Chapter 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.”
For the first time in my life, I roll my eyes at a man.
Partly because he deserves it.
Partly because I know I can.
Mostly because it feels so, so good.
In return, his own eyes go dark with sage smoke. “Christ. Did you roll your eyes at me?” When I do it again, the desire takes over the rest of his face—and his cock slots against my most sensitive tissues, zinging heat to every nerve ending in my body. “You know what I want to do with that expression, don’t you, young lady?”
The grate in his tone brings me more boldness. I toss a flirty glance up, tugging at my lip with my teeth—and his erection with my fingers. He hisses. I clutch harder. By the Creator, I love touching him. Everywhere—but especially here. Feeling him pulse beneath my palm. Watching his jaw clench. Savoring the power that I, for once, have over him…
“Hmmm,” I murmur. “I…have no idea. Maybe it is best that you show me, Mr. Court?”
His throat vibrates with a low, snarly sound. “Maybe it’s best that I do.”
My breath clutches. Holds. I hope, perhaps too desperately, for my backside and the shower seat to become best friends again. Instead, Cassian shifts his hold to my shoulders, urging me down. The action is too brusque to let me trail him with kisses, but I am able to take a tactile exploration. My hand travels the hills of his abdomen, glides into the indent of his hip, savors the perfect plateaus of his thighs. “Beautiful,” I rasp. “You are…so beautiful, Cassian.”
He lifts his hands, burying them in the wet tangles of my hair, as I kneel before him. With his hold digging into my scalp, he grates, “Then wrap your beauty around me.”
I cannot refuse. I do not want to. In my most illicit dreams I have already imagined doing this for him…and for me. Taking over him like this, hoping I can enthrall his body as he does mine…I am flushed all over, intoxicated and afire…all my senses swirl, aroused and alive.
“Fuck.” His groan is as tight as the sinew of his legs, clenching as I grasp them, pushing him deeper inside me. His flesh, musky and wet, pushes at the confines of my mouth. So huge. So delicious. His hands brace the back of my head, soon setting a pace for each new lunge over his pulsing length. “Beautiful…favori…take me…take me…”
His words are like the steam, curling around us, dissolving my thoughts into nothing more than particles on the air. I’ve evaporated, now just a swirl myself, my actions completely controlled by his passion…his will.
“Touch yourself, Ella. Stroke your clit.”
I obey at once. Release a moan around his girth.
“Touch me with your other hand. Around my balls. Yes. Like that.”
I moan louder. So does he. He rams into my mouth at a quicker pace. The sac beneath my hand throbs and writhes. His cock grows, testing the limits of my throat.
Faster.
Hotter.
Sucking.
Stroking.
Climbing.
Coming.
As the zenith hits my pussy, I scream—welcoming the ropes of cream he gives my throat. I drink burst after burst of his perfect completion…his beautiful passion. And embrace all the beauty he sees in me too…
And am glad the water cascading down our bodies can mask the sheen of my tears, born of an exquisite, inescapable realization.
In being owned by him…
I have been set truly free.
Leaving only one insane dilemma.
How will I ever set him free now?
CASSIAN
I have to turn from Ella while buttoning up my shirt.
First, the sight of her in the chair next to the window, dressed in nothing but my bathrobe, is too fucking tempting. She’s only five feet from the bed I yearn to throw her back onto, keeping her captive for three more days.
Second—my fingers are shaking.
Trembling.
Me.
Like a fucking cat in the rain.
And I never want it to end.
The same way I never wanted to leave that bed. Or the shower—dear fuck, that shower—or the magical wrap of her arms, her eyes, her body.
How the hell am I ever going to set her free?
Because in another five months and three weeks, she’ll be properly purged, man. Spoiled and fucked into perfect oblivion. With any luck, she’ll even be like all the rest: another Amelie, ready to stomp all over your space with the social engagements, the photo ops…perhaps even the pre-business trip hissy fits…
The argument has merit.
Except for one major snag.
