Page 26 of The Beast Who Begged Me

He keens, a high, thin sound of pure need, as I slam into him again and again. He’s rocking back against me now, meeting my thrusts, taking everything I’m giving him and asking for more.

The carpet started out soft but now it feels like concrete under my working knees, and the muscles in my thighs are burning. But I don’t care. All I can focus on is the heat of him, the sounds he’s making, the way he’s coming apart under me.

Luca D’Amato himself could walk in right now and I wouldn’t spare him a single glance.

And Caligula is close. I feel it in the way his whole body is tensing, in the way he’s clamping down on my dick, hard enough to hurt.

I have my hand sunk into his sweat-soaked bronze hair, pushing his head down while he hikes his hips up, and he’s making the most delicious sounds I’ve ever heard. “Come on, let it out.”

And then he’s shaking, a full-body tremor that starts low in his back and works its way up to the tips of his fingers. He lets out a strangled cry as he spills all over my hand, hot and thick and sticky. His whole body goes limp, and he collapses to the floor.

But I keep rutting into him, chasing my own release.

He’s so sensitive now, twitching and moaning every time I slam into him. It’s too much, but he can’t get away. He’s pinned under me, trapped, used. He’s begging, a stream of please, please, please.

He begs so easy, my golden boy. Flat on his belly on his grandfather’s grave, begging for me to hurry up and finish.

I burrow deep and flood him. The last of my strength leaves me and I fall over him, my face buried in his damp neck.

We lie there breathing, the only sounds in the room our gasps for air. My cock is still inside him, softening now, but he doesn’t seem inclined to wriggle free of it. I press a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, a stark contrast to the way I just took him. And then I roll off him, pulling out of his dripping ass with a slick sound.

The magnitude of what we’ve just done starts to hit me. “We need to get the hell out of here right now.”

“No,” he says, and he’s snuggling into me. “Let’s stay here. Just for a little while.”

Maybe he’s right. Running through the mansion in this state could just compound our mistake.

I’m worried, though. Caligula Clemenza is so deep in my bloodstream now that I take stupid chances and do reckless things just because he asks me to.

“Come on,” I say after another minute. “Up. Before someone decides to check on the poltergeists.”

Getting up is a real effort. Caligula is even worse off. I have to pull him to his feet, where he sways, leaning heavily against me. He’s quiet now, the fight fucked out of him and replaced by an exhaustion that has nothing to do with the hour. His face is still flushed, but I see the strain around his eyes.

He was in a goddamn hospital bed yesterday. What the hell is wrong with me?

I pull up my pajama pants and tie up his robe, my movements clumsy. The air is thick with the smell of our sweat, our spunk…and the faint tang of wood polish, just to remind me exactly where we are.

And the most fucked-up thing is, I’d throw him back on the floor and drive into him again if he asked me to.

“Let’s get moving,” I say.

Getting back to the room is slow going. Every floorboard seems intent on shrieking our location. I’m half-carrying Caligula, who’s gone quiet and boneless against my side, and my own body is a riot of complaint. Knees throbbing. Back screaming. My hand feels like I’ve opened up the stitches in it. It was worth it. All of it. But I’d kill for a hot shower and a handful of painkillers.

The corridor upstairs is deserted. I get the door to our room open and shove him inside, kicking it shut behind us. I turn the lock—a tiny, useless shield. Caligula stumbles toward the bed with a happy groan and collapses face-down on the duvet.

I stand there for a moment, just watching him breathe. The rise and fall of his back. The tangled mess of his bronze hair against the pale fabric. We’re in the lion’s den, and I just took him apart on the same floor where the lion tore apart his grandfather.

And I’d do it again.

That’s the problem.

“Get this off,” I say, crossing to tug off the robe. It’s mine, as usual, or at least it’s the guest robe that was meant for me. It’s way too big for him, but I mind less these days, having him steal my clothes. It’s almost cute, seeing him in my stuff.

He grumbles his complaint, but I pull off the robe at last. “Cold,” he says crossly.

You could warm him up again, the devil on my shoulder suggests. Instead, I listen to my angel, and cross to the large wardrobe against the far wall, where I pull open one of the doors. Inside, hanging neatly, are the new clothes from the Benedettis. My gaze sweeps past them, down to a shelf at the bottom, where Rosa meticulously folded all his new underwear and sleepwear.

There’s a sealed plastic bag in there that the hospital gave me, too. I assumed it was Caligula’s personal effects, but as I pull it open now, wondering what’s in there, the foul stink of smoke floats out into my face.