Page 57 of Beautifully Deranged

A lie. She doesn’t want to be let go.

“Liar.”

I unzip her pants. She clamps her thighs shut, but I force them apart. Her pants hit the floor. I rip her panties off. They're soaked

“You’ve been holding out on me,” I murmur, rubbing the fabric across my face.

“You sick fuck.”

“Oh, you have no idea. You think this is the first pair I’ve stolen? Think I haven’t jerked off to them like a goddamn animal, huffing your scent like it’s the only thing keeping me sane?”

I slap her clit. She cries out and tries to crawl forward, but I drag her back by the hips. "That’s for starving me."

I drop to my knees, mouth pressed to her cunt. Her knees nearly buckle when I drag my tongue through her slit.

"You taste like sin," I growl, licking deeper. "And I’m starving for it."

“You said I was nothing to you,” she pants.

"Then why can’t I stop thinking about this sweet fucking pussy?" I devour her, tongue ruthless, savoring every goddamn sound she makes. I grab her by the throat and force her against my chest. “You’ve been playing pretend, Lola. Thinking you can give me your body but keep your love locked up?”

“I’m not yours.”

I thrust inside her. No warning. Her breath leaves in a sharp cry, and I grind in deeper, holding her there.

“Then why are you melting?” I hiss against her ear. “Why are you shaking?” I twist her around, fuck her facing me. Watch her come apart. Her mouth, her body, her eyes—everything screams mine.

“Say you’re mine.”

She grits her teeth. “Never.”

“I’ll fuck it out of you.”

I pound her, hard and raw, no space between us. No air. Just sweat and rage and twisted fucking devotion. Her body tightens. She’s there. She’s falling.

"Say it," I growl, fucking her through it.

“I hate you.”

"No, you don’t."

I kiss her like I’m drowning. Like she’s the only air that ever mattered. Her nails dig into my back. Her legs lock around my waist as she orgasms. I keep going until I come inside her, buried so deep she’ll feel me for days. After, we’re quiet. She’s panting. Hair a mess. Lips bruised.

I brush a thumb along her cheek.“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you like ruin. Like madness. Like something I’d fucking die for.”

She doesn’t say it back. But she’s no longer pushing me away, and that’s enough for now.

?Chapter Twenty Seven?

Lola

Somehow, I finished the painting in a week. Don’t ask me how. Fear, mostly. Fear for Mikhail. Fear that I won’t admit out loud because that would mean it’s real. And he’s fucking pissed about my involvement. But I’ve never let a man tell me where I can go or what I can do. And I'm not starting now. Even if it’s him. Even if my stomach knots every time his eyes cut across a room and land on me. Even if I get this twisted, electric rush when his voice drops low—rough, cold—telling me to stay out of his world.

He says he loves me. I’m still not sure what that means coming from him. When he told me, everything inside me went still. For a second, I thought maybe I could believe it. But I’m not built right. Pride's poisoned me. The words won’t come out, not even if I wanted to say them back.

So I do what I’ve always done. I earn it. I prove it. With blood, sweat, and paint.

The piece leans against a table like a ritual sacrifice.Roman’s already there, lounging back in a leather chair, looking every bit the king of this underworld. Power’s baked into his bones. Sergei’s beside him, arms folded, a grin curling up his face. A joker on the outside. But I know what lives underneath that skin. He’s not soft.

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