Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (3 page)

Sweet
Creator
.

The

end

is—

“
Cassian
!”

And I am finished, thrumming and overflowing, trembling and screaming, rocking and bucking, unable to take anymore—until he gives it anyway, hooking his hands around my thighs, spreading my core like a succulent fruit he cannot get enough of. I moan, wordlessly begging him to stop, but he spikes me into yet another climax, ripping me from the moors of sanity until my body utterly dissolves for him—

Just before my self-control meets the same fate.

It all floods out—the heartache, the horror, the sorrow, the fear—everything I have kept stuffed down since those images from Sancti blared into my brain and tore into my heart. The schism has left cracks. Tiny prison breaks of tears have seeped their way past those barricades, though I have allowed nothing out yet. Nothing responsible for hauling me out like now, into the glare of truth, exposed and raw, naked and vulnerable, open and on fire.

The sobs are wrenching. Exhausting. Freeing. They turn me into a blubbery mess, even as Cassian slides up, unzips himself with alarming alacrity, and aligns his hips between mine. The broad crown of his erection, pushing at my swollen entrance, is already slick with his need.

“Oh…
Creator
.”

“That’s it,” he replies to my gasp. His voice soothes over me while his sex slides into me…fully dominating me. “Give it all to me,
favori
. Open it for me.”

“Cassian.” I look away. I am ashamed of the achy shiver beneath my plea, though at the same time, embrace it. In letting go of my walls, I can let in his strength. My ultimate weakness has become his perfect power—a force he returns in every long, hard, determined thrust of his body.

But soon, even he trembles. His jaw hardens, his arms clench, and his buttocks tighten. Every hard, perfect muscle in his body betrays how he holds himself back.

For me.

Yes, he is ready to pour free. But he will not, until I do. I recognize that truth in his eyes—yet so much more too. This all only begins with my physical release. He does not simply want my orgasm. He wants the surrender of my soul, the ache in my heart.

Because he wants to heal the cracks in both.

Like the miracle he is in my life.

“I love you so much.”

“Then give yourself to me.” He adds a perfect hitch of his hips at the end of each lunge, causing the tip of his cock to stroke the rare ridge of flesh deep inside, making every inch of my core shimmer in new sensation. “Show it all to me, Ella. You’re safe, my love. Let it all go,
raismette
.”

And once more, I am completely stilled—paralyzed by a dart of utter magic from his lips. The word, Arcadian for
reason
, is so much more to Arcadians. When a man uses it with a woman, especially with his body buried inside her, it is usually because he is married to her—and pledging his body to hers for all time. Right now, thousands of feet above the earth and hundreds of miles from dry land, it literally has to mean nothing.

But it means everything.

Emotions burst from me…everywhere. Trembling, sobbing, shuddering even harder and higher…

As Cassian empties himself inside me.

He hisses through the climax, baring his teeth in the moonlight. Strains his head back on a groan of primal release. Finally lunges back down, shoulders hunching, as he plunges his mouth to mine, soaking up my sobs with his passion, pulling in my sorrow to every inch of his own soul. No doubt in my mind lingers about it, as he drags up with eyes glittering like an animal with a bullet in its side. There is pain there—the kind only possible from a creature familiar with the stuff—but there is also resilience and resistance, born of a resolve to go on.
His
amazing tenacity.

The next instant, his features turn tender. He rubs a thumb across my cheek, his stare trailing after the moisture he wicks away. Presses his lips together, to send a hard gulp down his throat. “Thank you, beautiful woman.”

I cannot contain a watery laugh. “Thank
me
? For which part? The first, second, or third time you shot me to the stars.”—I nod out the window—“beyond those?”

“For taking me with you to them.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “For letting me in. For letting me see all of it. To share it with you.”

I unravel my hands from the pillow. Reach them both up to his face, exploring the regal angles of his cheekbones, the bold lines of his jaw. Finally, while brushing the sweat-damp hair from his forehead, the chance comes for my own deep gulp. My throat struggles with it, thickened by emotion. “Thank you for not giving up.” Narrowed gaze. Teasing rebuke. “Despite the unorthodox methods.”

He flashes a smirk rivalling every sultry male cologne ad in Times Square. “It worked, didn’t it?”

I drub his shoulder. “Revelation by fornication cannot always be our go-to plan.” I emphasize the point by pushing my face against his right hand—and the newly healed gashes there. “Not always the wisest choice, hmm?”

He sobers then nods. The memories are still fresh for us both, of the night his own emotional exposure became too much, right after nearly screwing my eyeballs out of their sockets. The crashing emotional walls had been his instead of mine, already tenuous because of the past—and its pain—he had revealed to me that night. Releasing himself physically had torn him apart inside, the price eventually paid by the glass door of his master bathroom shower—and the fist he drove through it because of those violent feelings.

Was that only two weeks ago? It feels like two decades now. We have been through so much. Has it been too much?

And now, we are flying straight into the heart of more conflict.

But we are doing it together. Stronger than we ever were. And bound to each other in a newer, more profound way.

The same conviction glows like fire on emeralds from the depths of Cassian’s eyes. He brushes his thumb upward, tracing the arch of my eyebrow. “I know this trip won’t be easy for you, Ella.” His voice is full of those same quiet flames. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right beside you…through all of it.”

Just like that, the tears are hotter behind my eyes. I manage to smile through them, nestling my face into his palm. “I know.”

I am capable of saying little else, unable to find any words capable of communicating so much. My gratitude for him. My love for him. My need for him now more than ever, as the miles close between us and a homeland that has, for the last two months, been an unchanging part of my core being…a constant in my soul, despite so many other things that have changed around me, within me.

