Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,1
me, little girl.
We have dealt with the dearth. We have had to. Compensated in ways our relationship definitely needed. We have been on real, honest-to-Creator dates. Have seen some movies (he likes Tim Burton and Peter Jackson), flown out on some day trips (I have decorated his refrigerator with tacky tourist magnets from Niagara Falls, the Hudson Valley, and the White House), and even gone bowling and sailing (a thousand gutter balls and a sunburn of my own later, I am in love with both). I have learned about his love for omelets and bacon and good Scotch. He has learned I prefer milk chocolate over dark—and now, thanks to him, cannot get enough of New York street tacos and red velvet cupcakes from Billy’s Bakery.
By all the rules of a “good” relationship, we have done very well.
Good.
It is a category. A definition.
For a relationship that has none.
Moments like this are simply the silent, screaming proof of it. Where even désonnum does not belong. As our stares weave tighter and tighter, a tapestry unfurls, brighter and brighter—and I suddenly see every thread of his thoughts and every color of his soul as if they are my own.
We smile.
He lowers his hand. Scoops mine into it.
“The director was just saying that much of the stained glass in the museum wasn’t acquired until the nineteen seventies,” Cassian explains. “But that now, it’s a crucial part of the Cloisters’ collections.”
“Oh.” I blink, focusing on the large glass pieces. “Hmm. Very interesting.” Lying on top of lusting now—in the glow from large glass panels where every figure has wings, a halo, or both.
Yes. Hell-bound.
The man to whom Cassian is referring, a handsome fellow with the beginnings of gray around his angular face, warms then preens. The “Cassian Court Effect” has claimed another victim. I have yet to meet anyone in this city, from car valets to waitresses to heads of huge corporations, who is immune to it—the largest casualty, of course, being the girl in the mirror. It is a sentence I fully accept—though at first, it was like turning my skin inside out. After twenty-three years of learning to see only the scheming side of humanity, it has been strange—and amazing—to shift my lens, seeing things through Cassian’s focus. He stuns me, this man with the shadows in his eyes and the ghosts from his past, who can still rouse so much of the light in others. Or perhaps that is the drive behind his laser focus on it—that seeing the Eden in others helps banish the Hell in him.
In that case, maybe I am glad that is my destination too.
“What an honor and privilege it has been to escort you through the museum this afternoon, Mr. Court.” The director still glows as we make our way out of the little stone room, into a pair of galleries lined with elaborate medieval tapestries. “Rarely do we get a chance to see our benefactors outside of the fundraising special events, which are usually such cluster f—”
As the man colors, Cassian smirks. “It’s all right, Blythe. You’re among friends.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “Fly that cluster fuck flag with pride.”
The man chuckles—and clearly enrolls himself as a new member of the Cassian Court Fan Club. As its president, I join him in worshipping the man with my upturned smile—though the next moment, it is impossible to even remember Blythe’s presence. As soon as Cassian dips his head to return my gaze, electricity arcs and zaps and binds us, even stronger than before…heat rocketing into desire, then desire coiling into lust, as the world spins far away and we breathe hard together, barely recalling we are in public and cannot simply shred each other’s clothes away…
“Shall we continue out to the garden?”
Cassian blinks. His jaw compresses before his head jerks up, a forced smile on his strong, sensual lips. Hell overtakes me prematurely, simply having to stare at those lips instead of pulling them to mine…then to other places…
“Of course,” he tells Blythe, shooting me an apologetic glance while slipping his grip from my waist to my hand. It is certain and commanding, his thumb caressing my knuckles as we follow the director out to the little square courtyard, with its lush plants, manicured lawns and stone fountain surrounded on all four sides by arched walkways. The echo of our steps on the stones seems a perfect—and agonizing—echo of the desire pinging through our bodies.
By all the powers.
When we make it through the