I like thinking of Mishella Santelle in those scenarios. Yeah, even the hissy fit one. If there would ever be any need to leave her behind on a trip, and if she ever found the need to launch such a tantrum, defusing her anger might be more fun than stoking her passion. The woman’s pretty damn adorable when she’s miffed. Her gaze turns to blue fire, her neck cords with tension, and she turns all Queen Victoria proper, practically using the royal we on everybody.
We are mad at you, Mr. Court…
We would like you to keep sucking on our nipples…
We would like to suck on your cock…
We would enjoy coming for you…
Yep. Shaking.
I finish with the damn buttons. Not a miracle yet. That comes when I remember how to secure a Windsor knot…that is, when I recall where I put the fucking tie…
My search doesn’t last long. It ends with a punch of violent feeling, at finding the strip of red silk trailing from elegant fingers that I long to kiss once more—and do. Ella’s smile fills her eyes before her lips, a sequence reaffirming my newfound buy-in to Arcadian voodoo, before she loops the tie around my neck and focuses on the knot. I’m actually jealous of the thing, watching the attention it receives for the better part of a minute, until a more disturbing thought sets in.
“How’d you learn to do this?”
Translation: what man did you learn it for?
She smirks. My subtext isn’t the subtlest, and I don’t give a fuck. “My brother.” She tugs softly, taking her time, and I sense the quiet intimacy of the moment means as much to her as me. “All the kids on Arcadia wear school uniforms until our last year of secondary level. Saynt never perfected his knot, at least not to Maimanne’s satisfaction, so I just did the job and let her believe what she wanted.”
More emotion wallops me. This time, fierce protectiveness. It pushes my hand up, clasping one of her wrists. When she looks up, I don’t ease back on my probing stare. “Would an imperfect knot have been that much of a sin?”
I expect her to drop her gaze. When she doesn’t, for a very long moment, she lets me see in…allows me to really view the panorama of her life up until now. It is filled with shifting sands, fickle winds, even a fear of where the next step may take her. Steps that have, until now, all been orchestrated by her parents—down to the threads in her and Saynt’s clothing.
Finally, she looks away. Her arm drops too. “And perfection was not expected of you, Mr. Court?”
Clearly, my sadness has come off as pity—not a surprise, if the filter of her pride is considered—so her defensiveness isn’t a shock. Nor is the logic behind her words. I’ve tracked her parents’ “research” into Court Enterprises. Undoubtedly, they’ve told her I didn’t inherit the money behind all this. In her mind, two and two are now snapped together—and sum up to a pair of demanding parents.
Little Ella. If only the world were so tidy.
“Perfection,” I echo, arching a brow. “Of course it was expected of me. Every day.”
She nods, face full of I-knew-it.
“By the guy in the mirror.”
The nod halts. “But your mother—”
“Was usually at work by the time I got up for school.” I square my shoulders. It’s not a new move, even with the onslaught of those distant memories—things not even her parents’ probe could have divulged about me. Mom prefers to let me live the public life, and now enjoys the garden she never had while I was growing up, in her dream house out in Connecticut. The way it should be. “She had to take a bus and two trains to get to the Four Seasons on time for clock-in.” I cock my head. “You know those rich New York farts. They all don’t have much patience when their toilets have to be scrubbed.”
She doesn’t bite on the levity. Instead mutters, confused frown in place, “But your father surely—”
“Wasn’t around.” I manage to get it out smoothly.
“A brother or a sis—”
“Wasn’t. Around.” Not so smooth this time. By half. But Damon is nobody’s business. Ever.
“So…it was just you?”
Yes. In an apartment smaller than this room, with the cocaine addicts on one side and the schizophrenic lady on the other. At least the crackheads were quiet in the mornings.
“This isn’t the right time for this discussion, Ella.”
She nods once more. The I-knew-it is gone but I instantly wish for its return. Anything but the terse lurch into which the action has become. “Of course it is not. I…apologize.”
