Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (17 page)

Even now.

Especially now.

I swear to God, she’s never taken my breath away more than this instant, peering up at me with eyes so dusky and lusty, cheeks so flushed and hot, and that delectable corner of her mouth, caught beneath her teeth…knowing exactly what kind of impact it has on my psyche. And my cock.

And I was actually
missing
the court maiden…why?

“You know I do not care about scones on the terrace, right?”

“Huh?”

Christ
. I never knew
she
knew how to drop her shoulder like that. Or that her slouchy pink sweater could slip down that low when she did…exposing the top of her breast. Stretching the knit fabric across her chest, to define the other swell so perfectly. Even ensuring that nipple poked at the woven threads, urgently enough to taunt me.

She smiles softly.

My blood roars. My dick throbs. My fantasies prepare to declare war on my psyche, and the damn woman
smiles
like she’s about to go enjoy a scone on the fucking terrace. But the scones don’t matter. That
is
what she said, right?

“No scones.”

She husks it like an answer to my mind’s question, adding a sultrier version of that damn smile. That smile is…dangerous. Part of me yearns to wipe it off her face. Another part wants to know what it’ll develop into. Neither bode well for the torture still calling itself my dick.

“No scones,” she repeats. “Or spa trips. Or tinkering with the cars. But maybe,”—she sets her lip free, only to wet the surface with the gorgeous nub of her tongue—“I still need Sundays in bed.” She squirms a little, sliding the sweater over her body in astonishing new ways. “I suppose it would depend on what our plans were.”

I plunge my gaze into hers. The savage grip of her fear is clear in those bright blue depths—as well as her determination to distract us both from it with this little sex kitten act.

And fuck me, it’s working.

No
. If we’re going to spend our last hour twined and naked with each other, I need to trade out Wolverine for Captain America. Give her a sweet, meaningful screw, not a panting, dog breath ball-beater.

A plan even she seems hell-bent on cock-blocking. Figuratively speaking—

Or not.

A groan thunders up my body as she palms the stalk between my legs—then strokes up, gripping me from balls to crown, claiming with the boldness of intention. Lots of it. Wanton and possessive—and perfect.

“I think,” she murmurs, once more with that flirty grin, “I would have some definite plans…for Sundays in bed with this.”

I let one of my hands drop. Capture her wrist with it. Lift it to my mouth, capturing it in a relentless suckle. Take my turn to unfurl a smile, as her lips part on an unthinking gasp.

Maybe Captain America’s overrated.

“What if I had a few plans of my own?”

Her chest pumps as I continue nibbling…marking a path toward her inner elbow. Christ, what that does to the sweater—and the evidence of her arousal, now two distinct points beneath the pink covering. I stare at them, hard. She notices, and they get harder.

“P-plans?” she finally sputters—and just like that, my wide-eyed princess is back, ready to let me steal her white panties…and lure away all her inhibitions. The timing couldn’t be better. I slide my lips up, over her shoulder then against her neck, nipping as I did at her wrist, making her gasp twice as loud.

Damn…yes…

“Yes,” I finish to her query. “Only they may or may not involve a bed.” Because even the five steps to get
there
are too huge a journey to contemplate. In two, we can make it to the big chair in the curve of the bay window—

And we do.

A nudge of my foot behind her ankles, and she’ll be perfectly sprawled in the middle of it, spreading her legs as I descend over her—

And she is.

Just a couple of strategic pushes, taking advantage of the slack in her sweater now—

And…

Yeah
.

“Yesssss.” It hisses from me, rough and ruthless as the desire rising through me, as I drink in the perfection of her taut, dusky nipples.

Shit.

“Yesssss.”

For a long minute, that’s all I’m capable of getting out. The word escapes between my licks at her erect tips, a prayer of thanksgiving
and
agony, as I taste, tantalize, and tease us both into a tumult of need, heat, and lust. The rips of pain through my skull, brought on by her urgent tugs on my hair, are her way of adding to the torment. Every time she twists, I close down tighter on her incredible breasts.

“Damn!” She cries it out as I lift to assess—admire?—the damage.

“Damn.”

Yeah. It’s admiration.

I’ve outdone myself.

