Page 18 of The Beast Who Begged Me

“No.”

He shudders.

“You think D’Amato and his fucking army could take better care of you than me?” I’m jacking myself harder now, and his eyes are tracking every stroke. “Nobody takes care of you like me. Not them. Not even you. Hey—those hands stay flat.”

“They’re flat,” he gasps. “They’re flat, Dami, please⁠—”

“I want your ass so fucking bad,” I tell him, and he bucks under me at the words. “I want to bend you over and split you wide open, fill you up until you can taste it. But instead I’m gonna cover you with my cum and you’re gonna sleep in it. Marked. Mine. And maybe that’ll keep the fucking hyenas off you.”

“Yours,” he gasps, “I’m yours,” and that’s what finishes me.

“Mine.” The word comes out of me cracked straight down the middle, and then I’m spilling over him, thick stripes across his stomach, his chest, one catching his collarbone. Marking him.

Mine, mine, mine.

I stay braced over him while the post-orgasm tremors run through me. He’s still hard. Still flushed. Still desperate. And I’m going to leave him there, a mess.

Because I’m a mess, too. All kinds.

I climb off him, find the tissues on the side table, and spread my seed all over him, gentle as a nurse, wiping over his stomach with soft, slow passes, painting his hard nipples with it, putting my hands everywhere except where he’s aching for it.

He grips the sheets and takes it. By the time I’m done, he’s shaking, gleaming-eyed. Gorgeous. I pull the blanket up over him and kiss his forehead.

“You hungry?”

“Not for food,” he says with meaning.

“You better rest,” I tell him. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Mm.” He watches me tuck myself away and do up my buttons. And then, conversational, like his cock isn’t still tenting the blanket: “I know you’re hoping I’ll call off the move, Dami. You think if you keep me dumbed down, you’ll win.” He settles deeper into the pillow, and his eyes are still dark with need when he looks at me. “It won’t work.”

I abandon the plan and decide to just have it out. “It’s a bad idea to⁠—”

“Now, for the record,” he goes on, “I liked it. I’ll be thinking about it all night, which I know was also the point. But since you’ve decided to play unfair…” He shifts up onto his elbows, and fixes me with those golden eyes. “When we get to the mansion, we’re not going to be quiet. We’re going to be loud enough that the D’Amatos regret their offer within the week.”

“Caligula—”

“And Dami.” Serious as a bullet now, every trace of laughter gone. “You’re going to make me shoot harder than you ever have, to make up for this.”

A laugh punches out of me, half sheepish, half something hotter, and I scrub a hand over my face. “Yeah. Okay. It’s a deal.”

But even while I’m smiling, something still rubs me the wrong way. Because tomorrow a Morelli car will take everything I value in this world into a house where two Dons already died.

Their car to their castle, with security provided by the Morelli men.

My golden boy needs protection, and he can’t count on me. So I make myself a promise, right then: this move will be as temporary as I can make it. I’ll put a new roof over this man who belongs to me. Over all of them. A kitchen for Rosa. A garage for Vito. Hell, an art room for Sammy so he can stop living like a fucking hoarder with all that junk in his bedroom.

And walls nobody can burn.

As soon as humanly possible.

Caligula’s fingers catch mine and dig in. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “I still plan to avenge Nonno Lou. I do not forgive my enemies. Living with them will be an excellent way to learn where they’re weak.”

A cold kind of pride slithers through me. That’s my Caligula Clemenza, my golden snake. No matter what, he still has those fangs, that mind.

And they’re sharper than ever.

CHAPTER 8