Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,30
dry, turning the words into a pair of bricks that would be ideal window destroyers. Ideal analogies for the Daily Double, anyone? Showing her the shattered glass in the turret was tonight’s easy part—and I can only make this next part happen because of her. With her.
Instead of searching for the words to accommodate it, I put action to it. Pump more violently into her, until her body rides the wood at her back like a rag doll. Dear fuck. So beautiful.
She lets out a sharp yelp. Clamps her legs higher around my waist, angling me deeper inside her. I groan and intensify the pace. The door audibly rattles. We’ll both be bruised tomorrow, and I gloat in the knowledge…welcome the pain. It’s nothing compared to the different version of the shit about to hit me from inside.
“Cassian.”
Sweet, fucking hell. She’s still using that voice, turning my name into something between a prayer and a poem. I’ve never adored her more. I’ve never hated her more. I’m about to break, and it’s all her fault.
“Goddammit.” I trap her tighter. Drive in deeper. Not deep enough.
“Oh…Cassian.”
“Not…yet.” I dictate it in a growl, even as I fight the force of the storm. Sweat cascades down my spine, between my ass cheeks. My balls pull in, kissing that delicate space of her body above the entrance where my finger plunges. Her neck is slick against my forehead. My flesh fills her body but she surrounds my soul, making it safe to let the tempest roil closer. To let the wave crash in…
“Cassian.”
“Not yet!”
Please…fucking God…not yet.
“Cassian! By the Creator, I am going to—”
A scream is her punctuation, as her walls crash over my cock in spasms of completion. My balls declare mutiny over my spirit, punching lightning up my cock. I detonate so hard and fast inside her, my own bellow is delayed by long, speechless seconds. But once my groan hits, it lasts forever—or so I pray and pray and pray, knowing that once it is done, my defenses will be annihilated.
And they are.
I pull out in a harsh yank. Manage to get her safely on her feet, though I am unsure of attesting the same for myself. My limbs are liquid, my strength drained—
And that’s just the fucking start.
The physical liability is just the crack in the dam—through which my grief has every excuse and reason to flow.
Driving me to run. To escape, locking myself in the bathroom.
Only it’s no escape at all.
In here, naked and cold and by myself, the anguish has even more room to spread—to attack.
Driving me to battle back, roaring in sorrow—
Mindlessly violent.
SIX
*
Mishella
The last time I paced a hospital hallway floor, it was in dress heels.
Doing it in flats does not make the ordeal less nauseating.
The tension on Doyle Knight’s face tells me he agrees. All right, there is always tension on Doyle’s face, but this is strain of a different ilk, the kind only possible when a man is brother-close to another. Doyle’s history with Cassian is still mostly a mystery, but I have glimpsed enough to know that tonight’s outcome shocks him as thoroughly as it has me.
I steal glances at the man. If Cassian is a golden sorcerer, Doyle could be his comrade in darker shades of allure, with those bronze tiger eyes, cascading umber hair, and vigilant demeanor—that does not betray a shred of his inner thoughts. Maddening. Where I can all but complete sentences for Cassian, all I can read in Doyle is rigid stress, polished off with anger.
But at what? Or whom?
My stomach clenches from contemplating the answer.
Before my mind resonates with one of Vylet’s favorite expressions.
Suck it up, buttercup.
A smile edges my lips. Even from thousands of miles away, my best friend knows when I need her corny motivations the most.
“Doyle.” I turn, shoulders back and arms set, before the resolve leaves me. Buttercup is doing well so far. “If you must say something to me, just say it.”
The man unfurls his long legs from the chair in the corner. Drops the issue of Cardiology Today he has been pretending to read. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You’re right.” Steps over, hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans—until he comes close enough to scoop up both of mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t get this out sooner, Mishella.”
Forget the nausea. Pure pain stabs everything south of my ribs. “Get wh-what out?”
“Thank you.”
Head snap. “Thank me?”
“Yeah.”
“You—you are not—mad at me?”
He mirrors my gape. Well, the Doyle version of it, which equates to one