“Dammit.” I seethe it beneath my breath, to myself more than her, before wheeling back, grabbing her, and tucking her close. “No apologies,” I utter into her hair. “Ghosts are just better left buried; that’s all.”
“I understand.”
But she doesn’t. Not really. After courageously unlocking her emotional gates for me, she has met padlocks and guard dog growls from me in return. Not a damn thing I’m going to do about it either.
I tried exposing the pain once before. Forced the gates open.
Was given just another ghost to bury.
Headstone carved with flowers to match her name…
Fresh dirt over the plot, contrasted by the February snow over the graveyard…
I grit the memories away. Gaze over the top of Ella’s head, out the window. It’s May but the morning sky roils over the city, thick with thunderheads, as if even the big guy beyond them challenges my call. Go ahead, bastard. Give it a try. You turned my secrets into sunshine once, then ripped the sun away. Now, the secrets stay with the ghosts. Buried. For good.
I pull in a deep breath. Normally, it’s enough for fortification. Not now. I dip my head, seeking the solace of her warmth, her kiss—but as soon as our mouths meet, I revise the descriptor. This isn’t just solace. It’s healing. She might hate that my gate is closed, but she accepts it…and simply fixes what she can from where I do let her stand.
She really is a gift.
I’ve never considered it hell to stop kissing a woman before. Today marks that first, giving new meaning to the words fuck and no. Somehow she deciphers it properly, and giggles a little.
“Off with you, Mr. Court.” She adjusts my tie one last time, giving me an accidental eyeful of her cleavage. “The sooner you get done ruling the world, the sooner you can come h—” She barely snatches back the rest, but it’s enough to shatter our pretense of domestic bliss as she revises, “The sooner you can get back.” She lifts a little smile over eyes turning rich turquoise. “And remember, you have a physician’s appointment today.”
Oh. Yes. That.
I step back, guiding her hands into mine—deciding to just broach the subject, now that she’s gone there anyway. Clearly, the more “formal” moment for which I’ve been waiting is not coming soon—especially with her standing there, soft and scrubbed and naked in my robe.
“I had Rob make that appointment,”—I deliberately engage her gaze—“for you.”
Nose crinkle. Slow blink. “Me? What? Wh-why?”
No better tactic than a direct one. “It’s with Kathryn Robbe. She’s a friend. And a gynecologist.”
“A gyne—” She’s confused more than upset. Good sign. “But Cassian, you know my history. Well, my lack of one. You are my first—”
I stop her with a kiss. It’s as much for me as her. Hearing her speak it out loud, that I’m the only man who’s ever been inside her, fires primeval urges I don’t even want to subdue. After a long minute of claiming her with my tongue, I pull back far enough to speak my full, transparent intent.
“It’s just to make sure everything’s working fine, favori.”
She spurts a little laugh. “After the last three days, you are not sure it is?”
“And to talk to Kathryn about birth control.”
More blinks. But no more frowns. Just a gorgeous little O of her lips, followed by the same sound in a rasp. “Oh,” she repeats. “You…errmm…that is what you want?”
I lower my head. Inhale deeply. Attempt to absorb the clinical scents between us, not the sensual. Toothpaste, deodorant, shirt starch—not body cream, vanilla soap, even the sexy place at the curve of her nape, where her citrus shampoo blends with beads of her perspiration. So many more places like this on her to discover. Marvelous places…
“What I want,”—Christ, what I need—“is to get my body inside yours whenever and wherever I want.” Her all-over shiver conveys I’ve made the point, but my imagination’s off and running again. “For instance, I’d be able to tear this robe off of you. Kind of like…this.”
“Oh.” Her mouth is a rose around the syllable now…dark as the areolas sprouting her erect nipples. Her hair cascades around those lush swells, turning her into my very own Aphrodite…ready to be claimed by her worthless mortal once more. “And—and then what?”
