Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) Page 6

Torch to my kerosene.

  I surge forward, slamming into her, submerging us in the depth of the chair, mashing our mouths in a burst of passion and heat. Not waiting for permission, I lunge my tongue inside too. Mate it with hers in complete, carnal intent. There’s no ambiguity; she knows what I’m thinking: if she signs that contract, the next six months are going to be about purging this from both our systems, in whatever ways it takes. Whatever the fuck this is…

  Right now, I don’t want to explore the options around that answer.

  Right now, I push my knees apart, opening a space for myself between her legs. Our crotches slide and thrust; even through our clothes, the fit is perfect.

  Right now is for ensuring she receives one message only—with complete clarity.

  “Ella…”

  “H-huh?”

  “Why don’t we focus on you enjoying your first lover?”

  FOUR

  *

  Mishella

  I blink.

  Once more, very slowly—almost wishing everything around me would click into the same speed. That button is not working. I am caught one step behind, watching as my worldly possessions roll by, stuffed into three suitcases down the narrow strip of asphalt Arcadia calls a tarmac.

  Is this happening?

  This cannot be happening.

  I have surely not done this. Agreed to this.

  I take it back. I take it back!

  The words are so shrill and loud in my head, surely everyone—and I do mean everyone—can hear them, even over the revving engines of Cassian’s private airplane.

  I have never traveled in anything that moves faster than a jeep.

  Ohhhhh crap crap crap crap.

  I gulp hard. Vylet squeals, her face alight with joy. She is accompanied by Brooke, who wears a smile so wide, she has officially inducted herself as the third member of our “sis-friend-hood.” They haul me into a three-way embrace, where our dipped heads form seconds’ worth of a private chat room. The two of them do not waste the time.

  “You know the only reason I’m even agreeing to this is because Samsyn and Evrest vouched for this bozo,” Brooke asserts.

  “And the only reason I agree is because she does.”

  A giggle spurts out. I am not sure if it is due to sheer nerves, their wonder twins of protectiveness thing, or both, but I am grateful for the respite from decorum. “So you both have reminded me. Repeatedly.”

  “Good,” Brooke volleys. “That means you remember the rest of it too.”

  “Sure does.” Vy hip-bumps me. “Give us the rest of it, Mistress Santelle.” When I give nothing but a psshh, she nudges harder. “The rest of it.”

  I squeeze her as hard as I can. She knows I need to be irked, in order to fight off the tears. It is only six months. It is only six months. I can do this. At least I think I can.

  “Shella-bean!”

  I jump a little before girl-growling—but continue to hold her tight. “If the bozo goes bonzo, I call the sis-friend-hood hotline.” That is their nickname for our online video chat room.

  Brooke nods in approval. “You call it any time, girlfriend. Day or night. Seven hours isn’t that huge a time difference.”

  “Says the girl who has not been roused in the middle of the night by the hotline buzz?” It really is one of the most obnoxious sounds I have ever heard—but it can rouse Saynt from a dead sleep, so I know it works.

  “Not yet,” she jokes back. “Maybe this is our chance to really test it out.”

  And maybe it should not be.

  Why am I going to do this? How am I going to do this? I will be living in a world without them—a world as foreign to me as Antarctica, with but a thousand Arcadian dollars in my purse, three suitcases full of belongings, and the promises of a man I barely know.

  No. Also not true.

  A man…I do know.

  A man I have known from the moment our eyes met and our hands joined. As if we had just been two ends of a drawbridge, waiting to be dropped back into place, leading the way back to the castle of us.

  A man who, even now, as I dare a glance up, seems to know exactly what I need in this surreal moment.

  It is not the strength of his stance, nor the determination in his eyes. They help, but they are not the key.

  They are not his nod.

  One movement. A sole dip, as forceful as the motors behind him, as clear as the sky into which we are bound, that gives me all the truth of his purpose once more. That infuses me with the bursting belief in it.

