Page 13 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
I obey, meeting his gaze as he pushes forward, entering me with a slow, inexorable pressure that makes me gasp. He's big, stretching me almost to the point of pain, but he moves carefully, letting me adjust to each inch.
"Breathe," he says, his own breath coming in harsh pants. "That's it. Take all of me."
When he's fully seated inside me, we both pause, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of connection. My body pulses around him, accommodating his size, welcoming him deeper. His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.
"Mine," he whispers, the word both prayer and proclamation. "Finally mine."
Then he begins to move, withdrawing almost completely before driving back in with a force that steals my breath. There's nothing gentle about his rhythm—it's claiming, possessive, almost punishing in its intensity. I should be frightened by his fervor, but instead I find myself meeting each thrust, urging him on with my hands on his back, my legs wrapped around his waist.
"More," I gasp, surprising myself with my own hunger. "Harder."
He growls—an actual growl, animal and primal—and complies, his pace increasing, the bed frame protesting beneath us. One hand grips my hip, angling me to take him deeper, while the other fists in my hair, holding me in place as he devours my mouth, my neck, any part of me he can reach.
"You feel it now, don't you?" he pants against my ear. "How perfectly we fit. Like you were made for me. Like I was made to take you."
I can't answer, can't form words beyond incoherent sounds of pleasure. He shifts, the new angle hitting something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My nails dig into his shoulders, probably drawing blood, but he doesn't seem to mind—if anything, it spurs him on.
"Come for me," he commands, his hand sliding between us to find my clit. "Let me feel you come around my cock. Let me know you're mine."
His fingers work me with the same precision as his brush on canvas, circling and pressing until tension coils tight in my core, building to a crescendo I can't fight. When release comes, it washes over me like a tidal wave, my body arching off the bed, walls clenching around him as pleasure radiates from my center outward.
"Iris," he groans, his rhythm faltering as my orgasm triggers his own. "Fuck, Iris."
He comes with a shudder, his body tensing above me, within me, his release hot and pulsing deep inside. For a moment, we're frozen in tableau—his face etched with pleasure-pain, my body still trembling with aftershocks. Then he collapses beside me, careful not to crush me, one arm thrown possessively across my waist.
Silence falls, broken only by our ragged breathing gradually slowing to normal. Reality creeps back in slowly—what I've done, who I've done it with, what it might mean. I should feelregret, or at least caution. Instead, I feel... claimed. Marked. Seen in a way I've never been before.
"Still want to leave?" he asks finally, voice rough at the edges but vulnerable underneath.
I turn my head to look at him, finding his eyes already on me, searching my face for signs of regret or rejection. The great and terrible Beast of Trevelyan Estate, suddenly uncertain.
"I should," I admit. "Everything about this is..." I gesture vaguely, unable to find the right word.
"Intense?" he supplies. "Unconventional? Possibly psychotic?"
That draws a laugh from me, surprising us both. "All of the above." I trace the line of his jaw, the rough stubble catching on my fingertips. "But no. I don't want to leave. Not yet."
Relief floods his features, quickly masked by renewed confidence. "Good. Because I'm nowhere near done with you."
His hand slides up my bare side, possessive and promising. And despite every warning bell still ringing in my head, I arch into his touch, hungry for more of whatever madness this is between us.
One day, I told myself.One day to decide.
But as his mouth finds mine again, as his hands begin their exploration anew, I know the decision is already made. I'm staying.
seven
. . .
Guy
I've posedher a dozen ways in my mind, painted her in hundreds of positions, but nothing compares to this—Iris standing willingly in my studio, watching me with those dark, curious eyes as I prepare my workspace. Three days since she discovered my obsession, two since I first touched her, claimed her. Now she's here by choice, a living, breathing muse ready to be immortalized with her full knowledge and consent. My hands tremble slightly as I arrange my paints. The fantasy made real.
"You're nervous," she observes, trailing her fingers along the edge of a workbench. "I've never seen you nervous before."
"You've barely seen me at all," I remind her, though the observation stings because it's true. I'm not accustomed to being anxious, especially not in my own domain.
"I've seen enough." She picks up a brush, tests its bristles against her palm. "More than most, apparently."