The dusky cue in her gaze is all I need. “And then…I’d be able to spin you around, and march you to the window seat.” I twist her hair around a hand and push her forward. When we’re in front of the bench built into the curve of the window, I angle her over until her cheek is pressed down—and her ass is presented high. “Like this.”
“Oh…my.” She wriggles a little, spreading her legs for better balance…exposing the tight entrance now gaping on the air, its glistening layers begging to be filled. Because denying myself air would be easier than rejecting her needs, I give the sorceress what she wants. With one finger, then two…and three. “Cassian!” she cries. “Oh, by the Creator…”
“If you were taking protection, Ella, I could unzip my pants…like this. Then pull out my cock…and line it up to your weeping little cunt…”
“Please,” she begs, when I only follow through with the first half of that promise. Instead, I let her listen as I fist my length and begin to pump, in perfect cadence with the three digits inside her sex. “Please!”
At first I say nothing, letting her arousal spiral with mine, continuing to fuck my fingers into her, keeping a perfect rhythm. But then I pivot my hand, letting my thumb hook up, toying with the rosette between her ass’s perfect spheres. “I could play here, too…while I fuck your sweet pussy. Spread your gorgeous ass, then press into it…like this…”
The filthy scene, playing out in both our minds, brings on a mutual shudder. I delve my fingers deeper into her pussy…and her other entrance, so tiny and tight.
“Yes,” she keens. “Oh, yes…take me…”
“In both places?”
“In both. I need it. I need you. Cassian…Cassian…”
There are more words, long strings of them, but the Arcadian spills from her in such a heated slur, I can only assume she’s continuing the dirty theme. At least that’s what my cock wants to believe. Engorged and pulsing, pre-come slicking the length, the beast roars through my fist, over and over again, screaming for release as desperately as Mishella does.
And Christ, does she scream.
Openly.
Gloriously.
“Ardui! Faisi-banu-ardui!”
I can translate only the last word but it’s enough.
Harder.
My enchantress’s wish is my command.
We orgasm together, her gasps mating with my roar. Her walls squeeze around my fingers. My fist milks my cock. Streams of my essence fall across her back, like white chocolate poured against vanilla ice cream. Though I am spent, the sight of it keeps me hard…craving to lean over and fill her with my dick instead of my fingers.
Instead, as our breathing normalizes, I force myself to step back. Scooping my robe back up, I improvise it into a towel, cleaning her back and my cock before scooping her back up against me…yearning to hold her like this all damn day.
Well, not exactly like this.
Doing it in bed would be so much better. Naked and sated, limbs twined, heads sharing a pillow…
For a moment, I consider it. Strongly. Nothing sounds better right now than fucking the day’s demands—but even amenable Rob will point out that canceling on Flynn Whelan is professional poison. The man has clout with both the Greek and Croatian governments, contacts we’ll be needing once operations in Arcadia move forward in full force. And right now, staying close to the Arcadians has leapt high on my priorities list.
Close.
It’s never felt like a flimsy word—but right now, drawing Ella even closer, it comes nowhere near to what I crave to share with her…what I still burn to have beyond this. I’ve just compared her to a decadent dessert, and stuffed my senses full of the damn thing, yet I’m ravenous for more. So much more.
But will it ever be enough?
I hope so.
Dear fuck, I hope not.
The breath I fan into her neck is full of that rough conflict. She responds with a quiver, rolling down through her whole body, making her skin pebble beneath my touch. I firm my roaming caresses, partly to warm her, partly to memorize the feel of her nakedness. Something has to get me through the day, goddammit.
She finally breaks our silence with a hitched murmur. “Cassian?”
I wrapped myself tighter around her. “Yeah?”
“I will go to the appointment. With your friend.”
I tilt my head in. Press lips to her temple. “Thank you, armeau.”
She cocks her own head. There’s an impish smile on her lips. “You can thank me later. In very thorough detail.”
I growl lowly. “Yes, ma’am.” Then set about proving how I fully intend to follow through—by stealing that smile off her lips with the attack of my own.