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

  Somebody needs to tell that to the breathtaking blonde now pushing from the wall and pressing her body against mine, that gaze again betraying so many of her thoughts. At least the ones betraying the exact match of her fantasies to mine.

  Crap. Shit. Fuck.

  No.

  “I want to give it to you, Cassian.” She slips her hand up to my neck, working those slender, seeking fingers beneath my shirt. “You know that, yes?”

  Hell.

  Now she curls her heated touch into the ends of my hair, awkwardly at first, as if she’s just learned the move from movies and is shocked that it works…that such a small gesture has pierced my entire body, slicing into my cock—pulsing heavily between our bodies. Her lips part on the sexiest gasp I’ve ever heard. The flare of her gaze ensues, making my dick swell again.

  “Creator’s sweet stars,” she whispers. “Would it even fit?”

  “Holy fuck.”

  It’s all I can say—fortunately, all I have to say. She opens her mouth before I even descend, an invitation to plunge with every wet, needing inch of my tongue, embedding her taste into me…gifting me with her soft supplication. And goddammit, I take it. Every inch, every drop, every taste I can possibly steal.

  Because it’s all I’ll get to take from her.

  All I’ll allow myself to take.

  Because despite how much I want her, I refuse to ruin her. Refuse to even think of what her life could be like, if she is of no use to her father’s master plan of Arcadian commercial dominance.

  Pathetic bastard.

  Will he even listen if I tell him it’s a losing track? That he’ll attain his goal, only to want something beyond it? Right. Shaking a spider in its web often just makes the spider work harder—making life hell for its prey.

  With a rough moan, I tear myself from her kiss. On legs that shake, step back from her. Then again. Force my hand into a quivering claw, pulling her grip off my neck. But before I set her fingers completely free, I push my face against her palm and impale her gaze with the unmitigated fire in my own.

  “It would fit, sweet Circe.”

  She smiles, acknowledging the illicit imagery I invoke—but winces, recognizing what I do. We’ll never act on the words. “Circe.” she finally echoes. “The Greek sorceress? The one who transformed her enemies into animals?”

  I answer with a growl into her hand. She tries to hide the answering quiver down her body. Fails miserably.

  “But you are not my enemy.”

  “But you have turned me wild.”

  Her breath catches. In the exquisite silence that follows, sneaks her tongue between her lips.

  “Cassian.”

  My own name has never brought me more heat, more tension…more arousal. Two syllables, and my whole system is heated by another ten degrees…and my cock now throbs against the plane of her belly.

  I groan. She whimpers. But the temptation to shove her back, hike her dress to her waist and take her right here, against the wall, hits my gritted restraint. This woman isn’t just a whim. She’s not a fuck-then-flee socialite, or remotely close to my other preferred social distraction: haute couture bimbo, sans panties. In my jacket pocket is a phone with hundreds of those women on it, willing to be ready the moment my plane touches down in New York once more.

  The thought of it makes me ill.

  It will pass—it always does—but as I dip toward her, needing one more taste before giving her up forever, I give in to the illusion that it won’t. That Mishella Santelle has pulled a real Circe on me, and accomplished the impossible.

  Transformed me.

  Changed me back into a creature I recognize. A man I respect.

  Impossible.

  Impossible.

  I am so screwed.

  THREE

  *

  Mishella

  My eyes itch. My back aches. The indents in my palms are likely permanent by now, considering the hours my fingernails have been digging into them. How many hours, I have no idea. At this point, time has been slammed into the same category as my physical comfort level. Irrelevant.

  I sit in a stiff chair in Father’s study, scooted forward, hands tucked in my lap, knees at a ninety-degree angle. I focus on my toes, flat against the floor, peeking from beneath my sleep pants. Distractedly, I note how they have changed color through the hours, going bluish at the brink of dawn. Living in Sancti, the warmest part of Arcadia, still means ocean breezes that chill the air at night.

