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

enlivening those areas so exposed yet so erotic, making us breathe together—me out, her in, then reversed—until she shudders harder than the motes in the rays around us.
    “Mishella.”
    Her eyes drag open. Just a little. “Hmmm?” Then pop wide, as I drop both hands around her ass. Wider as I jerk her body tighter against mine.
    “You’re not going to fuck me in New York.”
    “I—” For a moment, before she attempts to hide it, she looks dejected. “I’m not?”
    “ I’m going to fuck you. ”
    She swallows. “Oh.” Pulls in trembling air. “Um… oh. ”
    I roll my hips, making sure the layers of our clothes don’t cushion the erect enforcer of my meaning. Complete backfire. My dick rails it at me, screaming to be set free in the hot, soft valley between her lush thighs. Somehow, I’m still able to get words out. Hoarsely.
    “You know what else?”
    “Wh-what else, Cassian?”
    “You’re going to beg me for it.”
    Bigger gape. So goddamn captivating. I could get lost in every facet of her huge sapphire eyes. “I’m— oh .”
    Her helpless rasp warms my neck. The heat from it reverberates, echoing along my muscles and tendons, my blood vessels and skin cells, an assault of demand to give her a preview of exactly what I’m talking about. But another element shimmers in her breath…and now in the gaze she lifts at me.
    She’s still afraid.
    And I refuse to push her…until she’s afraid of only the good things.
    With gritted effort, I loosen my hold and step away. My hand finds one of hers. I lead her over to the wingback Doyle was moping from. She looks much better in the thing, the golden tumble of her hair contrasted by the dark leather. Her posture is pristine, though her gaze doesn’t miss an inch of my actions. Christ, she’s beautiful. My misplaced Cinderella, complete with the princess pink PJs.
    “All right,” I state, hunkering before her. “Perhaps we should step back.”
    Her stare clouds. “But you just made me sit.”
    I quell a chuckle through supreme effort. Lift an indulgent smile— not an effort at all. “Just an American expression, favori .”
    The Arcadian endearment is clearly a surprise—but her small smile confirms it’s a pleasant one. “What does it mean?”
    “That we should look at this with the body parts above our necks.”
    She flushes. “A wise idea.” Nods. “And a good term. I shall have to journal it.”
    More of my chest warms. Her journals—one of the first things that fascinated me about her, after recovering from the blow of her beauty—are so much a part of her, it’s strange seeing her without one. She keeps them about everything, as if afraid facts will slip into nothingness if she doesn’t harness them on paper.
    Or maybe they’re tangible proof that she controls something in her world.
    I tuck away the observation—and my anger from it—to the Deal With This Later file. Just like the surges I battled during dinner last night, when once more she was spoken to like a dog to be curbed, the emotion has no place or use here. Instead I focus on the gentle trust in her grip, while softly prompting, “You remember the most important point, don’t you?”
    She nods like a child pulling up multiplication tables. “There are three signature lines on the new contract. Yours, Father’s, and mine. The contract is not valid without my agreement.”
    “Which means what?”
    “Which means the ultimate choice about this is mine.”
    “Good.”
    My voice is serrated and I don’t hide it. God help me, even her earnestness is a turn-on. I’m a bastard for fantasizing about what it could be when used for carnal purposes, but my guilt is balanced by conviction. She’s the pure air my life has needed for so long. The fresh start I didn’t even know I craved, until two days ago.
    “What else?” I manage to continue. She fidgets a little. Then more. How the hell has a woman with such light been forced to hide it so thoroughly? “Ella, it’s