Loving the Beast (Skye Warren) (A) (4 page)

It was wrong to find this so hot, but her body clenched and tightened, ready to start, hungry for him.

When he bent his head to kiss her, she tilted up, meeting him halfway. Did the girl long ago do this? Was she as eager and as breathless as Erin felt now? And suddenly she had to know. She couldn’t guess anymore.

“What did you do to her?” she asked.

“Shh,” he said. “Lie back.”

She wasn’t sure whether he was going to answer or not, but she did as he asked anyway, reclining on top of the bedspread, kicking off her ballet flats as she went. She still had her clothes on—the same jeans and a t-shirt she’d worn on the drive over. She’d only had a chance to use the restroom and splash water on her face when she’d arrived. She was far from fresh. Far from sexy. But the way he looked at her left no doubt as to his desire. The way his gaze scanned her body, with thoughtfulness, as if wondering the best ways to position her, left no part of her untouched.

“Her name was Clarissa,” he said almost casually as he took his shirt off. In seconds the thin fabric was tossed to the floor, his broad chest bared to her. The lean slope of his abs took her breath away. Her gaze followed that line down, down—wanting to see more.

He didn’t disappoint. He made quick work of his jeans, shucking them off, kicking them aside. He was all efficiency now. This wasn’t a striptease, something slow and sensual. He was a man with a mission, and that made it even sexier to watch.

“She was a year older than me. A sophomore when I was a freshman. We went to the same prep school.” He put one knee on the bed, making the old springs groan and dip. “She’d done it with one other guy before me.”

She only had time to register that it was young to lose his virginity. Wasn’t it? But then she didn’t have a frame of reference. She’d helped her mother clean houses after class when she started high school. By the time she’d lost her virginity she’d been in college.

And then she was distracted by his hand on her knee. Just that. Almost innocent, that hand. He had put his fingers in her pussy and his tongue against her asshole. He had touched every part of her, but that hand on her knee just now, with them in his childhood bedroom, felt more illicit, more dangerous than anything that had come before.

He leaned down, his face just inches from hers. His eyes were large and dark—fathomless. She stared into them, losing herself.

Already lost.

“But you didn’t want to hear about her,” he whispered. “Not really.”

“Then what did I want?” she whispered back.

He skimmed his palm up her thigh and caught her T-shirt as he went, lifting the fabric, baring her stomach to the cool air. Her skin pebbled, her nipples tightened. He noticed, his gaze hot as he watched the fabric of her bra peak.

Instead his large palm came up and covered her breast, on top of the bra—claiming her. That was how it felt, his hand both heavy and strong. Like she was no longer herself, her own person, but his. Like he was no longer her employer, her teacher. Not even lover. Somewhere along the way he’d become her everything, and that scared her more than anything.

“This,” he said, locking his eyes on hers. “What you want is to know you can trust me, that I’m not this person. At least not anymore.”

Her heart caught in her throat, because she did want that. Everything in this world was foreign to her, from the designer fixtures to the society page spreads. She didn’t belong here.

And she was terrified he did.

“I don’t want you to settle,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.

*     *     *

B
LAKE FORCED HIMSELF
to close his eyes, to take deep breaths. Forced himself not to spread the beautiful legs beneath him and fuck Erin into the bed.

It was a strange impulse, but her words had that impact on him. That she could doubt herself that way, believe that she wasn’t good enough. That she could doubt
him.
It made him feel primitive, called to some deep beastly part of him that needed to fight, to fuck, to conquer her until she saw what he did.

But he would keep that part of him contained, well hidden. He couldn’t risk scaring her.

“Erin,” he said, his voice low, almost guttural. “You’re beautiful. You’re strong. You’re smart. Why the
fuck
would I be settling?”

She blinked rapidly.
Jesus.
So much for not scaring her.

He sat back on his heels and shoved a hand through his hair. Fuck, he was coming undone. Maybe it was coming home after so long. More likely it was the way Erin had looked at him ever since they’d gotten here, as if he were a stranger.