  Winds capable of lifting Cassian’s hair off his high, straight forehead…

  Of teasing that hair into his eyes, changing like ripples across a lagoon with his rising desire…

  Of infusing wild new scent across his skin, so taut and tanned over all the hard ridges of his body…

  “Salpu.”

  Not even whispering the profanity against myself is effective against the relentless images of him. And maybe, as awful as the torture is, it is for the best. The pictures are all I will have now.

  He is gone.

  And I am a selfish salpu for lamenting the bizarre sense of loss in my heart, when so much more has walked out the door with him.

  New memories assault, making me grimace. That moment, having let down my hair and climbed into bed, when the door of my chamber burst open…then my gape when Father filled the portal. Luckily, the curse I had prepared for Saynt was not yet at my lips. I had expected nobody else, since Mother retired to her own quarters after we bid good night to Father and Cassian, immediately following dinner. I had not diverted from acceptable decorum during the meal, despite the yearning to do exactly that—cheese soup, crème fraiche, and stuffed chicken breast gained new meaning when one dined across the table from Cassian Court’s intense gaze—but when Father stormed in, rage mottling his face, I discerned the awful truth before he spat it.

  Did I not tell you, two damn days ago, not to throw yourself at the man like a common rospute? Do you know what you have done, Mishella? Do you know what you have ruined?

  “Tell me again.” Mother’s mandate jerks me back to the present—though it is no less agonizing than the flashback. “Word for word, Fortin—what Court said before he left, and when.”

  Father growls. “I do not fathom how this will—”

  “Tell. Me. Again.”

  “Woman.”

  “Husband.” She jerks the edges of her dressing robe tighter. Firms her stance. She doesn’t need to say more. Even with a bare face and tangled hair, etched in the unforgiving gray of early morning, Selyna Santelle’s golden beauty arrests a whole room.

  Suddenly—strangely—I feel sorry for her. Father and she are children of equally ambitious court schemers who married them off for political gain. For many years now, it has been plain that little connects them but a mutual drive for more. And, I suppose, Saynt and me. They love us, in their bizarre way—which might be the only way they know how.

  “He is likely preparing his plane for takeoff as we speak,” she persists with the same steely calm. “So if I am to help with salvaging the damage,”—a glance in my direction gives chilling clarity about her definition of damage—“I must visualize it again. He said he was ‘unable’ to commit to the agreement ‘as is’?”

  “Yes,” Father bites out.

  “Not that he refused the terms outright?”

  “He said what he said, Selyna. I did not have time to dally with semantics.”

  Mother waves a hand like his snarl is a persistent fly. “But he took the time to issue the last of it? It was issued in the parlor, not tossed over his shoulder in the front drive, on his way out?”

  Father expels a breath. Finally mutters, “Yes. In the parlor. After he turned down cigars, had one bite of the trifle, and excused himself to take a discreet shit.”

  Mother cocks her head. “And you are certain that was it?”

  “Certain what was what?”

  “The shit. That was what he excused himself for?”

  Exhaustion. Shock. Not the best comb
ination for containing frantic laughter. A tight choke helps me at the last minute. Is there any ground forbidden in the path of their ambition?

  Father’s loose shrug confirms the answer. “I gathered so,” he mutters. “I very well did not listen at the door, though he was gone long enough, so I assumed…”

  He trails off with a tense scowl—though it has nothing to do with spying on Cassian’s bathroom business. Assumed. The word alone implies one of their cardinal sins, as bad as laziness or murder. In this case, it brings just as heinous an outcome—if I correctly interpret the messages beneath their extended, silent exchange…

  What if he wasn’t spending the time on that private matter? What if he went to the bathroom for other reasons—such as the chance for second thoughts? Why has he backed out of signing the contract so suddenly?

  No answers of logic or comfort come forth.

  The only thing that has changed in the last four months, since Father and Cassian first communicated about this deal, has been—

  Me.

  I can peg the millisecond my parents reach the same conclusion. My head jerks down as theirs swing around, though that helps not in battling the weight of their scrutiny.

