Page 20 of The Beast

Chapter Seven

I should pull away. I should run.

But I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except feel his hand on my skin, his breath on my neck, his presence surrounding me like a cage.

“You still want me, too.” It’s not a question. His other hand comes up, turning me to face him. “I can see it. Feel it. Your body remembers, even if you want to pretend it doesn’t.”

“I’m not pretending anything.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I never stopped wanting you. Not even tonight,” I admit. “Not even with all the horrible things you’ve said.”

“I think it’s time to remind you,” he says, his voice like a low growl in my ear.

“Of what?”

His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Of what you threw away,” he says, then yanks me to him, his mouth closing hard over mine.

It’s nothing like the kisses we used to share—wild, yes, but full of hope and love. This kiss is punishment. Possession. Five years of fury distilled into the press of his lips against mine, hot and demanding.

I should push him away. Should run. He thinks I tried to murder him. He’s spent years planning my destruction. This is manipulation, not desire. This is revenge, not love.

I know all of that. But god help me, I kiss him back.

Because underneath the rage and the scars and the coldness, it’s still Gabe. Still the man who saw me when no one else did. The man who gave me a name that was just for us, who painted me like I was something precious, who made me believe I could be more than my father’s little wind-up toy to torture and manipulate.

Who somehow—someway—will come to realize what he surely knows deep inside—that I would never, ever hurt him.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He responds by backing me into the sofa, then lifting me onto it, his body covering mine before I can draw breath.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is ragged against my throat, his mouth trailing fire along my skin. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

I can’t. The words won’t come. Because despite everything—despite the accusations and the hatred and the long years of grief—my body remembers his. Craves his. Comes alive under his touch in ways it never has for anyone else.

“I want it,” I say, then look up to see a spark of something in his eyes. Surprise, yes. But also respect.

One hand slips up under my tank top to tease my nipple while he slides the other down, his fingers sliding into my yoga pants to find my clit. Electricity sizzles through me, and I arch up, gasping.

“That’s it,” he says, tugging my pants off, while I do the same with my top.

He’s already shed his suit coat, and I fumble with the buttons of his shirt as his eyes travel over my bare chest with a hunger that makes my cunt throb.

“Still so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I used to dream about this, you know. When I was recovering. When the pain was so bad, I thought I’d lose my mind. I’d close my eyes and imagine you. Imagine this. Imagine my cock inside you. My mouth on yours.

“Gabriel—” His name is a moan of pure need.

“And then I’d remember what you did.” His hand closes hard over my breast, his fingers so tight on my nipple that I suck in air, wincing. “That’s when the wanting would turn to hatred. And the hatred would turn back to wanting. Around and around, for five fucking years.”

I stiffen, because for the first time ever, I’m truly afraid of this man.

His hand slips lower, his fingers teasing my core, and I have to fight to hang on to some semblance of rational thought.

I tell myself he won’t hurt me—except I don’t believe it. He thinks I tried to murder him. The man I have loved for years actually believes I had something to do with the horror in Aspen. I need to remember that.

Then all rational thought evaporates as he thrusts deep inside me.

“Already so wet,” he murmurs. “Does this turn you on? Knowing I hate you. Knowing I want you? Does it make you feel powerful?”

I try not to, but I actually whimper. “Please.”

“Please, what? Please stop? Or please make you come?”