“Baby,” he said hoarsely. Because he couldn’t speak anymore. He could only show her how he felt.

Only give in to the dark impulses that had been riding him all this time.

He bent over her, nuzzling at her breast through the satin cloth. God, he didn’t even feel human now. More like an animal, acting on pure instinct and sensation, reveling in the softness and womanly scent of her. He used his teeth to drag the fabric aside, revealing her stiff nipple to the air. They were small nipples, delicate. He had to be careful with them. He couldn’t suck as hard as he wanted, couldn’t nip at her.

That was what he told himself, but one brush against his lips and he was lost, feasting on her, lips fastened on her breast and tongue tormenting her bud.

The sound she made was pain—a cry of shocked arousal and sharp desire.

He didn’t let go of her, just cocked his head to meet her eyes. Then slowly, like a dog with a goddamn bone, shook his head.
Quiet,
he told her. She wouldn’t want his parents or the staff to hear. There was no way to really hide what they were doing. In the end she’d make enough sounds for them to know. But he wouldn’t let her scream and keen the way she did at home. She’d only feel deeply embarrassed later.

So it was really a form of protection that when she yelped, he reached up to cover her mouth with his hand.

He’d bitten down, maybe too hard. He lightened up his hold on her sweet nipple, but he knew he would only be rougher with her. His control had gotten razor thin, almost a weapon in itself, something that could cut her even as he fought to keep her safe.

Her eyes grew wide with surprise. He’d never covered her mouth before. In his big house, far out in the rural wooded area, he’d never needed to.

Her breath was soft over his fingers as she breathed through her nose. She stared at him—bewildered, afraid. And turned on? Her breathing had sped up now, and he knew that she might be scared of him. Hell, she should be. But he also knew the rhythm of her body, the flush of her cheeks. He knew that being restrained, his hands on her wrists or his arm over her waist, could turn her on.

And it worked again, her hips pushing upward as her lips tested their newfound boundaries.

The sound she made was muffled.

He groaned, the sound hotter because he had controlled it. “That’s right, baby. Give in to it. I’ll make you feel good and I’ll keep you safe while I do it. That’s a goddamn promise.”

Her body relaxed slightly, and he knew it was acceptance. More than that, desire.

And when he bent his head and tormented those pretty breasts, he didn’t hold back. He made them shake, sucking her hard and then releasing. He marked the pale skin with the stubble on his cheeks, with his teeth. He used her flesh in every way he wanted, reveling in the soft sounds that slipped from beneath his hand.

He moved down her body, teasing and sucking the tender skin of her stomach, pushing her to the brink and then soothing her, quieting her again. To do what he wanted, to go where he wanted, between her legs, tasting her, he would need to remove his hand from her mouth. He didn’t want to. Not when he knew how it affected her, when he’d felt her squirm under his body, felt the soft pants against his hand. She wanted this as much as he did—more. So when he finally released her, when he moved down her legs, taking her jeans and panties off as he went, he made a new plan.

Her panties were damp with arousal. He pressed the wetness to his mouth—a dirty kiss. Then he bunched the soft fabric and reached up.

Her lips parted, in surprise more than acceptance.

He used the opening anyway and pushed the fabric half into her mouth, a gag more effective than his hand, both more intimate and less, more tightly controlled and setting her free. Her body moved in a sinuous wave, painting shadows on her skin, giving only glimpses of her pink flesh. He longed to spread her wide. His dick throbbed, imagining that tight heat wrapped around him.

But he wouldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t do that to her.

Even in this state, half feral, he couldn’t risk scaring her with how he really felt.

So he gave himself time, by moving between her legs, by kissing her clit. He wasn’t gentle, though. It was the one solace he gave himself, to fuck her with his tongue and his stubble and the graze of his teeth. She bucked up into him, her muffled moans a sweet music, humping his face until she keened out her release.

Liquid gushed onto his tongue and he swallowed it down. Only when he had drunk every drop of her pleasure, when he’d granted himself that reward, did he rise up and plunge inside.

