Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,83

the hand I work beneath her bodice, pinching hard at her stiff peaks. “Yes!”

I pull my hand back. Yank it at my fly, then pull my cock free with it. “You know what that would make me say to you, don’t you?”

“Tell me.” She pleads it as I shuttle my throbbing length past the cleft of her buttocks, notching the crown at her intimate slit.

“I’d say you were my perfect little toy, begging me to play with you—at once. I’d pull your fingers to my lips across the table, and order you to go to the ladies’ room, and prepare yourself to be played with hard.” I tease my tip at her soaked pussy, having to clench my ass to keep from ramming all the way in. “Would you know what I meant by that, Ella?”

Her whole body shakes beneath mine. Fucking…goddess. Sweet…toy. “Y-yes, Cassian. I would know what that meant.”

“Then tell me.”

“You would play with me…by fucking me.”

I thrust deeper. But not all the way. “Like this? Or…deeper?”

“Deeper. Oh…Cassian!” She rocks her hips back, fighting to get more of me. “Please!”

“Harder?”

“Yes! Harder…”

“But you don’t have the say.” I feed her more of my length, but just for a second. Withdraw until I’m circling just the head in again, taunting her tunnel with my cock and the ridge of her clit with one finger. “You’re the toy. You’re played with. You’re fucked…as I please.”

Another tremor overtakes her, all at once. I feel it overtake her, as she fights—and loses—the climax from rocking her into mindless, nearly babbling, bliss. “Yes!” she screams, before the streams of rambling Arcadian take over, mixed with tears that rock her more violently than the orgasm. “Yes, Cassian. Admak-tana, Cassian. Adsek-tana, Cassian. Désonnum. Rahmié, Cassian. Désonnum…désonnum…”

Within minutes, I am coming as she does again, pumping her full of the completion I’ve needed all day, and blasting my psyche through the turret’s roof in the doing.

But not all the way to the stratosphere.

Even though she has just rocked my fucking world again, I cannot separate the celebration my body has just had from the unnerving translation my mind has made of her words…messengered on the notes of her tears, ripping into parts of me I cannot explain away to the simple flood of her post-orgasm emotion.

I adore you, Cassian.

I love you, Cassian.

Have mercy on me, Cassian.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

The words taunt me, even throughout our pleasant dinner with Mom, Prim, and Hodge. Stab at me even while Ella and I have wine on the terrace afterward, and her stare fixes on points miles across the city, taking her attention along with it. Become full-blown concern, as her answers to my questions start to consist of one and two words—again, some even in Arcadian, and not even making sense after translation.

Lost in translation.

After the sex was done, it’s described the whole damn evening—

And prompts the question that whispers from my lips, as I tenderly twirl a strand of her hair, watching her sleep through the deepest hours of the night.

“What the hell happened to you today?”

I pray—yeah, really pray—that tomorrow, an answer will come from her that makes sense. That the only thing remaining between us tomorrow night will once again be simple shafts of moonlight.

But prayers haven’t exactly gotten me very far before.

A recognition that prompts the final oath off my lips tonight.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

THIRTEEN

*

Mishella

“Shit.”

At first, I am answered only with a loud thwop from the vicinity of the bar in the main living room of the huge suite near the top of the Marriott Marquis. As I expect, Damon closes the refrigerator and turns, bearing a large can with what looks like green neon claw marks down its front.

“Aha.” He flashes a fast version of his smug smirk. “So the lady does like a little swearing.”

I fling back a glower. “The lady hates swearing. But she hates lying to the man she loves even more, especially for ten days straight.”

And yes, I am counting every single hour, minute, and second of them. But if even half the evidence displayed in this room is right, my choice to help Damon with this happy-happy-joy-joy ruse will have been worth it. More than worth it.

I will have helped him save Cassian’s life.

Even staring at all of this—the bank transactions, financial records, travel documents, and grainy photos, connected by string on six huge billboards—makes it easier to deal with the terse text he has just sent. It is his tenth one today, and I am certain a healthy handful more

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