Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (24 page)

Thank you, Creator on High. Thank you for him, and all that he is. For all the good he chooses to see in me, and—

“Holy.
Shit
.” I am fairly certain the Creator will forgive the interruption. If not, the complaint will need to be lodged personally with Cassian, for I am certainly not handling the task. I am not even capable of
beginning
it—not with the clog of sheer shock in my throat, and the diamonds dazzling my vision.

As in,
diamonds.

The cuff bracelet is formed of eight perfect rows of them, like stars captured and linked together. The effect is nothing short of eye-popping, a term I can absolutely assign to myself as Cassian pulls the piece all the way out of his jacket pocket. My breath shudders in and out as he pulls my wrist forward then slips it on. It presses against my skin, almost a living thing in its decadent, extravagant knowingness.
You have never known anything like me. You are wet just from the feel of me
.

“Cassian. By the
Creator
.”

He lifts my arm. The diamonds catch the light, spraying crystalline specks around the room. “Doesn’t compare to the woman wearing it—but now everyone watching this thing is going to know who she belongs to.”

I refrain from pointing out the obvious—that the adoration in his eyes is enough for me and obvious to everyone else—choosing instead to indulge a moment of silly, girlish glee. “It is…”

“Dazzling,” he murmurs. “Like you.” His hand continues up my arm, trailing over the thin edge of black lace defining the cap sleeve of my dress. “And styled in an infinite circle…like my love.”

Well, that seals it. I have certainly cashed out the karma punch card from the last
five
lives—as well as the five to follow.

The private sarcasm does nothing to help the emotions welling up around it, then punching through it. My head falls, dragged by the incredible weight of them, and I blink against the mist that turns the edges of my vision soggy. The jewels are dimmed because of it too—but the bracelet, for all its glory, could be a chain of daisies and gum wrappers for all I care.

The real treasure he has given me are his words. His honesty.

His willingness to try.

And if he is willing to try…

maybe I can too.

“Cassian…” It is just a rasp, but in the inches between our bowed heads, it is enough.

He lifts his head a fraction of a second before me. His gaze is bright, expectant. “Yeah?”

I lift a hand. Press it to the side of his face. Curl a watery smile as the light fractures once more off the bracelet, raining prisms over the hills of his lips, the nobility of his nose, the high plane of his forehead.

I am going to try for him.

I am going to stay for him.

And I am going to plunge through the fire of my fear and trepidation now—and tell him exactly that.

“Mr. Court!”

For a moment, I am sure the production assistant has kicked the door down. When the portal still swings on its hinges, switch to wondering where the fire must be—before she beams a grin as perky as her ponytail, and spreads one hand up.

“What?” Cassian stands so swiftly, it is clear he wants to bite off something more than the word.

“Five minutes,” the girl replies, cheerfully oblivious. “Are you ready?”

“Of course.” When the girl continues hovering, he adds a new snarl. “We’ll be right there.”

“Errrmm.” She lowers the hand. Taps it nervously on her radio pack. “I’m supposed to bring you back to set
with
me…”

“Cassian.” I stand and tug at his elbow. “It can wait.”

“No,”—a snap of movement, pulling me away then blocking out the PA with his back—“it can’t.”

“But Chantal—”

“Can fill if she has to.”

“And
that
is getting on her good side?”

“I’m already on her good side by agreeing to this in the first place.” He presses closer, looping hands at both my elbows but wrapping my whole body with the force of his urgent attention. “
Armeau.
Let’s finish this. Please.”

I am helpless in his thrall. While my body responds to his pull from head to toe, my heart is captivated by his dog-with-a-bone need. “
Finish
it?” I cannot siphon the tease from my lips or my tone. “But we are only getting started.”

The dog regresses into a puppy—bursting its way into his broad grin and his hard, thorough kiss. “Damn right we are.”

As he scoops up my hand and leads the way to the studio, my heart leaps, ebullient and dazzled—and resolved to simply enjoy the moment before picking through the details of the future. For right now, the dangerous lion and the eager puppy are playing nicely—

And for right now, that is enough.

