Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) by Angel Payne

striations of his back and spine and shoulders, before dipping again beneath his pants, clutching him by those perfect, muscled spheres…
    Dear, sweet Creator.
    And he calls me the sorceress? There is magic in his backside. It absorbs my attention to the exclusion of all else, especially as its taut muscles contract then expand beneath my touch…
    I need him .
    “I need this.”
    Only one other trio of words have meant more from his sinfully curved lips. These three make mine smile as much, though not for long. In seconds, I am forming a wide O of new lust, as he twists at the drawstring of my black cotton capris hard enough to tear its mooring wider. Then again and again and again, until the front of the garment is not there anymore—and my naked flesh is instead exposed in the gap.
    I gasp heavily.
    Cassian snarls, heavier. Someone likes that I obeyed intuition and interpreted his order for “something more comfortable” to mean the exclusion of panties.
    As the snarl sharpens to a grunt, he dips his hand in. Fully palms my mons.
    “I need this.” The repetition is definitely not like its predecessor. He wields it now as conqueror, not requestor. “I need this, Ella. Here. Now. Like this.”
    Liquid, delirious nod. I hope he does not demand something more verbal. I am usually eager for the “conversation,” reveling in what his filthy words do to every inch of my body, but right now, that ravaging wolf’s growl has me soaking the finger he pumps up into my intimate tunnel. The reason is clear. Though the bed is steps away, he wants to continue suspending time: to fuck me against the wall like a warrior of old, being welcomed home by his willing concubine.
    Will the concubine in the room please moan in approval?
    All too easily, the sound tumbles from me. Cassian responds by ramming his finger in deeper—before joining another to it. I cry out now, needy and mindless. By the Creator , the angels surely dipped the man’s fingers in an extra pool of magic. The things he does to me with them. The dark, perfect desires they elicit…
    “I love your little cries, woman,” he utters into my hair. “But none of them have contained a proper yes .”
    My throat twists on a frustrated sound. He cannot expect more. Not right now. Not with all the quivering, amazing sensations he keeps spreading through my body…the stars in my skin, the fire in my breaths, the lighting in my womb…the thunder in my thoughts. I can barely think, let alone speak.
    “ Ella .”
    “Yes.” I finally force it out. “Yes, dammit. I need you like this too.”
    His mouth finds mine again. The rolling movement makes me open, expecting a tender expression of his thanks, but that is when he reminds me of one key fact.
    Warriors do not care about etiquette.
    The thought crashes in as his lips do. He plunges brutally, takes thoroughly—claims every doubt from my mind about what his soul needs, as well as his body. A return to control. A renewal of power. A reaffirmation of life. A rededication to the magic we have together. The power we make together.
    “Oh.” The revelation strikes in a rush, rushing the word up from my heart despite the fuzz in my head. “Oh…Cassian.” I re-anchor my hands to the sculpted mounds of his shoulders. The motion is more than just physical. I need him to see—to know —that now more than ever, he is my strength. My inspiration. My beacon, illuminating the path out of the cynicism and distrust with which I have lived so long. In helping him heal, I am finding a new way to live. To love.
    “Yes.”
    The new whisper is not just for him. It is an affirmation to the truth in my heart. “Yes…please…”
    “Ella.” His rasp vibrates through him. He has heard the change in my voice. Understands it.
    “Take me.” I stab his biceps with my nails. “And let me take you too.”
    He re-latches his hold to my buttocks. Secures me higher against the wall, pinning me in place…preparing me to receive the full