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

by Angel Payne

  Pray for us sinners…

  Now, and at the hour of our death…

  Yeah. That’s it. That has to be. I’ve died, and this is heaven, and—

  She really has destroyed me.

  “Ella.” There’s nothing left on my lips but her name. Nothing left in my senses but her, surrounding me, consuming me—propelling me to an ether comprised solely of that place in space and time where our bodies pulse together, our hearts hammer together. “Mishella,” I whisper this time, squeezing the globes of her ass, forcing her tighter around me. “We’re there. You’re there. Feel me, favori. Feel all of me…”

  “Mmmm.” It’s not a pleasant hum. It’s the I’m trying sound, and I don’t fucking like it. But the moment I withdraw even a millimeter, she scratches once again. The sorceress has claws. Sharp ones.

  She pulls her arms in, shifting her hold to my jaw. Forces my lips to hers in a kiss that’s so searing, it’s haunting. As our mouths mesh and our tongues swirl, I am suddenly able to feel her soul, to see inside her heart…for they are the same as mine. Remember. This. The tastes of it, passion and salt and need. The smells of it, sex and skin and jasmine. The sounds of it, roaring in my ears and throbbing through my blood. The feeling of it, a magic that will follow me until those suspended moments between life and death, when all the best moments of my life return…and I pray more of them await me on the other side.

  Unless that moment is now.

  As she begins to rock her hips, working her body around mine.

  As she arches her head back, releasing a sibilant sorceress sigh.

  As she cries out, in the second I slide my touch between our bodies, to finish her first.

  And she dies too…convulsing through the most perfect end I’ve ever witnessed. The orgasm strains her muscles, bulges her eyes…and squeezes every inch of her pussy.

  Dear. Fuck.

  Over and over she seizes me, her body signing the death warrant for mine. I am executed in a hot, consuming flood, life pouring from me, immense and primal…

  And perfect.

  “Do not…stop. Oh please, Cassian. I think I might…oh, again. Do not stop!”

  “Never.” I grate it into her neck while continuing to pump her pussy and work her clit. “Never, sweet armeau.”

  When I take the throbbing little nub and pinch just the tip, she finally gives me her scream. She vibrates, wild and unthinking, gripping me in desperate need, like the fucking angel leading her to heaven.

  She has no idea…of how things really are.

  That she’s the angel. The enchantress gifted from the clouds…to lead me back from hell.

  Morose thoughts—for much later. Now, I only want to think about her laugh in my ear, the mix of melody and husk that brings satisfaction as complete as her climaxes, making my resolve official. This really is where I want to die. Right here, right now. Surely, no other moment in my life is going to equal this perfection.

  “Oh…my…high…holy…Creator.” She lets her arms sprawl, limp as noodles, straight out to her sides. I chuckle my way into a new kiss, letting my grip slide along them, until our fingers are again twined.

  “Certainly took the sting out of jet lag.”

  “Jet lag.” She repeats it softly, her face remaining dazed. “So…how long does that last?”

  I laugh again, not missing the hopeful lilt with which she finishes. “Not sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “Usually too keyed up to pay attention to it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  It’s the hum I’m used to—on the other hand, hope to never be used to, because it’s so damn adorable. Half of it is barely audible, since she’s already dedicated half her brain to at least eight layers of deeper thought. The exciting part is watching her cycle through them, and wondering what she’ll say to make the wait worth it.

  “Perhaps we should try to find out.”

  Definitely worth it.

  After grinding a slow, savoring kiss into her, I answer, “Perhaps we fucking should.”

  EIGHT

  *

  Mishella

  By now, I am fairly certain there is no such thing as a three-day, debilitating case of jet lag—at least not in Cassian Court’s world. But right now, it is not a point I care to argue. Or think about. As if I am capable of either, with my gaze consumed by the sight of his dark gold hair spilling over my lower belly…and the ecstasy of his tongue stabbing into my intimate hole, over and over and over…

  My abdomen clenches. My backside pinches in.

