerly, and I don’t give a flying shit. I make a mental note to text Hodge and direct him to clutter up the two guest rooms farthest from the master, forcing her into the third. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “And we make dates to see each other,” she goes on. “Real ones, where we go out in public and I get to meet your friends. What?” She knuckles me curiously in the ribs, responding to my snort. “You do have friends?”

  “I suppose.” I don’t have the heart to tell her my closest “buddy” is Doyle, whose idea of stimulating conversation is four grunts, two beers, and a good Knicks game.

  “Well, we can start with Kate. Is she dating anyone?”

  “I don’t know.” Which is usually the case—which, for the first time, comes as truly troubling.

  “We can figure it out.” The woman in my arms shifts back to central focus. I curl in my fingers, making light circles on her creamy shoulder, enjoying the musical cadence of her voice…rejoicing in the fact that it’s not leaving me anytime soon. “The important thing is, we get away from Temptation, so we are not always…well…tempted.”

  Light chuckle. A gentle kiss into her hair. “Why, Miss Santelle, whatever do you mean?”

  “Says the man with a woodshed poking my thigh?”

  I laugh harder. Much harder. “You mean some wood?”

  “Hm. That too.”

  Chapter Twelve

  MISHELLA

  “Mishella?”

  I hear Scott’s concerned prompt, backed by the rush of traffic along 5th Avenue behind us, but cannot answer. My jaw has dropped on one of the most stunned gapes of my life.

  “Armeau?” Cassian now, his body large and close, one hand curving around my elbow, his cedar scent a perfect blend with the grass, trees, and spring flowers abounding through Bryant Park. I now remember Brooke gushing about this place, once she learned that the Literacy Ball would be held at the big library here. Before her family went into hiding on Arcadia, when she was just a young senator’s daughter, she attended something called Fashion Week. The event was a bore, she claimed, but the magnificence of Bryant Park was a win.

  Now I understand why.

  “Ella.”

  The urgency in his voice finally causes me to turn. I do not hide my continuing shock—as if that is even possible. “Cassian…”

  His mouth hitches up at one end. “What, beautiful?”

  “We are in the wrong place.” I blurt it despite the small throng of other partygoers, strolling along the wide pathways and majestic steps of the soaring Beaux-Arts building before us.

  Scott steps forward, darting a worried look. “This thing is at the Library?” he queries Cassian. “Right?”

  “But this is not a library.”

  “Huh?”

  “It is a palace!”

  Though Scott relaxes, his posture takes on a shrug. “No better place for books then, yeah?”

  I absorb that with a wider smile. “Cassian?”

  “Yes, armeau?”

  “Give Scott a raise.”

  The young man breaks into a chuckle. “I think I’m going to like having her around, Mr. Court.”

  Cassian loops an arm around my waist, tugging me tightly. “Me too, Scott. Me too.”

  The Schwarzman building is more breathtaking on the inside. We enter Astor Hall by descending wide stone steps flanked by balustrades worthy of a Parisian palace, their fancy scrolls and swirls matching archways down the length of the room, all supporting a soaring, ornate ceiling. Similar carvings adorn the stone bases of multiple candelabra, all at least twenty feet high, lending a romantic glow along with colored lighting, purple and orange and amber, around the room’s perimeter. From some hidden location, a string ensemble plays classic pieces.

  I pull Cassian to a stop at the top of the stairs. Pull in a long breath, celebrating the very best aspect of the place.

  “Books.” I close my eyes, letting the glorious scent fill me. His guttural growl brings me back to attention. “What?” I add a perplexed giggle. It turns into a sigh when he lifts a grin, dimples on full display.

  “Just ignore me.” He leans closer, gaze hooded. “I was pretending the smell of three and a half million books really just hit you like an aphrodisiac.”

  I slink my regard to his mouth. It’s one of the most fascinating parts of him, curving in new ways with all his moods. Aroused is definitely one of my favorites. “Maybe…it did.” I slide a finger up his satin lapel. “Add some chocolate and you may get lucky in the library, Cassian Court.”

  New growl. “I thought we were ‘scheduling’ dates now.”

  “Chocolate gets you priority status on the calendar.”

  His eyes darken to my favorite color—sage smoke—as he dips in, brushing those captivating lips to mine. “Before we sprint to the dessert buffet, I need to make a mental note.”

  “About what?”

  “About buying a chocolate factory.”

  My giggle expands to a laugh, opening me for his full plunder. I am secretly—perhaps not-so-secretly—delighted when he does just that. Though we do not give in to a full “mack session,” in Vy’s terms, it is enough of a tangle to reheat my body’s need for him—and rekindle my heart’s hope that one day, he will think about trusting me with more than just his playful side.

  “Well, Cassian Court! There you are!”

  The exclamation, bursting the air like a full flock of geese, breaks us apart with matching effect. I look up, stunned to realize the voice belongs to a woman who appears more like a
swan. Her steps are fluid glides, her arms float like a ballerina’s, and her eyes are huge and dark against practically translucent skin.

  “Carol Idelle.” Cassian transforms back into a gallant courtier, stepping forward and bowing low. The woman laughs, a new honk on the air, while tugging him close for air kisses. “Yes. Here I am.”

  Carol bats her eyes, making her false lashes look like swan wings in flight. The impression cannot be helped, since the lengths are a curious blend of black and white strands—but when the woman notices my gawk, she exaggerates the effect by tossing me a saucy wink.

  I believe I like her.

  “Well, better late than never—especially in your case, darling. You look a-maz-ing. Who did this for you? Tom Ford?”

  “Valentino.”

  She huffs, accenting with a honk. “Of course. I was just speaking with Yolanda Wood. She guessed you’d pick Valentino. I was hoping for Ford.”

  Cassian’s responding smile is, for a long moment, mesmerizing. I have not seen the expression for two weeks, since becoming obsessed with it from across the room at official Sancti court events. It is one part charm, one part decorum, one hundred percent sexy. From his first night on Arcadia, Vy nicknamed it “The Panty Melter.” Watching Carol Idelle react to it now, I send a long-distance fist bump to my friend. Right on the money, Vy.

  The reminiscence of my friend brings a shot of confidence at the perfect moment—for the woman decides to ogle me now. “And who is this…exquisite…creature?”

  She draws out “exquisite” in a way that makes me doubt her sincerity. Glancing to Cassian for clarification lends no help. The Panty Melter remains across his lips but the warmth is miles from reaching his eyes, even as he curves a hand around my waist again.

  “I’m honored to introduce Mishella Santelle, gracing us with her presence from the Court of Arcadia. Ella, this is Dame Carol Idelle, a bastion of the city’s library foundation, among other worthy endeavors.”

  I dip my head, offer my hand, and debate a curtsy. In the end, I simply murmur, “Bon aksam. It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Dame Idelle.”

  I refrain—barely—from starting when the woman releases her largest honk of all. Since the sound could be anything from a climax to a sneeze, I am not sure about selecting any other reaction.