Page 12 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
"You don't know what I want," I counter, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Don't I?" His lips brush against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "I think you want what I want. I think you want to be claimed. Possessed. Seen in ways no one else has ever bothered to see you."
My breath catches, because he's right. God help me, he's right. I've spent my whole life being overlooked, being adequate but forgettable, being the girl who fades into the background. And here's this man who's built his world around me, who sees me as the center of his universe—how can that not be intoxicating?
"Stay," he murmurs against my skin. "One more day. If you still want to leave tomorrow, I won't stop you."
"You promise?" I need to hear it, need some assurance that I'm not trapping myself.
"I promise." His lips trace a path down my neck, finding the mark he left yesterday and pressing against it. "But I don't think you'll want to leave. Not after today."
"Why?" The question comes out breathier than intended as his mouth works against my pulse point.
He pulls back, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak. "Because today I'm going to show you exactly what those paintings promised. Every fantasy, every desire I've kept locked away for three years." His hand slides down to my hip, gripping possessively. "By tonight, you'll be ruined for anyone else."
The arrogance of his statement should offend me. Instead, it sends liquid heat pooling between my legs. There's something darkly thrilling about being wanted this completely, this consumingly.
"One day," I agree, my last attempt at self-preservation crumbling beneath the weight of his gaze.
His smile is slow, predatory, victorious. "Oh, sweetheart, you were never leaving. I gave you your last chance yesterday, remember? You’re mine now."
Before I can respond, his mouth crashes down on mine, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my reservations. This kiss is like last night but even more—no hesitation, no testing of boundaries. Just pure, claiming hunger. His hands are everywhere at once, sliding under my sweater, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts. I should stop him. Should insist on talking more, on establishing limits, on moving slower.
Instead, I'm tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull my sweater over my head, tossing it aside with a carelessness that should worry me but only excites me more. His eyes devour the sight of me in my simple cotton bra, nothing fancy or seductive.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and the reverence in his voice makes me believe him. "Even better than I imagined."
My bra follows my sweater, and then his hands are on my breasts, rough palms against sensitive skin. I gasp at the contact, arching into his touch as his thumbs circle my nipples, teasing them to hardened peaks. His mouth replaces one hand, hot and wet, tongue flicking against sensitive flesh until I'm moaning, fingers tangled in his dark hair.
"I've dreamed of your sounds," he says against my skin. "Painted them in my head. But reality..." He bites gently at the underside of my breast, making me gasp. "Reality is so much better."
He lifts me suddenly, hands gripping my thighs, and carries me to the bed—my suitcase shoved unceremoniously to the floor. He lays me down, then stands back to strip off his own shirt. My breath catches at the sight of him. The paintings didn'tprepare me for this—broad shoulders, muscled chest covered in intricate tattoos that seem to writhe with his movement. Scars too, silvery against his skin, telling stories I don't yet know.
"See something you like?" he asks, a hint of vulnerability beneath the cockiness.
"Everything," I admit, because what's the point of pretense now?
He smiles—not the predatory grin from before, but something softer, more genuine. It transforms his face, makes him seem younger, less intimidating. Then he's over me again, hands working at the button of my jeans, sliding them down my legs along with my underwear until I'm naked beneath him.
For a moment, he just looks, eyes traveling from my face down my body with an artist's appreciation and a lover's hunger. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel powerful. Desired. Worshipped.
"Three years," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Three years imagining this moment."
His hands slide up my legs, parting my thighs with gentle insistence. I let him, spreading myself for his gaze, his touch. His fingers find me wet, ready, and his sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.
"So responsive," he says, circling my entrance, teasing but not entering. "So perfect."
I want to say something witty, something to show I'm still in control of myself if not the situation, but then his finger slips inside me and coherent thought dissolves. He watches my face as he works me, adding a second finger, then a third, stretching me, preparing me. His thumb finds my clit, circling with devastating precision until I'm writhing beneath him, chasing a pleasure that seems just out of reach.
"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for.
"Tell me what you want, Iris." His voice is strained, controlled but barely. "Say it."
"You," I manage. "Inside me. Now."
He withdraws his fingers, making me whimper at the loss, but then he's standing, shedding his remaining clothes with urgent movements. His cock springs free, hard and thick and intimidating. I've never been with a man before, and Guy makes me feel so small, so overwhelmed, so utterly at his mercy.
He kneels between my spread legs, positioning himself at my entrance. "Look at me," he commands softly. "I want to see your face when I make you mine."