Her gorgeous tits are a patchwork of red and pink, her nipples berry-red from my bites, her flesh swollen with the marks of my possession, abraded from the scrape of my beard. I want to find a paintbrush and sign my damn name.

“Christ, Ella.” I grab my crotch. Openly squeeze myself in front of her. It’s the only way to keep my erection in check. “You’re a masterpiece.”

She leans back, angling deeper against the chair. Throws up her hands, threading through her curls as she does, fanning their dark gold light against the dark leather. “I am
your
masterpiece.”

I lean forward. Shove her sweater up and over her head. I have
not
overlooked the fact that all she’s worn with the thing are a pair of patterned leggings—so those get peeled off too. And—
fuck yes
—the lace-trimmed panties underneath them.

After tossing the clothes to the floor, I brace over her. Grit against the yearning to savor this moment for much,
much
longer. To roam my hands over every creamy inch of her nudity, watching my touch affect her in tiny shivers, larger tremors, and finally in undulating need. To tell
her
what she does to me in return…in explicit detail. To unleash the filthy creature in her that doesn’t just crave me in return for it…but loves me for it.

But we’re a cyclone in a bubble. With every passing moment, our magic shell stretches thinner.

I rip at my fly. Let myself out. Let her gaze fall to the length in my hand, as I fist the last few spasms of arousal up into my length.

My slit spurts, giving me a slicker surface to work with. The scent of it hits Ella, and her face suffuses with need. Her lip disappears between her teeth again. Pops back out because she bites so damn hard. Good. That’s
so
good. I want her as agonized as me. As tortured, as pain-ridden…as driven to the brink of her very sanity from this need…from craving our connection.

Please,
armeau
. Stay connected…

Be here for me.

Just like this for me.

Exactly this soaked for me.

Holy. Fuck.

I hardly realize it’s growled out of me until her gaze bulges, searching me. Hating myself for bringing her even those two seconds of pain, I crash a devouring kiss to her mouth. But stop there? No chance. I push deeper, swiping my tongue totally in, dominating her.

When we finally drag apart, I whip off my shirt. Drop back down to poise over her by just a few inches. To impose my heat on her. Brand my stare into her.

Position my cock to impale her.

“You’re perfect. Dear God, Ella…in more ways than I ever could dream.”

“Cassian.” She lifts a hand, angling it to cup my face. I halt it halfway, locking it back down against the cushion beside her head. Pin down the other in the exact same way. Needing her like this. Needing to feel, at least once in this fucked twist of my life, in complete control.

Seeing that understanding in her eyes. In the lift of her face. In the arch of her breasts.

Fuck.

She doesn’t just get it. She wants it, too. Yearns to give it all to me. All of
herself
to me.

The realization brings another with it…just as perfect. Now more than ever, I want her for the rest of my life. To
be
my life. To stand before me in a wedding gown, and raise her head with that exact smile on her face, and become my woman for the rest of our years…

And if the rest of your years are behind steel bars
?

I can’t ignore the possibility. Can’t stuff down the fact that I’m about to willingly turn myself over to people who could have me branded as a terrorist—a traitor to my country, a murderer to hers—inside a week. That inside that same week, I might be stowed away in some cell, in the middle of some desert, awaiting a trial that will never take place…

Then make this count, asshole.

Make. Her. Remember.

The mandate is a shaft of sun, funneling the focus of all my darkness. In the middle of that sun, there is only Ella. Only the brilliance of our bubble. Only the blinding, blazing importance of making my life into this now…my world into this woman.

With that thought consuming my mind, I sink my lips against hers. Push deeper inside. Taste her. Devour her.

Conquer her.

My arousal grows as my control slips. Precariously. My pants drop down to my calves and I kick them free. As I press harder over her, my world narrows even more. I kiss her with everything I have, everything I am. Vow to pleasure her with all the force of my passion and power of my body. Comprehending, at last, why Arcadian men run right past all our stupid American names for our women, and turn to the only one that makes real sense.

“
Raismette
.”

Though it is the highest honor I can give her, I issue it as full command—because it’s what she craves too. What she needs. To be pulled out of her high heels, swept off her feet then pinned on her back, wrapped in the fullness of desire…claimed by her male’s ruling hand.