  I want to cease breathing. Not an exaggeration. Every breath I take is a sharp slice between my ribs; like the air itself is contaminated by their disappointment—and disgust.

  They know.

  I have been circling the ugly words, unwilling to accept them, but now they sting as sharply as the cold on my feet, and throb as hard as the pain behind my eyes. I drop my gaze to the floor. Wish for a way of lasering an escape hole through the polished wood.

  Am I supposed to say something now? What on Earth do they expect?

  But I know the answer to that already.

  It is me. I am the one who derailed it all. Who ruined any respect he had for our family by flirting with him, making stupid eyes at him. Letting him into my bedroom…and letting him do other things there.

  And Creator help me, I liked it.

  A lot.

  And I made him like it.

  At least I think I did.

  Sweet Creator…did he like it? And why am I stopping to even wonder about it? Or to care?

  But I do. If hell takes me for it, then so be it. My virginity is still pristine, and I shall never again see the man who tempted me to change that, so I cling to the memories of the feelings…all the passionate, exquisite perfection of those moments with him. It is shameless and selfish and for one sublime moment, I do not care. For a collection of perfect breaths, I am again simply a woman letting a man climb up her balcony then kiss her senseless…render her breathless…arouse her to that perfect place called mindless…

  All too soon, it is over.

  With the stiffness in Father’s shoulders, as he abruptly turns away.

  With Mother’s censuring glance, before she rises like an empress. “What happened after that? When Court returned from the tuvalette?”

  A blush attacks. The Arcadian word makes the subject sound prettier, though the gritty reality remains. And the guilt. Always the guilt. While I hate their bald zeal on so many levels, I crave their parental pride and approval. My flirtations with Cassian did go too far—perhaps the “romantic” breach into my room was even his way of testing my character—making my overnight moping about it even more pathetic. And how many times have I replayed his kiss in my mind, shamelessly using it to keep myself awake, while my parents watched their plans vanish like a sandcastle under a wave?

  In Vy’s terms, I suck as a human being.

  In Brooke’s terms, maybe you’ve earned the suckage, girlfriend.

  Father gets up. Walks to his desk. Slumps into the chair behind it before drumming impatient fingers atop the unsigned contract in front of him. “He did not say much more than that,” he finally states. “‘Unable to commit.’ Those were his exact words. Then he said he would be ‘taking some matters into advisement’ and would ‘be in touch soon.’”

  Not much is different than the first twelve times he has told it—but this time, the words click differently. I jerk up my head to look directly at him—a penance I have avoided for the last six hours. Crazily—perhaps insanely—it drives words to my lips too.

  “‘Be in touch’,” I echo. “That is not a full no…right?”

  Father does not answer. His features are fixed, frozen and dispassionate, as Mother answers me instead—by digging a scalding grip into my ear. I gasp in place of a scream. The woman has perfected ear twisting to such an art, Saynt still bears a tear at the back of his lobe from the day he skipped school as a boy.

  “Stand. Up,” she seethes. “You know nothing of these matters, girl—and now you will admit that as you apologize to your father, who might be able to salvage the mess you have made of this.”

  A thousand needles stab the backs of my eyes. I grit them back while trying to nod, but her fingers feel sewn to my flesh. Her grip is unyielding. And maybe it is what I need. Maybe I am just a stupid girl, playing with fire much too golden, beautiful, and hot for me to ever handle safely. Maybe, Creator help us, my lustful idiocy has not torched everything they have worked for. Maybe Father can fix it…if I get out of his way. If I am humble and prove it by being truly sorry.

  It feels right, this simple acceptance of their truth…of my fate. Fighting it, doubting them…it has been exhilarating and exciting—and exhausting. Now a sad peace sets in, like a field mouse surrendering to a hawk’s grip, simply letting the end happen—

  Until Maimanne jerks to a stop.

  I save my ear by skidding short with her—or have my senses been my saviors, sizzling from the blast of new electricity on the air?

