Page 26 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Even as his fingers slipped into my yoga pants and he groaned, "You're wet for me. So fucking wet," I needed more. My face was flushed. My entire body felt flushed like during those fevers that used to keep me up all night.

"I need you," I moaned. "Antonio, please. I need you." Like a prayer, like a confession I'd been holding in for too long.

And right when I was on the verge of waking up, real-life Antonio made it all better. Real-life Antonio with his tattoos and the scars on his face and his body that once made me weep for the man he used to be. Yet, the same scars and tattoos that didn't completely define him but added to his ruggedness, his chiseled jaw, his eyes dark with desire. He was right when he said I wanted his cock inside of me. It's like there's this ache only he can soothe.

When my eyes fluttered open and I saw him there, I didn't care whether it was a dream or a nightmare. I wanted it to be real. I needed him and he was there.

His breath was hot on my skin as his lips trailed down my so-ready-for-him trembling body. The sensations of his fingers teasing and twisting my nipple, of his stubble grazing my sensitive skin, of his tongue circling around it like it was his favorite appetizer had me clutching the sheet with my hands,trying and failing to hold myself together like I used to during treatments when the pain threatened to break me.

The goosebumps that scattered everywhere in his wake? They learned to dance new steps today—a choreography of desire I never knew my body could perform after everything it's been through. As I spread my legs wider for him and he settled between them, his muscular shoulders nudging them and he looked up, groaning "Finally"? The sight of him, all powerful, ready to please me, barely maintaining control with the moonlight filtering through the windows illuminating him like a beast and a hero all at once. Oh, that was better than any dream of mine, better than any fantasy that kept me company in that stone prison.

The heat in my low belly turned flaming hot and the throbbing need that crescendoed called his name or maybe it was me moaning.

And when his tongue lapped my dripping folds, I gripped the bed sheet even tighter because that wet, hot slide had me cry his name out loud.

"So fucking good," he groaned at the taste of me, his voice deep and possessive in a way that made my entire body vibrate and my hips buck to get closer to him. I wanted to hold on to him as he devoured me like I was his last meal. My thighs began shaking when his mouth sealed around my clit, sucking, and teasing before lavishing me again as his fingers played with me. It wasn't a climax surging through me but stars bursting and I wasn't on the edge. My body was bucking off the bed it felt so good and the sounds of him licking me filled the air. Oh no, I free fell into pleasure, screaming his name as I came.

And I hate him for it.

Because in my dream, I still had hope and in this moment? In this moment, in this room, in this place made of lies and revenge, I feel lost and I don't know what to do.

For a second, I shift and it presses the shard harder on his skin. It bites into the corded muscle of his neck, a thin red of line appearing under the silver, a neck I once kissed holding on to him as his very impressive cock plunged inside and out of me, like he was finally home, and he smiles, like he knew that'd be my answer.

But he doesn't know anything.

He doesn't know me.

Not really.

And the ache that spreads inside of me makes me feel like my chest is caving under pressure.

"You think I want to kill you?" I whisper and my voice breaks, but I shouldn't be surprised. After all, he thinks I'm a master manipulator who wanted his mother dead. His mother who I loved so much I'm still mourning her, too. "Give me one reason. One reason why I shouldn't."

He stares at me, those dark eyes assessing, calculating. His jaw clenches in that way I've come to recognize, like he's fighting some internal battle. When he speaks, his voice is low, dangerous, but it doesn't hold the hatred I expected.

"Because you still want answers," he says, not flinching away from the blade. "And dead men don't talk, Bell'cenda."

He doesn't know I have a thousand reasons racing in my mind.

Because he's Antonio. Because I want him to discover the truth. Because of Elena.

Because I don't want him to die.

And my heart desperately wants him to answer in a way that makes me hate him less.

"You want me to tell you why you shouldn't slit my throat?" He tilts his neck further as if to give me better access, but his voice is pure ice wrapped in velvet. "I'm not playing your game, Bell'cenda."

He shifts from above me, holding my wrist in place, not taking the shard away. With one fluid motion that speaks of the power coiled in his muscles, he flips us over until he's on his back and I'm straddling him. I can feel his desire pressing against my core, hard and insistent. Without thinking, my body moves against him, craving more of him like I once craved air during those long nights in the hospital. My nipples harden beneath the thin fabric, and for a moment, I drop my other hand to his chest, riding him, knowing he must feel how wet I am.

For him. Still. Even after everything.

A growl tears from his throat, that dark, dangerous sound that once made me feel like the most powerful woman in the world. "Go ahead. Do it. Slit my throat." He pauses and sits back up, one muscular arm snaking around my waist like a vise, pulling me close enough that I can count his eyelashes. "What are you waiting for, principessa?"

I could bend down and trace those tattoos with my tongue. I could slide the shard across that neck that once bent to whisper Italian endearments against my skin.

But I don't want to.

His scent engulfs me. I can smell my own desire mixing with his, creating something intoxicating between us. His fingers dig into my waist, hard enough that I'll find bruises tomorrow, evidence that this wasn't just another fever dream brought on by isolation.

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