Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,52
snore cuts short. “Huh?” he mumbles, inciting my tiny giggle. The boyish sound, together with the dark gold waves tousling his forehead, make me brush a kiss across the spot I have tantalized.
“Go back to sleep, beastie.”
Though his eyes do not open, a scowl compresses his face. A growl works up his throat. “The fuck, woman? Beastie?”
I laugh again. “It is an endearment.”
“Hmmph. You mean like ‘stud muffin’ or ‘schnookums’?”
I trace a finger along the plateau of his collarbone then the perfect hill of his shoulder. “I mean like ‘beastie’—as in, you remind me of a lazing lion.” I explore the sleek lines of muscle down his arm, reveling in how they tighten slightly beneath my touch. “You are beautiful…but sort of lethal.”
His sulk changes. His eyes form assessing slits. “Sort of?”
“Well, you will not be chomping off anyone’s head in the near future.”
“And that’s good?”
The incredulity in his tone makes me slap his bicep. He snickers, still watching me from a narrowed but smoldering gaze. By the powers. In Vy’s terminology, the man is wicked hot.
“For the record, Mr. Court, that is very good.”
He slides a sensual smirk. Clearly, the painkillers are still working, and I am glad—perhaps even tempted to take advantage of his diminished guard and dig in about where he disappeared in Doyle’s truck this morning—but he still looks in need of more slumber, and that is more important than prying about what cannot be changed.
“Well, I hope all those spared skulls are grateful.” He resettles, pushing his head closer to mine on the pillow. “And in my not-so-humble opinion, should still be writing you letters.”
“Letters?” I retort. “What on Earth for?”
“Thank-you notes.” The sheets rustle as he slides his lower body closer, hooking an ankle around one of mine. “They owe you. For taming the lion.”
I teasingly purse my lips. “That was the lion’s choice, not mine.”
“Bullshit.” He growls low, nudging my nose with his. “The lion knows who holds his balls in her hand.”
“Your balls are nowhere near my hand.”
“That can be rectified.”
Another laugh spills free. “Now I think the lion’s painkillers are talking.”
His leg yanks on mine. Aligns our bodies even tighter, slotting the bulge between his thighs into the cushion between mine. I shudder through a gasp. He savors it with a stare as mysterious as rainforest depths, capturing his lower lip beneath his teeth. So hot. “I’m not completely numb, favori.”
“Oh…my,” I whisper. “Well, clearly…ahhhh!” The cry bursts out as his fingers slip in, grazing one of my nipples through my bra.
“What are you still doing in this?” He slides that touch down, pushing at the waistline of my panties. “And these?”
By the Creator’s angels. His caresses make me feel like crystal artwork, a treasure adored. My lungs hitch. My blood trembles in every inch of my veins. “The lion tamer has to have a costume.”
His throat rumbles roughly as he slides even lower, palming my backside. “Well, this sure as hell isn’t the one for public consumption.”
I fight not to rub up against him. “For the lion’s eyes only.”
“Fucking right.”
I swallow hard. Force rational thought to return. “But as long as we have broached upon that subject…”
“Of your costume?” He swirls enticing circles across both my cheeks. “Or my eyes only on it? Or my fingers underneath it?”
“Of what I am wearing on top of it.”
“Huh?”
“T-tomorrow m-morning.” I forgive myself the stammering. Right now, with him stroking up the valley between my buttocks, it is a miracle I can think, let alone speak. “For the interview. With—with Chantal Dunne.”
His hand stops. His nose flares, Blows out a lengthy snort. “Even painkillers won’t make me amenable to the subject of her right now, armeau.”
I scoot my head back a little. Look up at him through my lashes—on purpose. “But you agreed to sit down with her, in front of the cameras, for me.” My hand lifts to thread adoring fingers through his hair. The stuff is so thick, it is still damp next to his scalp. “I am…beyond grateful, Cassian.”
He dips his forehead against mine. “For the light in those eyes, I’d give Chantal Dunne an interview on Mars.”
“The TGN studios are much closer,” I deadpan.
“Thank fuck, because my navy Tom Ford is going to be a sauna tomorrow.”
Puzzled frown. “So why are you wearing it?”
“Because it goes best with my cobalt tie, and that goes best with the dress you picked out.” He flashes a cockier version of the lip-tug grin. “Yeah, I spied on you picking it out in