Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (10 page)

“I…I want more, Mr. Court.”

“I’ve never been happier to hear that.”

The vibrator whirs higher. The spreader bar jangles louder. The wind rushes in.

As he surges his body fully into mine.

I scream. Nearly rip the comforter. Pain slams me—but so does a wash of want so full and sharp and raw, it is part of the same blast. My whole being is a sudden, massive storm, beauty and violence and destruction and redemption bursting as one fierce, fluttering entity—especially as my sex implodes with ecstasy, my body ignites with fire, and my senses shatter into silver-white nothingness. As I come, Cassian intensifies his grip, locking our bodies. His balls, caressing the secret flesh between my pussy and ass, do not take long to constrict and pull tight—making his cock pulse then expand.

With a ferocious groan, he climaxes deep inside my body. I am filled with his hot essence. Immersed in his dark passion. Claimed by his flowing fire.

Covered in his rough praise.

“
Douli favori. Douli, kupette betranli. Ma dinné.
”

Sweet special one. Sweet little betrothed. My woman.

Words for every part of me.

Love for every need in me.

He repeats it all while gently pulling everything out, then unlatching me from the bar. Through it all, I barely move. My body is a puddle of pleasure, my mind a fuzz of numbness. For the first time in nearly two days, no thought will stick to my mind for longer than a few seconds—and it is complete paradise.

I stay prone while Cassian rises then disappears for a few seconds. Nearly to the second he starts running water in the bathroom sink, rain begins to patter on the terrace. Unlike the tempest still calming inside me, the drops are a simple, gentle midnight shower. Even the accompanying thunder is just a scrape against the air, adding to the utter calm permeating me. If the rain can still fall and the skies are still moving, perhaps the world has not changed as traumatically as I have dreaded.

Perhaps Vy will let me back in, and help her heal.

Perhaps, in a little bit of time, Arcadia will unite and recover too.

Perhaps, after the pain, we will all be a little stronger.

The hope is as warm and comforting as Cassian’s return. He brings a wet cloth and uses it to clean me with tender, quiet strokes. When he stretches out next to me, not making any overtures to turn me back over. As if my reverie is a glass bubble, he does not disturb it beyond the light strokes of his knuckles down the slope of my back.

For a long time, we are wordless but full, content with no sounds occupying the air except the rain and our breaths. But I watch him. Am mesmerized by him. The play of the watery shadows over his chiseled forehead, long nose, strong chin. The gleam of lightning flashes in the jade striations of his eyes. And after a few minutes, the mystery of the smile at one end of his elegant mouth.

“What is
that
for?” My whisper hints at amusement.

His brows lower. “What is what for?”

I poke the corner of his smile. It triggers the subtle lip-twisting thing that brings out his dimples.
Creator, just give this man the rest of my heart now.

“I was just thinking…” His mouth contorts even more, making me frown now. He is genuinely troubled.
Shit.

“Thinking? About what?”

I lick my lips, not shy about the nervousness. As his gaze follows the motion, his expression darkens.

“Thinking about
what
, Cassian?” I hitch up, resting my head on an elbow. “Or is it still Mr. Court?”

My belly skitters in more distress when even the humor does not lighten him. By the time he finally forms a hand to the curve of my waist and takes a long breath, my heart thuds through the beginnings of fear.

“Even if
I
looked at Mr. Court in the mirror right now, I wouldn’t recognize him.” His frown changes again. Deepens…though in a way that my stomach stops flipping, in favor of my heart aching.

“What do you mean?”

He rolls his thumb against my skin in a circular motion. Rubs his toe along the top of my foot in the same cadence. “A person…changes throughout their life…you know? You’ve got childhood then getting through school…then figuring yourself out in college…but by the time you think you’ve got
that
figured out and you’re ready to be an adult, the whole process starts all over again. Slap a few acronyms after your name on the office door, and that doesn’t stop any of it, either. Life just catches up. Slaps you in the face. Humbles you when you least expect it.”

“Like bringing your brother back from the dead?”

“Only to have him tell you that you’ve gotten into professional bed with a psychotic terrorist?” His strokes speed up for a few moments, until he takes in another huge breath. “Yeah, shit like that.”

I reach up. Slide a reassuring hand over the firm expanse of his sternum. “My. You
have
been thinking.”

He dips a quick kiss to my knuckles. When he looks back up, there is new light in his eyes. A fresh rush of thought across his features. “The tidal waves…they suck. But in a way, they’re miracles. They force you to remember who you are…maybe, perhaps, to redefine that person a little.” He shrugs. “Or a lot.”

I attempt to smile. Another
F
for achievement. I am sure he sees my confusion now too.

“Then…there’s that creature, the essence of who you are, that doesn’t change at all,” he continues. “That primitive, essential force, deep inside…hell, I don’t know; maybe that’s what everyone calls the soul…but it’s just there, ultimately driving you, right? And…you know it’s never going to change, so you beg heaven to bring you just that one person who sees that…and gets it. And doesn’t just get it but loves it. And you also beg heaven that if it’s that bountiful with the blessing, you’ll be paying attention enough to see that you’ve been given that one…and that you’ll hang on to them like a fucking bar of gold.”

Senses. Stopped.

Heart. Halted.

Amazement. Elevated.

Because I hear the rest of his words before he speaks them.

Because my soul speaks the same ones.

“You’re my one, Mishella Santelle.” He pushes closer, tenderly compelling me to do the same. Dips his head until our noses slide close and our breaths tangle tight. “You’re my bar of gold.” His mouth, so beautiful and strong, brushes the parted wonder of mine. “And I’m hanging on with everything I’ve got.”