  Oh, dear Creator…

  Close.

  A few more. Please…

  Close.

  I am not even aware of the words spilling off my lips, until his growl interjects—and his head pulls up. “Not yet, armeau. Not…yet.”

  I whine, protesting and almost angry, reaching back to grab the pillows. There have to be a dozen of them on his big bed, and for a fleeting second, I wonder why I do not know the exact count. I have barely left these sheets for seventy-two hours. Surely there was time to count all his pillows at some point…

  But there was not. Not between sleeping and…things like this.

  Lots and lots and lots of this.

  The most perfect three days of my life.

  Consumed with giving myself to the most perfect man in the world.

  His body like a gold marble god, taut and defined as he rolls on a condom. His face lined with fierce passion, as he gazes over my spread nudity. His eyes, shimmering and sharp, as he scrapes fingernails down my thighs, to my knees…

  And slams my legs wide.

  “Keep them like that,” he orders. “The whole time I’m fucking you.” A moment later, he prompts, “What do you say to that?”

  “Y-yes, Cassian.”

  He knows I’ll barely get it out. He knows what his rougher, filthier side does to me. How all his dirty words affect me, incinerating the bonds of propriety that have been the hallmarks of my existence for so long. With the words, he gives me no choice about leaving them behind…about becoming his perfect little investment.

  And I do feel perfect.

  Adored.

  Desired.

  Worthy.

  His face tightens as he positions himself at my entrance. His body is hard…everywhere. I raise my arms, anxious to learn its formidable landscape once more, but he growls, “No. Leave them where they are. Grip the pillows. It lifts your luscious tits…so perfectly.” He sucks and bites one then the other, still taunting my entrance with his cock. “You like that, don’t you? When I make your nipples erect like this? When you know exactly what it does to my dick?”

  I struggle for breath. “Oh…y-yes, Cassian.”

  “And does it make you hot too, little Ella?”

  “Yes, Cassian.”

  “Does it make your tunnel wet? Turn you into my horny, sweet sorceress, ready to be fucked?”

  “Yes, Cassian.”

  He lifts back up. Digs his hands into my hips, pulling my body another inch around his, opening the view to his heated gaze—and mine. The sight of his shaft, absorbed into the softness of my core, is as mesmerizing as the rest of him. Muscles straining. Power coiling. Passion building. He is beautiful, rippled…stunning.

  “Then use the words.” He intensifies his grip along with the dictate. “Tell me what you want…with the words I want.”

  I swallow hard. There will be no getting away with a gentle morning screw. This explosion is going to be nuclear…for both of us.

  “Take me,” I rasp. “Please…deep inside…with your cock. Take your payment back from my body, until I cannot see straight. Until I scream from being filled by you—”

  Then I do scream, as he plows me hard and hot. No inch of my sex is left wanting. He handles me like a piece of clay, subjected to the pound of his ruthless hammer. In a sense, I am. Less than a week after even meeting the man, I am a being recreated…an artwork unveiled with every slice of his chisel…

  Then shattered.


  Blown apart into a thousand pieces of being, of feeling, of frantic, perfect fulfillment…

  “Take it.”

  “Yes, Cassian.”

  “All of my cock.”

  “Yes, Cassian.”

  “In your perfect cunt.”

  “Yes…yes…yes!” The pieces of me explode into dust. “Cassian!” I am nothing but sensation, climaxing hard, senses rejoicing as he dissolves with me, coming deep inside me.

  And for the fiftieth time in the last week, I wonder if I truly will ever be the same.

  Or if I want to be.

  Before I can delve into the morose possibilities for answers to that, Cassian’s phone vibrates on the nightstand—for the twentieth time this morning. He groans. I giggle.

  “I knew I’d regret telling the world I’m back on the grid.”

  “I think our jerk is up, Mr. Court.”

  For some reason, that quirks his lips. “Jig.”

  “Now?” I glance down. At the moment, dancing in any form is rather out of the question.