She was slick and swollen and so well prepared. But even now she clenched hard around his intrusion, making him grunt in sweet agony. It felt too impossibly good inside her. It made him want to rut fast and hard, to finish as quickly as possible. But it also made him want to revel in slow, languid thrusts, making this sex last forever. It was a cruel paradox, one that had him pistoning his hips without any control at all, without any thought but to have her, take her, claim her.

Her eyes filled with tears, casting a strange and ethereal light. She looked like some kind of otherworld creature, a fairy come to torment him, come to save him. He was drunk on her, and on whatever magic made him this way—almost cruel.

Why did the sight of her lips stretched around her damp underwear make him wild? How did she make him crazed with just one fucking question?

Who was your first?

She was his first—the first woman he’d loved, the first woman he’d let in. The first woman to truly love him back, and he hated that she’d ever fucking doubted them.

So he was rough when he pushed inside her. Rough enough to hear her gasp. He tore the panties from her mouth so he could kiss her the way he wanted, deep and crude. He fucked her with his tongue the same way his dick thrust inside. He wanted her to taste her juices, to know that he was the one who had made her feel this way.

Only when she whimpered a final, softer orgasm did he let himself go. He pushed inside her again and again, almost fighting her, rough and hard and everything he shoudn’t be. He fucked her like an animal—and that was how he came, with a roar that could be heard through the entire house.

He slumped over her, blanketing her with his body. She still shook slightly beneath him. Aftershocks?

Or was he too rough with her?

But when he raised his head to check, she smiled at him—so sleepy and full of love that his heart seemed to squeeze. He rolled over, bringing her with him, so she was sprawled on top of him. In minutes their breathing had evened out and matched up.

A soft snore, and he knew she was sleeping. It made him smile, but he was nowhere near sleep.

Who was your first?

As if the question was anything to do with Clarissa or the fact that she’d had braces and he’d been nervous out of his mind. No, the question was about the fear he’d seen in her eyes. The fear that he’d seen when she’d met his parents, seen their house. Maybe the fear had always been there and she’d just hidden it—or he’d just pretended not to see.

She still saw the class differences between them.

And he’d been an idiot not to see them too. Not that he believed himself above her in any way. But their childhoods had shaped them. He didn’t want to think of himself as a pompous, self-entitled prick, but he couldn’t deny that was exactly what he’d been raised to be. And no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how much he believed in equality, no matter how much he was head-over-fucking-heels in love with Erin, it could never change his past.

It could never change what he was deep inside.

Chapter Four

E
RIN WOKE UP
the next morning with an ache between her legs. It took a moment to remember what had happened yesterday—the long drive, the Ice Queen, the wild sex in Blake’s childhood room.

After that there’d been an awkward dinner with only a long table and dim lights to hide her blush. Neither of Blake’s parents had commented on their little nap, thank God.

And for whatever reason, his mother didn’t launch into any more guilt tirades. Mostly she just drank while Blake’s father grilled him on his position at the university, his career plans, and his investment portfolio. Blake put up with it through the salad course and the main course before he turned the tables and persuaded his father to talk about political maneuvers from his heyday.

Once he got started Mr. Morris didn’t stop talking. It was hugely interesting to listen to his stories, a front row seat to some of the major political dramas in their past. When Blake winked at her from across the table, she knew he’d done that on purpose.

What could she say? She had a weakness for men who could talk history.

Like Blake, who reclined beside her in bed. His arm was stretched out, long and muscled even in sleep. His eyes were closed, lashes thick and blunt, and almost touching the pale scar tissue on his cheek.

The fire had come too close to his eye. She shivered to think how much worse it could have been. He could have lost his sight. He could have died.

Her heart felt too full, too vulnerable after sleeping beside him all night.

And she couldn’t stand to
not
touch him. Couldn’t stand not to feel the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breaths. His chest had a sprinkling of coarse hair, and she ran her hand over it, tickling her palm.

He hadn’t stirred, his lips slightly parted in deep sleep.