Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (25 page)

“Keep. Them.
Down
.” I trump her growl with a snarl, while shoving her hands back into place.

“And if I do not?”

Slow, seductive smirk. “We’ll be in the air for eight hours,
armeau
. I’m sure I can find ways to keep you frustrated for seven of them.”

She doesn’t move her arms.

She
does
accuse, “You would actually do it.”

“With pleasure.”

“Please do not.”

I brush a bunch of strawberry curls off her forehead. Smile down into her gorgeous, glam-girl face.

Slide my touch lower.

“I’m going to give you what you need, Ella.”

Then lower…

As my touch dips beneath the thin triangle, she moans. Quivers. Captures her lower lip in her teeth. “But—”

“But what?”

“I need
you
.”

“You already have me.” I stroke a finger into her dewy center. Another. Her heat and slickness surround me, soak me. “Everything I am, Mishella. Everything I own. Everything I dream and feel and love…and crave.”

“Cassian. Oh Creator!”

Her sigh is pure music as her back arches.

“Spread wider for me,
armeau.
”

She complies with a whimper, parting her legs a little more. Then even more, as I shove aside the filmy panel over her pussy. I watch without blinking, needing the visual of watching her blossom for me. A hiss of satisfaction breaks free as the pink and coral beauty of her spreads and glistens, finally revealing the erect bud at her core.

“Ahhhh!”

I meet her scream with a savoring snarl, taken to an ecstasy I never knew just from watching hers. The feeling of power that comes with it…
fucking intoxicating.
I ride the high without shame, rolling my body into every new stroke in her wetness, hyper-aware of each tremor she gives in return. Every shake, every sigh, every fragrant drop of her arousal…

Her hands twist against the mattress. Her skin beads with sweat. Her pussy shivers beneath my fingers. “Fuck,” she pants. “I—I need—”

“I know what you need,
ma dinné
.” I lean over, capturing her gaze in mine. Locking her to every flame of the fire in mine. The blaze of my need for her. The depths of my love for her. “I’m going to give it to you. I
always
want to give it to you.”

“But what about—what about you?
You
have needs too…”

She interrupts herself on a gulp as I break the pace of my strokes. Wets her lips as I tilt a challenging glance, complete with a cocked eyebrow. “You keeping count again, Ella?” I find her most sensitive nub again—and pinch it. “What have I said before about that shit?”

She cries out, before seeing I really expect an answer. “You have said…no counting.”

I reward her by licking the seam of her lips. Once more beginning my rhythmic rubs in her pussy. “Not while you’re wide-open and wet for me.”

She shudders. Wobbles out a nod. “Y-yes, Cassian.”

I press in a little harder. Flick her clit faster. “And ready…to erupt for me.”

“Oh.
Oh.
Yes, Cassian.”

“And agreeing to come for me.”

“
Yes,
Cassian!”

“Now, Ella. Give it to me.
Now
.”

Her mouth falls open on a silent scream. Her body coils, beautifully tensing. Her sex pulses, violent and perfect and hot, as it implodes for my questing fingers. I watch, transfixed, certain this sight should be included on some list beside the Northern Lights, the Patagonian hills, and lunar rainbows for pure jaw-dropping magnificence.
Never.
The Creator, clearly rewarding me for some miracle I performed in another life, has gifted me alone with the miracle of her—and now I’m determined to be damn selfish about the hoard.

Though I’ll never keep it a secret from her.

For the rest of her life, this woman is going to know how completely, thoroughly, and utterly I cherish her, worship her, will protect her.

I just pray to that Creator—and any other deities He happens to be kicking it with—that I’ll be up for all three as soon as her DTs kick in.

For now, she finally settles in my arms—and drops into a sound sleep. I manage to fold up the comforter around her, unwilling to disturb her any further than that. An intractable instinct tells me we’ll both soon need our strength.

As the miles widen between us and Arcadia, I distance myself from all thoughts about the place. They’ll be revisited later, when I have the energy for sorting out the good from the bad—and when I’m not treasuring every breath rising through Mishella’s body like it’s my own.

Because it is.

*

Mishella

I am alive.

The words are a quiet assurance in my head as I gaze over the rim of my coffee cup at New York’s pre-dawn skyline. For the first time, there is a tiny bite in the air, and the trees lining the Hudson have begun changing colors for the fall. I smile, a little excited. The idea of seasons is exciting and new; Arcadia is a world of few nuances in weather.

My heart squeezes. While I know I will see my native land again—missing the double royal wedding day will
not
be an option—I recognize that returning to Arcadia will never really feel like returning home again. So much has changed now.

I
have changed now.

But I am alive.

Many times over the last two weeks—too many to count—I have barely wanted that statement to be truth. The process of detoxifying my body from Mother’s and Father’s “happy juice” has been a personal hell, gutting the limits of my body and the stretches of my mind. It has altered me physically…and emotionally. I have struggled to comprehend the depths of it, and largely failed.

Time. Everyone keeps telling me I need time.

But sometimes, like now, there is too damn much of it.

Too much space in my mind…for the doubts and the fear.

Cassian has spared no expense on anything, of course. Dr. French, a renowned detox specialist, was flown in from Los Angeles before we even landed at Teterboro, and is still residing in one of the guest rooms. The counselor for everything above my neck, who I simply refer to as Renee, started coming as soon as I was physically able to handle it, perhaps ten days ago. There has also been a yoga teacher—really named Yogi—and a nutritionist named Bo, who has a booming laugh, arms the size of my thighs, and a recipe for the best banana smoothies in the city.

Every day, I am much better physically. A little better mentally.

But in the core of my heart, something is missing.

Someone
missing.