Now I wonder if anything about Arcadia will be the same.

Petrified about what I shall do if that answer is
no
.

A soft but protesting sob escapes. Despite Cassian’s rock-solid solace, I give in to a moment of uncertainty…and fear. Nothing is the same—a truth I always felt myself ready for, until it applied to the constant in my world. Arcadia.
Home.

A home I will no longer recognize, based on the images from the newsfeed back in New York.

“
Pahaleur armeau
.”

My precious gift.

Cassian’s whisper, given from the depths of his massive heart and boundless spirit, is everything I need—and everything that rips me open like wire strippers, exposing the filament of my soul.

I’ll be right beside you…through all of it.

The promise settles my mind…but is a restless thing in my soul, rattling the confines of my composure all over again, as a sole question snarls back in return.

What the hell will “all of it” even mean?

*

Cassian

“A
re you fucking
kidding me?”

They’re the only five words that make sense, in response to the total
non
-sense just delivered by Laith—but the guy who’s piloted this plane for the last five years wouldn’t leave his cockpit to the care of his co-pilot without a damn good reason.

The message now stamped across every inch of his face.

“That’s exactly what they said.” Though Laith is chronologically younger than me—yeah, I looked it up once—he often presents as older, with somber gray eyes and an accent hinting at his British heritage. Right now, the frustration on his chiseled features worsens by the second. “I don’t bloody understand it, either. We submitted the flight plan before departing Teterboro; the Sancti airport knew we were coming and gave us the ten-four.”

I shut the door to the bedroom with as quiet a click as I can. A couple of hours ago, Ella finally fell asleep in my arms; I didn’t want to wake her up until it was absolutely necessary. Seems her rest may be extended—and not for a reason I like one fucking bit.

“The tower at Sancti literally told you not to land? For no good reason?”

Laith nods, catching the main cabin lights on the crewcut spikes of his blue-black hair. Nearby, Doyle sits with a forefinger stretched to his upper lip, indulging in his usual mystery.

“They simply said to turn back,” my pilot finally says. “That the landing wouldn’t be cleared.”

“Wouldn’t be cleared? What the hell does
that
mean?” I plunge into the leather seat facing Doyle’s. Peer out the window, to where the verdant luxury of Arcadia spreads below. Brilliant rain forests, lush hills, and pristine beaches are accented by towering waterfalls leading to glistening lagoons and sparkling streams. In the distance, the Tahreuse Mountain Range rises and mingles with wisps of white clouds. Over all of it, the morning sun is a wash of molten gold. It looks as storybook-perfect as the first time we were about to land here—

With the exception of the smoke plume still curling from the middle of Sancti.

The remains of the bridge that once joined the city’s two sides.

I haul in a tight breath, lungs working in an equally compressed chest. Viewing the tragedy in real life, even from this altitude, is like taking a dunk in ice water. Though I realize she’ll likely be seeing it all more closely soon, I’m glad Ella is still fast asleep.

“Damn,” I mutter.

“About says it all,” Doyle mutters.

I turn my gaze west, toward the strip of asphalt along the beach about ten miles from the island’s capital. “It doesn’t look like the airport was compromised, though.”
Airport
being a real loose term for this island’s thin landing strip, bordered by the beach on one side and a banana grove on the other.

Doyle grunts. “Doesn’t mean shit and you know it. There could be a thousand things going on that we don’t know about. If those bastards have threatened another part of the city, or the airport itself—”

“Begging pardon,”—Laith dips a deferential nod at Doyle—“but I don’t believe our…
safety
was paramount to their call.”

My body rises and my brows drop. “Laith? What the hell do you mean?”

He stares back in open confusion. “Begging pardon again, sir, but I thought
you
might know. That was the impression they gave us, at least.”

“The impression?” Doyle slides to his feet now too. “The impression of
what
?”

I hold up a hand, warning him to cut the irritated tone. Laith is, from what I can deduce, an unwitting messenger here—though of what strange message, I still don’t know.

Forcing diplomacy into my tone, I ask, “Can you shed some more light on this for us? Remember anything at all, exactly as they said it?”

“Certainly can.” Though the moment he declares it, remorse crimps his angular features. “Not a simple thing to forget when a tower uses language like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like telling us to ‘yankee doodle doo’ our ‘rich
bonsun
asses’ back to countries who like to play with terrorists.”

Doyle falls back into his chair. “Fuck. Me.”

I push past Laith to pace the length of the main cabin and back. “They’ve learned something while we were en route. Linked it back to one of our contractors, then naturally assumed Court Enterprises was behind it too.”

Doyle swivels. Thumps a fist to the bulkhead for good measure. “That’s a damn huge leap of assumption. You think they’d even
want
to talk to you first?”

Nervous energy bites through my blood, propelling me the length of the cabin again—twice as fast. “They were just attacked, D. The Grand Sancti Bridge isn’t just one of their cultural landmarks. It’s vital to the commerce of their capital city.”

“You spouting that for my benefit or yours?”

I lift a glance suitable for a confessional booth. “Both.”

Doyle’s glower abates—for two seconds. “So what’s
our
new plan?”

Laith clears his throat. “I took the liberty of radioing to Rome. They’ll clear a runway if we need one.”

Doyle’s face turns into visual thunder, reflecting my own shit storm of reaction. I vocalize the tension with a snarled, “
No
,” realizing Laith deserves my thanks, not my ire. His statement is the flashlight in the forest, illuminating the only option here. I’m not about to wake my fiancée with the news that I brought her as far as a holding pattern over Sancti Field but turned back with my tail between my fucking legs.
I’m
not the mutt who pissed on the carpet.