Page 17 of The Beast Who Begged Me

An ugly one.

I grab the hospital gown and tear it open like paper. He’s not wearing anything underneath, and the sight of him, bare and pale in the harsh hospital light, only makes me want him more. I want to bury myself in him until there’s nothing left of me but him.

But I have to be careful. He’s nowhere near a hundred percent, no matter what he claimed to D’Amato. So I press him back to the bed when he leans up toward me. “Stay still,” I tell him. My voice is rough with a desire that’s been simmering since about two minutes after the last time I blew my load all over him. All those visitors in and out, staring at Caligula, when he belongs to me alone. He’s no zoo animal on display. He’s mine.

My vicious, venomous viper.

My good hand goes to the back of his head, fingers tangling in the bronze of his hair. I tilt his head back, lengthen the line of his throat, and press my lips to the skin there, feeling the frantic trip of his pulse against my tongue.

My other hand finds his nipple and twists it, slow and gentle, until he arches up into my touch with a gasp. I move to the other one, give it the same treatment. He’s a contrast of pale skin and flushed cheeks, his cock jutting out from a thatch of dark bronze curls. “Pretty,” I tell him. “So fucking pretty.”

He whimpers in response, a soft, needy sound that goes straight to my balls. I let his head back down to the pillow and mount the bed, kneeling over his thighs, looking down at him.

He’s right. That’s the problem. He’s right about the Clemenza townhouse, about the mansion, about all of it. And every argument he makes will be better than mine, because his beautiful, ruthless brain is brilliant when it’s working.

When it’s working.

His cock just about jumps into my palm when I reach for it, and I stroke him exactly the way he likes. Slow, with the twist at the crown, until his hips are chasing my fist and his breathing has gone high and ragged and his thighs start to tremble under me.

Then I let go.

His eyes fly open.

“I don’t think I should tire you out.” I sit back on my heels and start on my own buttons, taking my time. “Not now.”

“What?” He stares at me in confusion, eyes following the movements of my fingers.

“You heard me. You’re still weak, and you spilled once today already. You need to keep your strength.” It’s even half true.

The other half is what really counts, though. Because a foggy Caligula is a Caligula who’s not thinking straight.

It’s not fair of me, and it’s every pattern I swore I’d break, and it’s the worst of me again instead of the best. But I have to use the weapons I have available to me, just like he does.

If I keep him clouded with desire all night, then maybe he’ll wake up too scrambled to insist on walking us all into the wolf’s den. Maybe he’ll change his mind.

It’s a fucked-up move. But I’m a fucked-up man.

“You’re not serious,” he says.

“Hands flat on the bed.”

The outrage flares up in his face, and then it darkens. His pupils blow wide and his hands drift down, press flat against the sheets.

“There’s my good boy.”

“You’re an asshole,” he breathes. But his cock jumps against his belly, untouched, giving him away.

“Yeah.” I unzip, take myself out, and stroke, kneeling over him. Close enough that he can feel the heat of me. “Eyes on me.”

As if they’d be anywhere else. He watches my fist move and his hips rise off the bed, hunting for friction that isn’t coming, and the noise he makes when he finds nothing but air makes me grin.

“Dami.” His voice has gone throaty again. “Dami, please. Touch me. Please.”

He begs so easy. Please. Touch me. I’m yours. He hands himself over like it costs him nothing, pleads as sweet as sugar, but it doesn’t make him weak. It never has.

Me, I’d bite through my own tongue before begging. And look at me. Look what I’ve become.

“Please,” he says again.