  He explains only by popping a quick kiss to my forehead, before reaching for the device with a brisk swipe. “Rob. Good morning.”

  Between getting his hands on–and in—me, the man has at least divulged that “Rob” is short for Robin, who, in an even more confusing twist, is a young man in his first job out of college. From what I can tell, Rob is succeeding. In the last seventy-two hours, Cassian has entrusted him with everything from changing security passwords—a weekly ritual at Court Enterprises—to things a little more personal, like scheduling a physician appointment for his boss today.

  That being known, Cassian still earns a new dose of my amazement with the tone, as if he’s standing in a board room instead of prone in bed, still buried inside me. “Better, thanks,” he continues. “Scheduling that fast turn-around for the Arcadia trip was probably too aggressive. I’m current on emails and the latest reports though,”—he shrugs at my when-did-that-happen gawk—“and I’ll be coming in today. That face-to-face with Flynn Whelan is too important. Have his people confirmed for lunch? Good. Make sure the catering team brings up that Italian water he likes. Any other notable calls?”

  It sounds like Rob hesitates, but delivers the reply in a businesslike tone. Cassian matches the timbre—on the surface. Beyond the new shutters over his expression, I see the same discomfort that first stopped Rob—though he quickly cloaks it. I am not sure whether to be relieved or angry. The resulting confusion makes me restless. I shift, pull away, and leave for the bathroom—as if the sliding wood door can keep out the river stone perfection of his voice, smoothness and power beneath each baritone syllable.

  “No. You responded as you should have, Rob. She’s been fishing for a definitive on the Literacy Ball for a few months. Jumping up the chain and turning in the RSVP herself…well, I’ll applaud her for the guts, if not the intelligence.” Heavy huff, through a definitive pause. “Call Yolanda Wood at the Literacy Guild. Clarify my RSVP is for two, but I’ll phone myself with my guest’s name by EOB today. It will definitely not be Amelie Hampton’s.”

  I finish my business, debating whether to follow my original plan and start the shower, or find a journal and note the name Amelie Hampton. The knot in my belly supports the latter. It is not simply the stress she has brought to Cassian—whoever she is—though that is a start. It is the discomfiting questions now raised in my heart—and the anger that rises in their wake.

  Did you think he was living a monk’s life before you arrived?

  Did you think because he moved you into his bedroom, he planned on keeping himself out of others?

  Did you think he doesn’t have a hundred other “Amelie Hamptons” across this city? This country?

  I shake my head, forcing the funk away. With a short huff, crank on the shower. Climb in under the wonderfully hot spray, deliberately turning from the granite seat upon which my backside has been planted numerous times over the last few days—for the most erotic of reasons. Right now, it is best to deal strictly with the steam from the water instead of those salacious visions—and how many women from Cassian’s past share the exact same memories.

  Too late.

  As he enters the bathroom, clearly finished with Rob, it is too easy to imagine him walking in on another girl, in another time, and tossing his condom in the trash with the same laser accuracy. It is even more effortless to think of him turning and peering through the stall glass, the same dimpled smirk on his face…with the same dreamy follow-through.

  “Why’d you start in there without me?”

  Oh, yes. All the others have surely felt just like this as well—body newly tingling, senses freshly awakened, tongue perfectly tied—as he plants those long fingers against his corded hips, purposefully pulling attention to that magnificent appendage at their juncture…

  I. Will. Not. Look. I. Will. Not. Look.

  I steal a small glance. Just one. Dear sweet Creator, why did you build him with such magnificence? Especially there?

  I manage to hitch a little shrug. Whether it hits the mark on the nonchalance I am aiming for is hard to discern—especially because his face has transformed to the opposite. I avoid that new intensity to explain, “You…sounded busy. I did not want to be…”

  I let it trail off as he enters the stall, seeming to do so in one masterful sweep. I am sure he opened the glass door, even stepped over the tile lip at the shower’s edge, but those sort of movements always seem to simply flow into the powerful prose of his body…

  And now the unblinking force of his stare.

  “You did not want to be what?”