She drags her eyes open. Their depths are as fathomless as the sea outside, perfect as the stars reflecting over those waves. Then she smiles, her lips curved with understanding…and gratitude.

And surrender.

“Yes, Cassian?”

I lower my head, only brushing my lips to hers now. “Open for me.” A growl of approval, as her thighs part—and mine slide between them. “Damn. So good.”

“Yes, Cassian.” It’s agreement this time, not acquiescence.

“Wider. Get your ankles onto both sides.” I groan low as she complies, spreading her intimate lips to accommodate my pulsing tip. Her body starts sucking me in, all but begging me to invade her tight channel. The perfection of it makes us both shudder—bodies fitting, breaths tangling, hearts joining. “Good,
favori.
God
damn
.”

“Yes.” Her wrists twist in my hold—but not fighting me. Needing me. The tension of the fight…it’s what we both need, in order to drag out the magnificence of our pleasure. “Yes, Cassian!”

My buttocks clench. My thighs tremble. The craving to sink in is so fucking intense—and soon, so very soon, I’ll indulge it. It’s everything I want but everything I hate, for the moment I’m buried inside her is one moment closer to having to pull out—and prepare to say goodbye to her.

“Your cunt wants me, Ella.”

“It—it does, Cassian.”

“It’s so wet. So perfect. This sweet little body, made just for me.”

“Just…for you.” Tears tinge her words, but so does the rattle and gasp of raw desire.

“And my cock has been made to fuck it. To fill it.”

“Yes, Cassian. Only you.”

“To…hurt you.”

“Yes.
Yes
.”

I dip in. Just a little. Can’t help it. The heat of her walls surrounds my head, milking the final drops of my pre-come. My balls clench, preparing the massive flood that will follow.

So soon now
…

Dear God, what she does to me…

I stave the inevitable by rolling my hips. Ella cries out, her back arching and muscles straining as I expected they would. The Creator has wired her in miraculous ways, including the sensitivity to this kind of stimulation, making it a breathtaking experience to torment her like this. Especially when I give her the words to go with it.

“Your pussy is trembling for me, Ella.”

“It—it is, Cassian.”

“Tell me why,
armeau
. All of it.”

“It—my pussy—it…wants you, Cassian.”

“Needs me?”

“Yes. Needs you.”

“To do what?”

“To fuck it. To fuck
me.
” She writhes, her body burning, coiling, tightening beneath me, around me. I’m not even all the way in and my gorgeous little conquest has become my captor—as usual. “By the
Creator
. Dammit, Cassian.
Please
…”

Though my body bellows with need and my cock registers me for the
Most Wanted
list, I shower her with a cocky grin. “I could listen to you say that a hundred more times.”

A delicious snarl bursts from her clenched teeth. “Let me up.
Please.
I need to touch you—”

“You
are
touching me.” I undulate my hips. Feed a little more of my shaft into her welcoming depths.

“Cassian! Dammit!”

“Uh-uh.” I’m not gloating about it anymore—and emphasize the point by plunging my stare into hers. “You’ll agree with me now, because you didn’t before.” I let her see it all now. The love. The need. And yeah, even the pain. Maybe that most of all. “When I found out you hadn’t gotten on the plane—that as I sat in that prison, your parents were roaming free, probably plotting to get their claws back into you—”

“But they did not.” The little sneak tests my grip, actually checking to see if my agony has weakened me. If she were thinking clearly, she’d remember I’ve built my life on being strong through my pain—of channeling it into my greatest ally. “And they
will
not
, Cassian.”

“Damn straight they won’t.” I hunch in, sealing the vow with a tongue lashing of a kiss. “Because you’re going to mind me this time, dammit. You’re going to get on that airplane, still reeling from being fucked by me. You’re going to walk up those stairs, every inch of your pussy still sore and stretched by me. Every breath you take will smell of me. Every corner of your womb will still carry my come.”

“Oh.” It’s a sparse rasp. Her face is no longer terse. Her eyes, wide and bright, are a spectrum of new color. Her lips part, shiny from being wetted by her furtive tongue. “Oh…
my
.”