  Oh…my.

  Every neuron in my body is fried from it, letting the energy in—recognizing it at once.

  Knowing him at once.

  By the Creator.

  He has returned.

  But my joy is instantly shadowed—by mortification. Cassian Court has come back—to find me being led around by the ear, clad in nothing but my sleepwear. And there go any lingering thoughts for him, at least the good ones, about our passion last night…

  Though all I behold on his face right now is—

  Fury.

  Taut, defined, and clear, all across his perfect, noble features—

  And all directed at Mother.

  “Let her go.”

  I blink. Again. Yes, the words have emanated from him—inducing Maimanne’s incredulous sputter. Then her forced, tinkling laugh. “Ahhh, Mr. Court! What a delightful surprise. Did you have to let yourself in? I apologize; good help is so hard to find on this tiny island, and we were not aware you would be—”

  “Mistress Santelle.” Every syllable is a scimitar, bleeding even her conjured civility from the air. “What wasn’t I clear about?”

  He steps over, readjusting a black messenger bag over his right shoulder, making me wonder if there’s a gun stowed inside. He looks like a man intent on drawing a firearm—and using it.

  I shiver, boldly afraid. Then gasp, blatantly stunned.

  Dear Creator. Has the fear…aroused me?

  Though Mother drops her hold, everything still feels surreal. Never has a man said such things on my behalf…been so enraged on my behalf. Or is that it at all? What in Creator’s name is going on? Cassian’s energy is so different now. While he has changed into more relaxed attire—a white cable-knit sweater and tailored khaki slacks—his demeanor is more high protocol than at any court event I have attended. And I have been to many.

  The same curiosity governs Father’s face as he rises. “Cassian.” His extended hand is given a mechanical shake in return. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your return?”

  One of Cassian’s tawny brows hikes up—which, of course, makes more of me quiver. Even the forbidden parts. “You weren’t expecting me to?”

  “In a word,” Father rejoins, “no.”

  Bizarrely, that nicks Cassian’s armor. He chuffs without humor.
“Then you’ve misread the business, Fortin. In this case, luckily, it hasn’t cost you the business too.”

  My jaw almost plummets. No one has ever dared this kind of thing with Father. Reproving Fortin Santelle like this, even disguised as “casual” conversation, would drop jaws up and down the halls of the palais. Father has even struck servants for less.

  But the look on Cassian’s face…as if he is nearly enjoying this…

  My nerve endings go icy. By the powers…I actually afraid for him.

  Until a new recognition sets in.

  Father cannot call on a single recourse against this man. Before him stands Cassian Court: an equal individual. A leader from the most cutthroat kingdom on Earth. New York City.

  My lungs clutch. What will Paipanne say? Do?

  “Ah. So we still have business?” His desperation is hidden beneath the diffidence, but Cassian sees through it…is utterly beautiful about it. I am only aware of movie stars through pictures Vylet brings up on her computer—when the Arcadian internet chooses to function—but I easily imagine the man as the chiseled star of a high-stakes spy thriller, detecting every weakness in his opponent in the space of a glance.

  Cassian himself only fuels that vision—perhaps even enhances it, with a study of Father that reminds me of straight-from-the-mine emeralds. He is…breathtaking. “I said I needed to take advisement, not my complete leave.”

  Father stiffens again. “You also said you could not sign the agreement.”

  “I said I couldn’t sign that agreement.” Out from the messenger bag, in his impossibly long fingers, comes a sheaf of papers. “This one, I’ll sign.”

  Mother snags the air with a caught breath. Father balances her, barely flinching. But his gaze goes to work, descending in another silent assessment of Cassian…searching for weakness. He will be out of luck. Cassian remains a perfect, unreadable wall: a hotter, steelier version of Jason Bourne, Jack Ryan, Ethan Hunt, and all their friends put together. He stands tall and determined, legs braced in a solid A, locking hands firmly as soon as Father takes the papers…appearing like he has all the time in the world to wait for feedback.