  That reminds me of exactly what Brooke said, during the hour she and Vy had helped me pack.

  I married Samsyn three hours after I was asked, girlfriend—by his freaking brother.

  Neither Vylet nor I pointed out that his brother was also her king, and that the reason—at the time—was for Arcadian national security. I do not possess even half as good an excuse, but nor am I committing to Cassian Court’s ring on my finger. It is only six months.

  “By the powers,” I mutter, solely to myself.

  Six. Months.

  When I return, it will be to stand as a maide attendant for the “real wedding” Brooke and Samysn are starting to plan: a grand double ceremony with Evrest and Camellia’s.

  When I return, Saynt will be keeping watch over that event—as a full-fledged soldier in the Arcadian Army.

  When I return…so much will be different.

  Especially me.

  I am terrified again. Not even another nod from Cassian fixes it, especially as I turn to my brother, who clenches his jaw and blinks suspiciously shiny eyes. I tug his chestnut hair free from its tie and mess the strands until they’re tangled, but that does not prevent the crushing ferocity of his parting hug.

  “I took Court outside while you were packing,” he says into my ear. “Told him that if he hurts you in any way, or lets any fucker in that crazy city hurt you, that contract is null and void—and I will come get you myself.”

  I pull back by a little, not sure how to react. I go for the honesty of my curiosity. “Wh-what did he say?”

  “That it would not be necessary.” Reluctant grunt. “That he plans on treating you like the treasure you are—and that if you do not feel as such and desire to come home, he will put you on the plane himself, anytime.”

  I threaten a sisterly smack by narrowing my eyes. His handsome face does not falter. “He really…called me a treasure?”

  “Why do you think I am not blocking your way to the stairs?”

  I crush him close again. Emotion floods me, and I shake from the force of it. I am a…treasure. Not just to the guy who has to feel that way because of genetics, but to the man who looks on, emerald gaze gleaming, the rest of his face seeming like a knight reverently waiting for his lady…

  Returning his stare, I smile. In my mental journal, I record the metaphor, for it fits. Knightly passion, while perfect, was never intended to last. What kind of perfection ever was?

  Six months is an ideal time limit for perfection.

  The conclusion lends me the steel for the last of my goodbyes. Maimanne and Paipanne.

  I turn, dutifully ducking my head before them both. Mother is the first to tuck me close, pressing quick kisses to both my temples, before scooting back and murmuring, “You are to use that money only for emergencies. You have it stowed safely, yes?”

  I lift my head. Search for the sheen in her eyes like Saynt’s, indicating she’s muttering about money to cover deeper emotions, and that she worries about me leaving for a city with a population ten times that of our island…

  Her eyes are hard as flint.

  I suppress my disappointment as Father steps over. Perhaps they have agreed he will handle the emotional overtones of the farewell. Makes sense. Mother is not a “public display of affection” type—actually, she is not an advocate of the practice in private either—meaning Paipanne has surely been assigned the parental parting duties.

  I lift a new smile at him, giving it an I’m-being-brave
-but-do-not-feel-it wobble. He leans over—and bestows the same dual kisses on my forehead, with the same formality as Mother. Tilts my head up, so I am impaled by the similar granite of his stare.

  “Do not disgrace our family.”

  So this is what a fist in the heart feels like.

  I step back, struggling around the blow for breath that needs to come. The pressure surges, jerking my shoulders back and my head up. As I look one last time, I borrow a heavy scoop of stone from both of them—one for my left eye, one for my right.

  “Have not a worry, Paipanne. I know exactly what is important to you.”

  *

  Cassian

  “What is it?”

  The words are out the second I guide her into the leather chair next to mine, then cinch her seatbelt. The syllables are damn near a demand by this point but maybe that’s for the best. Whatever force of fate has spurred my inner caveman for this woman has intensified tenfold by watching her board the plane like a zombie, her steps full of wood and her eyes full of loss.

  “Mishella.”