*

Cassian

Okay…I’ve had
enough
.

The impatience usually itches at me between the five and six-minute mark during on-camera interviews—but today, it’s taken only half that time. Doesn’t come as one speck of a shock, despite the fact that I’m actually enjoying myself.

No. “Enjoyment” isn’t right.

I “enjoy” things like staff meetings, phone calls from Mom, and lurking at classic car shows with Hodge and Scott. Hell; I’ve even “enjoyed” a few interviews in the past—a
very
few—with those rare reporters who’ve seen me as more than a ratings spike or an inroad to a new scandal.

This is…something wholly different. A satisfaction I’ve never experienced before…bound to a matching rush of restlessness. The inexplicable wonder of watching my sorceress win a new convert to her fandom—while fighting my very definable urges for her.

Definable—to the point of pain.

Don’t talk to the cock.
Don’t
talk to the cock.

Right. Because ignoring the big guy on the playground is going to make him go away? Forgetting he’s counting the goddamn minutes until you have Ella against your bedroom door again, dressed in nothing but that bracelet and her desire? Who the hell says you’ll even make it back to Temptation? Why not order Scott to take the long way home—say, via Canada—and fuck her into three orgasms before you hit the border?

Yessss. Perfect
…

Laughter stabs—and shatters—my fantasy. For the first time in my life, I’m actually grateful that Chantal Dunne giggles like a constipated parakeet. The outburst has saved my hard-on from being screenshotted across the world—at least for now.

The woman leans over and gazes as if Ella has just relayed a viable action plan for world peace. “So he really just slipped on the bathroom tile…and tumbled that hard into the shower door?”

Mishella dips her head, countering with a little laugh of her own. The actions seem authentic because they
are.
Not a word of what she’s said to Chantal in the last five minutes is a lie; she’s simply guided the reporter toward specific facts, letting her reach distinct conclusions—painting me mostly as a sex-obsessed Neanderthal.

Leading back to the whole I’m-enjoying-this-but-not-really thing.

Surprise fucking surprise. When it comes to Mishella Santelle, I
am
a sex-obsessed Neanderthal.

“Well…” She only enforces the point by tucking her lip under her teeth, funneling my attention back on her—more specifically, on that plush mouth of hers—in deliriously uncomfortable ways. “You know what they say about the power of forward momentum…”

“Oh, gawd!” The woman’s screech tears the air again. “Well, I certainly
do
!”

Ella bats her eyes and pretends to hide a blush. It’s a textbook just-between-us-girls move, and she pulls it off so gorgeously, half the guys in the studio clearly consider changing genders. “Well, just imagine that kind of…
thrust
…if thrown off-balance by certain…occurrences…”

“Oh,
no
!”

“Oh, yes.” Ella meshes her laughter with Chantal’s, though angles back toward me. She lays a protective hand over the bandages she helped me change this morning, adding a playful but gentle glance—sealing the deal on her subtle mastery of Chantal’s narrative.
Those are all the details you get, missie. Now let my man and me have a little moment.

To make the point clear, she coaxes my face down for a tender kiss—making sure to use the arm with her new bracelet on it.
Adorable minx.
I let my stare linger, imagining there’s a matching cuff on the other arm and I’m about to hook them to an eyebolt—in the headboard of my bed.

Dear fuck.

I’m not a goddamned prude, by any stretch of the imagination—but balancing hard work with hard play has always been about exchanging pleasure with a woman, nothing more.
Absolutely
nothing more.

But
this
woman makes me want…

crave
…

more.

Much more.

Her.

Belonging to me.

Controlled by me.

Needing me.

Begging me…

And, yeah. I’m actually thinking all this on national TV.

So maybe it’s good that constipated parakeets exist—and have struck up a secret licensing deal with Chantal Dunne.

