Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,9
that I did not know about it until the night he was shot.
How can I give him everything I am…when he has not done the same? Or even considered doing the same—until he was forced to? Outed by a sloshed ex-girlfriend who finagled her way into the gala we were attending and blurted the truth about Lily in front of a crowd of New York’s social elite…
The ugly truth.
“No, Cassian. I cannot.”
The violence in my voice punches the air—
And him.
He pushes back. Erupts with a fierce sound from deep in his chest. Slides out of me as if yanking a knife from his ribs instead.
Our breaths are still fast and fevered—as synched in our frustration as they were in our passion. Wordlessly, with my juices still coating him, he stuffs his cock away. Just as silently, sweeps a napkin from the table and dabs at me, attempting to help my own clean-up. After a few seconds, I take over the task—but do not stop watching him from beneath my lashes.
Reading him like a neon sign.
On the surface, his face is stoic and gritted—but in the shimmer of his eyes and the grit of his jaw, I see the true torment biting at him.
The anguish of recognizing the whale too.
And the acceptance that we can no longer let the damn animal suffer like this.
*
Cassian
Remorse is the old sweater in the closet of my life.
It fits entirely too well to throw away—no matter how many times I’ve attempted to throw it out, give it away, or burn it.
Now, the thing falls over my shoulders again. All too familiar. All too disgusting. No ignoring it anymore. No giving it a glossy shine or turning the dirty threads into silk with another glamorous date—because Mishella Santelle doesn’t care about the silk. She sees right through the shit, because her life has already been draped in too damn much of it.
She actually wants the filthy sweater.
She wants my honesty.
Even after everything.
After knowing I wrote a check to be with her—and that her parents didn’t blink about telling her to jump at the chance. Knowing that initially, my dick drove the decision as much as my brain did—then after arriving here, knowing that the “sweet deal” of her billionaire benefactor came with a past full of fucked-up and a lover full of lies.
All right…not lies, exactly.
Then what is it called when you take a woman thousands of miles from her home, claim her virginity a day later, then profess you’re falling in love with her a few days after that—without bothering to tell her about the woman you were once married to?
So maybe I withheld a few things for too long.
So maybe I lied.
But now it’s time to suck it up, swallow my pride—and my fear—and put on the goddamn sweater.
Starting this very second.
Only that’s impossible.
Not without dragging her on one final journey.
I should feel better about the decision. Aren’t difficult choices supposed to be easier once made?
Fucking fairy tale.
As I angle back toward her, my bones are like lead, my tendons turned to steel cables. I move with matching heaviness, lifting an awkward hand. At least I’m grateful she accepts it. Gently, I help her down from the balcony’s ledge. Greedily steal a moment to hold her tight to me again, pushing the gold curls back from her face, marveling at how the candlelight dances across her features…though she’d light up the night without the extra illumination.
So. Fucking. Beautiful.
Her lips, pursed in curiosity, are still stung by my kisses. Her gaze, wide and searching, is as pure as the heart of a flame. Even the tiny stains of mascara on her upper cheeks are breathtaking—because I know exactly how they got there. Can still practically feel each of her orgasms, fluttering around my cock…
Thoughts for another time.
A much different time.
It’s time to take care of things even more important than that.
“Cassian—”
“Ssshh.” I take her lips in a small but insistent kiss. Tug her toward the door leading back into the museum offices.
“But the food and wine—”
“Will be appreciated by someone around here, I’m sure.”
She stops. Pulls me back. A glorious flush suffuses her cheeks. “I—I did not mean to ruin the whole night.”
“Ella.” My second kiss isn’t so benign. Ruin. I’m not sure the woman even grasps the meaning of the word as a verb. “The night has hardly started—so that’s null and void as well.”
She doesn’t move. Tightens her lips. “‘Null and void’, Mr. Court?”
“Rolling our eyes, Miss Santelle?”
“And now with the royal ‘we’?”
“And