  Her head jerks up—and for a second, she terrifies me. Her gaze takes me in as if she’s been jerked out of a dream. Worse, as if we’ve never met.

  Second thoughts?

  Dammit…no.

  “What. Is. It?”

  Suddenly, she’s back—honing her gaze into me as if she wants to laser me open. Pressing fingers to my face, and infusing it with the same penetrating force. I battle—in vain—to keep those beams from searing my cock. Lasered. Game over. Hasn’t it been from the start with her?

  “You…really care how I answer that.”

  She doesn’t phrase it as a question but I hear her bewilderment, responding with a slow nod. I don’t want her to stop touching me.

  “But that does not matter,” she finally murmurs. Expels a long sigh, as if making room for the fresh infusion of sadness over her lush features. “Just get me out of here. Now. Please.”

  FIVE

  *

  Mishella

  For a second—perhaps many more than that—I regret letting go of my rage in favor of ogling Cassian like a hormone-drenched teenager. Can I be blamed, after the ferocity of his stare, the press of his lips to my knuckles, and the way he barks, “Wheels up” into a phone in the bulkhead? Just as it has been since we arrived at the airport, every move is about my needs and comfort…

  Even now, when a lot of my comfort is beyond his control.

  A lot of it.

  With the exception of the juncture of our hands, my whole body twists from the race of my bloodstream, the heave of my lungs, the tripled pumps of my heart. Was I actually congratulating myself on the tarmac, for thinking the engines’ roar was the scariest part of this “flying” thing? Now, with the whole plane shaking as it gains momentum, faster and faster down the runway, I clamp my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and pray to the Creator I will survive—

  “Ella.”

  How can he sound so gentle, in the middle of such violence?

  “What?”

  “You need to breathe.”

  I yearn to hurl a glower—but opening my eyes is not a viable option. “No.”

  “Favori.”

  “Do not speak at me with sweets.”

  “You mean…try to sweet talk you?”

  “Now you laugh about it?” The glare cannot be helped. Neither, it appears, can his dimpled grin, making me rip up all my mental bookmarks—even the one I have all but glued to the page marked Cassian Court: Arrogance in the Air.

  The air.

  We are…in the air.

  My breath clutches to a brand-new stop—as I watch the runway disappear, giving way to the aqua expanse of the sea. Then a wisp of a cloud. Another.

  “Holy shit!”

  Cassian laughs from his belly but I do not care, nearly scrambling over that part of him to gape out the window. A sound escapes me, unlike any I have made before, because it is born of sensations I have never felt before. Fear, yes—but now churned into something beyond. Exhilaration duels with ebullience. Anxiety, but tempered with a new awareness altogether. Something light, like the dandelion seed the plane now feels like. Possibility in the space of a breath.

  Is this…freedom?

  The knowledge is a crash inside, breaking apart a shell I have never consciously admitted to—but now let myself step from, hatched into something new. Someone new. She is a stranger to me, and I long to crawl back right away into the safety of the tiny world behind me, to the security of the tiny girl who lived there.

  Who lived there.

  And I realize…

  There is no “taking it back.”

  I have agreed to let Cassian show me how good those words can be. Signed my name on his paper, giving him the right—and the power—to do so. Power not just over where my body physically goes…but the vistas my mind, soul, and senses are taken to, as well.

  And I think an airplane take-off has been the most terrifying part of my day?

  What in Creator’s name have I done?

  The query makes me tilt my head—toward the man in whose lap I am practically perched. I am not surprised to find Cassian already staring at me. The intensity on his face is another element entirely.

  Arrogance in the Sky. He is still that—only now, Mr. Confidence is subdued to silence. Perhaps even humbled. The green glass shards in his eyes spike with the crowning truth atop that. Because of you.

  I have no idea how to answer that…save with one set of words.

  “Merderim, Cassian Court.”

  One side of his mouth hitches up. “Thank you, Mishella Santelle.”

  More of the shell shatters.

