Page 44 of The Beast Who Begged Me

That messy hand of his, the one he used to smear his load over my face, shoves straight down the front of my sweatpants. He uses his spunk and my spit, still warm and wet on his fingers, to slick me up. I gasp, my hips jerking forward into the sudden, slick heat of his grip. His fingers curl around my dick, and he uses that mess to jack me, fast and hard.

He pulls and twists, knowing exactly how to make me lose my mind, how to make my knees bend once more…

How to make me beg.

Because that’s what I’m doing, words spilling out of me as my plan to walk away with the upper hand dissolves in a haze of sensation. “Dami…please…”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps up that rhythm, his eyes burning into mine as he works my cock, the sloppy noise of it driving me even faster toward the edge. It hits painfully, and I explode all over the inside of my pants. I slump against him, seizing as the last of it wracks my body.

He pulls his hand out and presses it to my mouth, making me taste the mingled mess. And what do I do? I tongue at his fingers, greedy for the taste of us.

We really do work better together.

I’m shaking, and he’s holding me up. The world comes back into focus. The blue mats. The mirrors. The camera.

There’s a telltale wet patch on the front of my pants. My face is streaked with his drying cum. He takes in a breath to say something, but then pauses. Glances at the camera. Lifts up his t-shirt to wipe down my face.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says after, pushing me back a little so I can get my balance back.

I hum in agreement. “But you should teach me more about self-defense tomorrow, Dami. I obviously need the practice.”

CHAPTER 16

DAMIANO

I follow Caligula out of the gym and back to our bedroom, my stitched-up hand a dull throb at my side. I hear voices in the house, but we don’t meet anyone.

Thank fuck.

I’m seething the whole walk upstairs. At myself. At him.

But most of all, at the treacherously warm knowledge that he still wants me. The thought is poisonous candy, a sweet sickness that makes me want to both push him away and pull him closer until we break together all over again.

He walks ahead of me, looking like a goddamn mess. His hair is all over the place and he has a faint red mark on his jaw where I gripped him too hard. But most telling of all is the dark, damp patch on the front of his sweats.

He was going to walk away from me. Leave me spent but with no real satisfaction. He wanted control…or claimed he did.

Because there’s something else, cold and sharp, cutting through the post-orgasmic haze. A professional instinct raising its head.

For some reason, I think of the dead Russian. Grisha. His avid eyes as he watched Caligula Clemenza give the performance of his life.

I slam the bedroom door behind us, the sound too loud. “I swept the room,” I tell him. “Twice. Signal detector, physical check, the works. There are no bugs in here. No cameras. So say what you want to say to me, Clemenza.”

He tilts his head to one side. “Mm. You might have missed one.” He crooks his finger at me as he heads for the attached bathroom.

I follow him, fists tight enough to make my wounded hand sting.

The bathroom door closes behind us. He flips on the water, the shower’s white noise drowning out everything. The mirror begins to fog, erasing our reflections, sealing us into a smaller, steamier world.

It might even be cozy if I didn’t feel like shit.

Then he turns to me, and whatever I was expecting to see in his face isn’t there. There’s no seduction, no triumph, no anger. “Undress.”

“What?”

“Take your clothes off.” He starts stripping off his own, adding, “If you missed a bug, the safest place to talk is in the shower. And besides, we’re covered in each other.”

I don’t point out that a cold shower would be more beneficial, both in dimming my lust for him and cleaning off the mess we made of each other. I just strip down and try not to watch him.