  His tone, just as unflinching, pulses more parts of me to life again. But we are discussing his conversation with Rob, and recalling that brings back composure. At least a little. “In the way,” I supply. “Or interfering…with…important subjects.”

  A worm on a hook would be more graceful. I am certain my face flushes, beyond what color the steam has already brought. The man is no bloody help, tilting my face up with a finger then softly but thoroughly kissing me. Before I can help it, my arms twine around his neck, my body molds against every gloriously hard inch of him—only when I expect him to swoop in with the full force of his lust, he steps back. Then again. Literally looks down to make sure his lengthening sex is not touching me in any way, before finally speaking again.

  “Let’s make something clear.” He jogs his head in the direction of the bedroom. “That is all the ‘interference.’ That’s all the ‘getting in the way’ crap. This,”—he traces a finger in the air between our chests—“and this,”—then between our foreheads—“is the ‘important subject’ you need to be worrying about.”

  I only swallow hard. There is nothing to say. And everything. And I am more flummoxed than ever.

  “Mishella.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me.” His stare awaits, ready with forest darkness. “Yeah. I thought so.”

  “Thought so…what?”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Because I do not have to.” I grab his hands. “Cassian, you had a life before I arrived. And you shall have one after I leave—”

  “So you’re already that anxious to go?” The forests flare with angry fires. I try to understand—anger is fear’s child, so what is he afraid of?—but cannot surpass my own uncertainty to see it. I am thousands of miles from home, in a land where even the stupid light switches are new to me, and he is playing at the jilted insecurity?

  “Are you truly asking that?” I seethe. “After the last three days? After I gave you my virginity?”

  “Which I paid for,” he retorts, “as you cannot seem to stop reminding me.”

  “Because it is the truth!”

  “Because that ‘truth’ is your safety.”

  He does not stop at the accusation. Uses his body as judge and juror, convicting me with the physical lunge that not only closes the gap between us, but flattens me against the shower’s granite wall
. His body, tightening and flexing, is now a hard, imposing intruder. His shoulders bunch, ropes of muscles playing against his wet flesh, as he meshes our fingers against the granite.

  “Look at me,” he growls again. “Look. At. Me.” When I do, he lowers his face until I can see my reflection in the beads of water down his straight nose, along his clenched jaw. “You don’t get to be safe here, Ella. Neither of us does. We can keep talking about the money, keep pretending it’s the chasm that’s protecting our castles—or we can just admit the truth.” His hands screw tighter into mine. His body pushes harder…so much bigger… “I’m in the fucking chasm, woman—and I’m careening. Tumbling. Every moment I’m with you, next to you, inside you, it gets deeper. Darker. There’s no bottom in sight—nor do I want there to be.”

  I work to get air. Very little comes. My balance tilts. My senses swim. He is the only anchor; my new reality. I whimper, lost in the force of his rough words…the magic. Wanting to believe magic really exists…

  but…

  “Wh-what about…her?”

  His gaze glitters. He shakes his head, confused. “Her who?”

  Before the answer is even out, I feel like a petty salpu. “Amelie,” I clarify, feeling as if I must. “Hampton. Remember? The woman who responds on your behalf to social engagements?”

  “Because she was torqued at me for going to Arcadia without her. Because she also doesn’t know how to express herself like, let’s say, a mature adult.” He pulls away. His shoulders dip as if a weight has been slung across them. “And also, because I’ve let her get away with it before.” Measured huff. “Look…I won’t lie to you, Ella. I’ve let several women get away with it before—because I haven’t really cared before.”

  My turn for the irked exhalation finally comes. “So…what does that mean…”

  …for me.

  I let the words remain implied. He is not a stupid man. He shows me so by settling his gaze firmly back into mine. “It means that I care now.” He lets go of my hands, closing them both in to frame my face. “That I’m not going to that goddamn event with anyone on my arm but the most beautiful woman in New York.” His dimples reappear, deep as craters, as I crunch a questioning frown. “You, my pahaleur armeau.”