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It felt too good.
I fisted tight enough to make my knuckles whiten. My mind drowned in the sensations. It was like I could feel the point of no return, the moment when I stopped fighting and my body seized, when I sunk beneath the ocean of pleasure and the waves of self-hate. My eyes moved away from the sight, no longer caring about his threat, and roamed everywhere—anywhere—except my flesh and his finger.
Mistake.
My eyes locked with his—his hungry, greedy bluegreen depths. I closed mine quickly, but I could feel his boring into me, making me do things and be things I wasn’t. I never felt so utterly naked in my entire life. I couldn’t do anything other than turn my head away, but then he took that from me too.
“Look at me.” The Beast grabbed my chin, turning my face to his. His fingers pressed into my flesh, sure to leave bruises. He was so much stronger than me. Why couldn’t the Beast be an ironic name, like Big O? He seriously was a beast. I felt like a child. He could crush me if he decided to, but that would be a mercy.
I will not come for him, I thought, clenching my jaw.
“Yes you will,” he said, cheek quirking and eyes narrowing with dark humor. My eyes popped wide. What was he, a mind reader? No, I would not. I would not come for him, especially not while the shadows of his men might cling in the doorway. I tried to crane my neck around his head to see if they were there, but just as I moved, he thrust inside me.
I released my lip with a scream. It throbbed where I’d been holding it captive, where I’d been chewing it and biting it to try to maintain control. It probably looked like I just lost a boxing match. His finger pushed deeper into my flesh, his eyes penetrated me. I was disappearing, drowning in him and what he was doing to me.
As if my voice was a life preserver, I whispered, “Why do they call you the Beast?” My voice didn’t even sound like me. It was quiet, throaty, breathless. I’m not even sure why I asked; maybe I hoped he would give me a little bit of himself to match what I had just given up. Hopefully it was quiet enough that his stupid friends couldn’t hear if they were still there. His eyes softened for a moment at my question. Despite myself, I prayed he would answer. Just as quickly as his eyes softened, they flashed hard, returning to unyielding, cruel slits.
“Because I am without mercy.” At the last word, he curled his finger inside me. I
cried out again and thrust my head hard against the wall behind me so I wouldn’t fall on his chest.
I didn’t orgasm; at least I held on to that part of myself a little while longer, but my relief was short lived. When the Beast’s hands left me and his massive frame cleared my eye line, I was left to see the doorway where his men had stood—empty. How long had it been empty? Had I imagined their shadows in the first place?
Or had four men seen me at my most vulnerable and left right after, like it was nothing special to them at all?
I picked at the skin of my thumb as the town car drove away from the lively warehouse. I hoped it was taking us back to the penthouse; just imagining that there could be something more in store for me that night… I picked and picked until there was actually skin to remove. I kept thinking back to what I’d felt minutes before. Being open. Exposed. I swore they were watching me.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was that I’d felt myself changing, becoming something else—someone else. Someone that enjoyed it.
Pick. Pick. Pick. I pulled up the still living flesh from my thumb and looked furtively at Beast, eyebrows drawn. His coat was warming me, just as it had in his office when he’d first shrugged out of it. He’d picked me up off the floor and set the fabric over my shoulders. He’d buttoned up each button carefully as I slid my arms through the silky-lined sleeves, dazed.
My gaze had flicked to the floor where the Hervé Léger I’d chosen to wear lay bunched, to be left behind. Beast had said I could choose what to wear and since there was nothing resembling a habit in “my” closet, I had closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was going for a night out with some kind of Prince Charming. When I opened them, I was in one of my books. Since it was a fairytale, I picked out the kind of dress I would want to wear for that: a blush bodycon Hervé Léger that shimmered under the lights.
Of course it ended up crumpled and forgotten.
When we’d left the office, the assholes were gone and so were the statued henchmen. Walking through the warehouse, I worried how people would look at me, wondering why I wore only a coat. I remembered thinking they would know, but no one looked at me, and honestly, I was wearing more clothing than a lot of them.
I examined Beast with his head down, his sculpted profile showcased by the light and shadow. In the dark of the town car, only the passing city lights illumined him, though they did not soften him in the least. They added depth to his already chiseled cheeks, intensity to his already sharp jaw. I examined him further, giving myself the okay to look at him, and I mean really look at him, for the first time. He had a small scar on his chin, subtle.
I wondered if he had scars elsewhere, like Little O. He’d been shirtless around me, but I had never really looked. I did my best to sever the link between my vision and my brain whenever we were together.
It was getting harder to do that.
The lights flickered, blurred, bright dots sliding along the interior as we passed through the city. Memories came to the surface, thinking of how he had just touched me. Slowly, his head turned and his gaze caught mine, as if he knew. I quickly looked back into my lap.
“I told you, Frankie.” When he spoke, I tried to focus on my fingers folded atop the dark coat. It was such a bigger size than what I wore, it fell just above my knees. His low, even voice was captivating and spellbinding. I found myself looking back up, trapped in his gaze. “I will know every inch of you, mapped out like I was the cartographer who drew it.”
I sucked in a breath, looking away. Had I said my thoughts aloud?
“But that is only for me to know.” I craned my head slightly to see him smile. “Still, I can be merciful sometimes. I saw how you liked them watching you. Who am I to deny that?” Even though I never saw the assholes, I couldn’t confirm they hadn’t seen me. It was a lump in my gut, twisting and curling, yet he made it sound like I wanted it.
Because I did, a voice in my head whispered.
“I did not,” I replied through clenched teeth. The images of the shadows watching me flashed in my head and my belly fluttered, my thighs clenched. The dark voice in my head started to whisper, but I shook my head. I had not liked it. I ripped the piece of skin I was playing with off completely.
I pinched the raw flesh of my thumb between my nail, holding onto the pain so I could hold on to my courage while I whispered my question, “So they didn’t see anything?” The low rumble of the car filled the space like fog let loose on the night. The soundlessness was cloying, unnerving. Even the honks and yells—the melody of downtown life—were suffocated inside the car.