  As more of me steps free, my spirit moves toward the one path in this new world that makes sense…and the perfect, emerald-eyed guide waiting to lead me on it.

  My fingers lift to his jaw.

  The other side of his mouth raises.

  I push my fingers in a little more. Pull tenderly at his jaw.

  I want that mouth on mine.

  With a ragged grunt of acknowledgement, Cassian obliges.

  *

  Cassian

  How could just a brush of lips be the best fucking kiss of my life?

  There are no answers for that.

  There are a million answers for that.

  My mind implodes on the conflict—the same way it explodes from merely a memory of that sweet, inexplicable touch of her mouth…

  Now nearly three hours ago.

  I continue gazing at her in sleep, where I fixate on the plush pads that have tossed me into this chaos. Doesn’t help a goddamn bit. With Doyle snoozing in the small bedroom at the back of the plane, I’m alone up here with my sorceress—who has me as baffled, bewitched, and just as stunned as I was after kissing her.

  And tasting her…

  and breathing her in…

  then fighting to push her back out.

  A lot of good the effort yields me.

  She has beaten me.

  Good business means admitting when one is defeated, as well celebrating when one is victorious.

  And isn’t that the rub?

  Mishella Santelle is not good business—or so nearly all my teams inform me. Flying all the way to Arcadia, searching for the angles to maneuver Fortin Santelle and save money, don’t match what I’m returning with: a contract at double the budget and a “houseguest” for the next six months. What the hell else am I supposed to call her? Like the explanation will fly for one second with Prim and Hodge—both of whom I will put off thinking about until we’re much closer to home. A “treat” to look forward to, if Doyle’s dour looks have been accurate prophesy—and they usually are.

  I don’t give a fuck.

  I would’ve paid four times as much for her. Been just as glad I had, for the payback of that kiss alone—though karma now carves her pound of flesh right out of my libido.

  That kiss.

  I crave so much more.

  Goddammit, I’ve paid
for it.

  No. You’ve paid for the right to explore this with her, not take it from her. Dial it back, asshole. You’ve only brought this torture on yourself.

  The woman herself helps with the meaning of that final pronoun, sighing sleepily…stretching until her pink sweater set is yanked tightly across her sleek figure. I watch the fabric slide across her breasts, mentally filling in the basic white bra that undoubtedly covers them.

  Suddenly, every lace-clad temptress I’ve been with before is a dim memory behind Mishella’s hot-as-fuck take on that Doris Day goodness. Is she wearing matching panties? And is she still so soundly asleep, she won’t notice if I try confirming with a peek under her skirt?

  Sick. Fuck.

  “Mmmm.”

  While her moan kills off my Peeping Tom, it wakes up my Ready-To-Go-Randy. I shift in my seat, adjusting the wood to a more tolerable angle.

  Her eyes open halfway, then take me in fully.

  “Hey there, little Ella.”

  She curls a drowsy grin. “Bad princess. I fell asleep in the carriage—even after the prince’s kiss.”

  Hell. She has to mention the kiss. “I’m no prince, Miss Santelle.” Especially after what you’ve done to my thoughts in the last three hours.

  “Well, thank the Creator.” The moment it spills, she clearly can’t believe it has. With a dogged shake of her head, she peers out the window. “It is…still light outside.”

  There’s a question in her voice. “Ah. Yes.” I follow her gaze, to where the dark orange rays glint against the plane. “We’re chasing the sun—for another hour, at least.” Unable to rein back the action, I run a hand down the back of her head—intending to do only that. Slow the fuck down. You have six months. But when I pull it back, she chases my touch with her head. Burrows so deeply against my hand she ends up pressed against my chest. After the discernible click of her seatbelt, the rest of her follows, sitting fully on my lap—

  And I sure as hell don’t stop her.

  “Do you…mind?” She glances up, adorably sheepish. “I can see the sunset better from here.”

  “And I can see you better from here.” I let a full grin escape. Goddamn, it feels good. “So it’s a win-win.”