Three seconds more, and this moment would have been one for a million screen capture keys across the internet. The reporter saves me again, tossing her head back on the laughter while re-centering herself in the hostess chair that’s been custom-designed for her coloring, arm span, and leg extension. But as she braces elbows to both armrests and prepares to pivot off the juicy angle Ella’s just gifted to her, my guard remains up. Way up. Chantal Dunne wants her Tweet-able, meme-able, screen capture-able moment. If it’s not going to be the bulge in my crotch, she’ll get it another way.

“Well, haven’t you two little love bugs given us quite the juicy visuals this morning?”

Love bugs
?

Ella slides her hand down from my face in order to rest it beneath her own chin, managing innocent and impish in the same sweep of a pose. A matching gleam forms in her eyes, reminding me of fairies—but not the cute twinkly kind. “Why Miss Dunne, you already
had
the juice after paying off half of New York to chronicle our first ten dates—including shots of this beautiful man in black tie, yachting whites,
and
Pikachu yellow.” The evidence of her claim comes to life on the live feed monitors, with all the sneak photos of us once more worked into the broadcast, including the shot of me playing tourist in Times Square next to a Pokémon nearly as tall as me. Sure enough, jammed onto my head is a garish yellow cap with ears that match his. “What we have given you today, Chantal,”—and suddenly, my fae sprite is the one angling across the coffee table, gorgeous body poised and huge stare intent—“is a full, delicious smoothie. Size.
Large
.”

Nope.
Not
Tinkerbell.

As the same realization wallops Chantal, freezing her posture and stiffening her smile, I borrow some boardroom techniques to refrain from a gloating grin. The fist bump’s a tougher conceal, but the internet—and this show’s massive viewer following—don’t need to be focused on either. Ella and I are here to be bigger than that game. To
beat
the damn game. To showcase the desperation behind their innuendo, from the overtime on the paparazzi lenses to the “secret sources” in the hospital itself, betraying snippets of our lives that have added up to the giant zilch of their “truth.”

But Chantal is nowhere near ready to cry no joy.

And shows us so, transforming her fawn in the headlights into a flying reindeer, tossing back her head on a laugh that’s likely been rehearsed a thousand times in order to convey the perfect mix of “surprised humor” and “breezy confidence.”

“Ohhh Mishella. You are
adorable
. Picking up
all
the fun of the language already, hmmm?”

I’ve started yanking Ella back to my side, giving me the perfect angle for flashing a private but specific look over to Chantal. Fuck it, I glare. Hard.
Careful where you tread, dragon. You haven’t begun to see
my
teeth and fire.

For the edge of a second, the corners of the woman’s eyes flinch. Target achieved. The rest of the world doesn’t see it, but I don’t care about them. I only care that ginger-glam girl knows exactly where her claws can and cannot go, especially as she re-crosses her legs and addresses the main camera with practiced precision.

“Don’t go far, everyone. We’ll be right back with more of your favorite prince in pinstripes, Cassian Court, as well as his fascinating new paramour from exotic Arcadia, who promises to teach us all a little more about her special smoothies. Straws up, kids!”

As soon as the red light dies and someone shouts that the set is clear for a commercial break, the place erupts like an awakened beehive. An assistant checks the water glasses in front of us (still full), while another scurries to check on the tofu recipe specialist who’ll be on after us (still ready). Three more hover around Chantal, primping hair and makeup that are already flawless. When one of the stylists approaches Ella, he’s batted away like a giant bug. Once more, I hold back from saluting my woman with a fist bump.

My woman.

The certainty of it has never burned more deeply in my psyche than now, just as I’ve never been prouder to have her on my arm. While the manner in which our truth was dished to the world is still just a half-step away from a sex tape—undoubtedly, there are already a dozen Pikachu caps waiting on my desk as gag gifts—I’m damn glad we’ve been brought to the table, and compelled to recognize the new truths about our “contract.” Glad? Yeah, slight misnomer—as would be the horror from anyone on my legal team, if they ever learned where I’d really stood when approaching Ella about “new terms” last night.