“Cassian.” It has no volume. Barely carries any air, for it really is not that either.

It is my prayer.

Of thanks.

Of worship.

Of love.

Of everything
I
am, deep in my most sacred being, opening for him. Flowering to him. Letting him into my body yet again, this time with the long, tender strokes that emulate the perfect twining of our souls…the forever commitment of our hearts. A joining that will take us into tomorrow—and whatever it brings—as well as all the tomorrows that come with it.

He is my gold.

No matter what.

*

Cassian

M
y fingers fly
over the keyboard of my laptop, yanking amazed glances from the trio of housekeepers sitting at the next table over in the Palais Arcadia service staff lounge. I’m sure they’re wondering who the hell let in the guy with the designer pants, boater shoes, and really wrinkled Henley, but after I toss over a wink and half a grin, they giggle. Now, I’m at least the
cute
lunatic at the next table over.

Back to business.

I finish up the fifty-third of ninety-three emails from yesterday. These are only the messages Rob, my assistant holding down the fort back at the office in New York, has deemed needing my attention as primary first responder right now. There are at least a hundred more in a second priority file, and double that in the “Only if you Have Time” folder.

If I’m lucky, I’ll hit most of the first list before Ella wakes up.

Yes, I
do
remember that she ordered me to wake her sweet little ass up on the stroke of seven, so she could be barging in on Samsyn by eight. I also remember the request getting interrupted by five yawns and two “what was I saying’s” because of her jetlag—and that was before her nightmare.

Before I’d helped her get over it by getting my dick inside her in any way I could.

Twice.

I shake my head, hoping the action dumps out the rest of the thoughts I need for this email—but after three tries, I still can’t even spell the guy’s name right. Maybe it’s fate. Germans have complicated last names so it’s necessary to meet in person with them instead. I like Garrick too. Perhaps I can talk Ella into a quick side trip to Munich on the way back home…

My Instant Message window dings open—flaring with the colors she gleefully assigned to her pop-up window a few weeks ago. Pink and lavender as bright as a carousel horse frame one of her dopey-sweet grins—and a message of the opposite intent.

:: You were supposed to wake me up! ::

I laugh. Just a little. Only as much as she’d let me get away with, if she actually sat here fuming at me.

:: Not going to apologize for letting you rest—especially after what we did to sap your strength. ::

:: You mean what YOU did to fuck my head off? ::

My chuckle comes harder—though I can’t summon the brass to correct her. Somehow, fucking her head off sounds a hell of a lot better than fucking her brains out—though after last night, I don’t care if she calls it feeding the damn chickens. If she invites me upstairs to do it again, this laptop will be closed in three seconds, Rob’s remaining forty emails be damned.

Another text buzzes in.

:: Getting dressed now. Where are you? ::

This, I seriously contemplate how to respond—then recognize, in light of all the bizarre twists this woman’s life has taken since meeting me, that my answer won’t raise even one of her eyebrows.

:: The Palais service staff lounge. Handling some work. ::

And enjoying the fact that it’s not only the most peaceful space in the building but reminds me a lot of the employee cafeteria back at Court Towers. Hanging out at a little corner table there was first just my way to stay in touch with reality, remember where I came from—but after a while, it became one of the best getaways of my week. For big chunks of time, I’d found quiet and anonymity to actually get work done. When the nit-and-grit workers flowed in for their break periods, I had the chance to talk to them without filters or third parties. After a while, I wasn’t even boss-man CEO to them anymore. I was just Cas, the eccentric guy with the loosened tie, chilling with his laptop at the corner table.

I miss those days. Am antsy to return to them soon—and now, bring Ella along too.

I want her to know every corner of my world. Fitting, since her love fills every corner of my heart.

:: I shall be right down. ::

Just like she ignites every inch of my grin.
Pegged it
. The woman responded so fast, it’s clear she barely blinked, let alone rose a brow.

She’s ready to go.

Which is why I hope Samsyn is too.

I ran into the guy earlier this morning—
much
earlier according to the Arcadian clocks, though my internal timer wasn’t normal after Ella’s nightmare got me up in more ways than one—and had a chance to express my woman’s determination for a visit to Vylet Hester’s place today. Syn had nodded tightly over his own cup of Tahreuse Mountain coffee, and said he’d work on making it happen. No time frame had been given, but pushing my luck before sunrise just hadn’t seemed fair to the guy.

I text the man—and am a little surprised when he responds by showing up in person. “Mishella bested you by two seconds,” he explains, striding to the counter and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “And you are most correct. That little
tupalai
is on a tear to get to Vylet today.”

Now
the housekeepers rise and scatter, but not before gazing as if the Hulk himself has busted in then splashed half a carton of creamer into his java. I don’t know whether to send them off with a look of humor or commiseration. Although I can easily meet the man’s gaze if we’re chest-to-chest, Samsyn Cimarron is a daunting slab of a man, doing little to soften the image with his warrior’s gait, piercing stare, and long dark hair. The shit’s been hastily plaited off his face today, exposing his rugged features in sharper relief.

As he sits, the plastic chair beneath him squeaks in protest. “
Faisi-bana
,” he mutters.

Smirk. “I prefer fucking my woman, but thanks for the offer.”

He raises his head. Glares until his gaze is the color of a glacier. “I shall alert the media about that. Oh, wait.”—he cocks his head—“you and Mishella already told the whole damn
island
last night.”

Screw the smirk. I flash a whole grin. “You looking for an apology?”

“Not particularly.”

He releases a meaningful snort. I interpret the guy code at once. The midnight wake-up call wasn’t good for just one couple in the prince’s suite.

I chuckle while closing my laptop. “In that case, you’re welcome.”