In that awesome—and unnerving—way he has of showing up as if summoned by my thoughts, that person strolls across the terrace now. He has been working mostly from the home office but has a few meetings at Court Towers today, so a blinding white shirt, pinstripe vest, and matching slacks turn him into the epitome of lean, gorgeous CEO. His hair, a little longer than he usually keeps it, is tamed back from his face in product-covered waves, curling in dark gold chunks against his collar. There is not a whisker on his chiseled jaw. Even his unruly eyebrows seem to be carefully groomed.

“Oh
my,
Mr. Court.” I laugh softly. “You clean up well.”

“Monkey suit’s okay, hmmm?” He follows the crack by sipping from his own cup, then looking out over the city for himself. Greedily, I embrace the moment to indulge a long stare at him. The definition of his muscled shoulders. The sleek taper of his torso. The proud brace of his long legs. And oh yes, the perfect roundness of his backside.

Gah.

He steals the air from my body.

But he will not even come close to letting me show it.

I rush to get in a new sip from my mug—before he hears my sob.

But I am not fast enough to sneak in the swipes beneath my eyes.

“Ella?” He is a blur past the fuzz of my vision, splashing coffee as he plunks down his cup, hurries to my side, and sweeps up one of my hands.
Like a doddering uncle
. “
Armeau
?” At least he wraps his other arm around my shoulders, tucking me close. By the
saints,
he smells good. “What is it?” he murmurs into my hair. “Feeling blue again?”

One of the largest side effects of purging the happy sauce from my body has been mood swings. I know they are another reason why Cassian has gone from constant passion to perpetual concern—though he has practically relegated me to the damn curio shelves along with his glass sculpture pieces.

The result has been nothing short of maddening. How can I not adore him for protecting me?

And how can I not hate him for it?

Everything hits a spill point. And I let it dump. Use it to spin around and in, leaping onto his lap, straddling his body with my own—

Slamming my lips over his.

A grunt of shock erupts from him, but I consume that too. I continue, relentless and ravenous, sucking on the coffee-and-man taste of him. Do not stop until he finally groans, opens, and parries my passion with his own. He raises both arms, roping my body. Fists my T-shirt—even fiddle at the clasp of my bra. As we release but linger, nipping at lips and chins and noses, I gasp against his lips, “Do it. Please, Cassian…show me you still want me.”

His frown is instant and intense. “
What
?”

“I am not having ‘the blues’, all right?” I do not hide my indignation—or my despair. “Though certainly, I keep thinking your balls must be that color by now.”

“Ella—”

“And yet you do
nothing
about it!” It is teary and and dramatic, and I do not care anymore. “Then I read about how we must be breaking up, and how you are now back on the market, and every woman in the city—the damn country—is making their strategy to catch you, and—”

“Whoa.” He grasps the back of my neck, jerking me down for a hard kiss. “Okay. Back up.
Not
literally.” Commands my hips back into place with equal rule. “Look at me. Up
here,
Ella, not at my nose.” His gaze is incredible, as deep green as the lingering summer leaves in the trees but as piercing and perfect as rare emeralds. “
What
have you been reading? And
where
?”

I shake my head. Like
that
helps. My eyes sting. My chin wobbles. “Stupid things,” I mutter. “In even stupider places. I know better than to believe it all…”

“And you don’t, right?” He drives in his grip to my upper thighs. “You know none of that bullshit is true. That we’ll prove them all wrong too—but not a second before you’ve processed all this, and are ready.”

I nod. And mean it. “All right.”

“No,” he persists. “You’re still not ‘all right,’ are you? What’s
really
going on?”

I breathe in deep. Then again. Once more. This is…harder than I thought. In truth, I have known him only three months. Of course, in those twelve weeks, I watched him get shot, and he watched me be forced with drugs. He has shared the ugly grief of his past; I have bared the stark loneliness of mine. We have become best friends. We have become lovers. He has taken my virginity.

He has captured my heart.

He has earned my soul.

“Ella?” It is not a charge to be ignored.

I wet my lips. Spread my hands along his shoulders. Striations of muscle, mighty and magnificent as the sea cliffs from home, flex beneath my touch.

Home.

I inwardly repeat the word—stunned by its effect on me. More clearly, by the things it does
not
bring up. Like confusion. Or loss. Or conflict.

A new revelation takes their place.

This
is home now.

He
is home now.

If I can only make him understand…

“I cannot ‘process’ anything more, Cassian.”

He stiffens. Seems confused, then resigned, then determined. “We’ll just…explore new methods, then. Maybe hypnotherapy or acupuncture. I’ll send French back to LA today. We probably don’t need him anymore. You’re physically fine now, and—”

I push a whole hand over his mouth. Counter the effect with a soft smile. “I do not need alternative therapies.” Before I remove my hand, I trace the elegant lines of his mouth with my fingertips. “I need…you.”

Bewilderment sweeps his face again. “Me?”

“
You
, Cassian.”

“But you have me.” His frown deepens. “Fuck, Ella.
You have me
.”

Another slow breath out. More of trying to see him through a teary haze. “Then have
me
.” Another realization strikes. Maybe I am trying to use words, when only action will show him. “Touch me.” I curl my hands around his. Guide them up my waist, over my ribs, then atop my breasts. That simple action makes me shiver against him…unveil a stare of hunger and need to him. “
Show me
that you still need me.”

The changes in him are subtle…not discernible to anyone who would not be looking. But I
am
looking—and rejoice in it all. The flare of his nostrils. The parting of his lips. The new fire in his eyes, alight with understanding.

Yes. He still wants me. Desires me.

More than that.

I am his home, too.

The joy of it bursts within, spearing fresh tears to my eyes…compelling me closer to him even before he tugs on one of my hands.