Page 21 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
"This is what gets you hot?" I growl, rubbing her through the fabric. "Me threatening other men for looking at you?"
"You," she corrects, working at my belt buckle with frantic fingers. "You wanting me so much you can't stand anyone else even seeing me. You claiming me."
Her words inflame me further. I push her panties aside, sliding two fingers into her heat without preamble. She moans, head falling back, exposing the column of her throat. I attack it with lips and teeth, marking her pale skin where anyone who sees her will know she belongs to someone. To me.
"Hurry," she pants, finally freeing my cock from my pants. "I need you inside me."
I withdraw my fingers, shifting her position, and then she's sinking down onto me, taking me deep in one smooth motion that leaves us both gasping. The angle is awkward, the space confined, but neither of us cares. This isn't about comfort or finesse. It's about claiming, about possession, about marking territory.
She rides me with abandon, my hands guiding her hips, setting a punishing pace. The car windows fog with our exertion, creating a private world where only we exist. Each thrust drives home the same message—mine, mine, mine.
"Say it," I demand, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, pulling her face close to mine. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," she gasps, inner muscles clenching around me as she approaches her peak. "Only you, Guy."
"Again." I thrust harder, deeper, feeling my own release building.
"Yours," she cries out, body tensing as orgasm washes over her. "Oh god, I'm yours, Beast, only yours."
The name—my name, the one she's claimed for me—pushes me over the edge. I come with a shout, emptying myself deep inside her, the most primal form of claiming possible. She collapses against my chest, both of us breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling with aftershocks.
As reason slowly returns, I wait for shame to follow—shame at my possessiveness, my territorial display in town, the animal need to mark her as mine. But it doesn't come. Instead, I feel only satisfaction as I hold her close, as I feel our combined release slowly seeping onto my pants.
"You're not like other men," she murmurs against my neck, pressing soft kisses to my skin.
"No," I agree, stroking her back. "I'm not."
She pulls back enough to meet my eyes, her own clear and certain. "Good. I don't want normal. I want you. All of you, even the parts that would frighten most people away."
I study her face, searching for any sign of hesitation, of regret. "And what about the parts that should frighten you?"
Her smile is small, secret, just for me. "Those are the parts I might love most of all."
The word—love—hangs between us, neither of us quite ready to claim it directly, but both aware of its presence. I kiss her instead of responding, pouring everything I can't yet say into the contact.
When we finally separate, rearranging clothing and ourselves, the air in the car is heavy with promise. I startthe engine again, my hand finding hers as we continue toward home.Ourhome, now, in a way it wasn't before.
The Beast has claimed his Beauty, and against all expectations, she has claimed him right back.
ten
. . .
Iris
Afternoon sunlight slantsthrough the library windows, turning the dust motes to gold as I wander among the shelves. Guy is in town meeting with a gallery owner—a rare foray into the outside world that he insisted on making alone. "Business," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead before leaving. "Boring details you don't need to suffer through." I didn't argue, secretly pleased to have a few hours to explore the house without his watchful presence. For all that we've shared over the past weeks—bodies, histories, confessions—parts of the estate remain mysteries to me, rooms I've cleaned but never truly examined, spaces that might reveal more about the complex, damaged man I've somehow come to care for.
The library is my favorite room in the house, floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with everything from ancient leather-bound classics to contemporary fiction. Guy's tastes are eclectic, unexpected—Gothic romances shelved alongside technicalmanuals on paint composition, poetry collections nestled between art history tomes.
I trace my fingers along the spines, enjoying the texture of different bindings. Near the large desk in the corner, a section of art books catches my attention—oversized volumes on technique, biographies of famous painters, exhibition catalogs. I pull one out at random, a heavy book on Italian Renaissance masters, and carry it to the desk.
As I set it down, I notice the bottom drawer of the desk is slightly ajar. I should close it and move on—even after everything, there are boundaries between us—but curiosity wins. I pull the drawer open further, expecting to find office supplies, maybe financial records.
Instead, I find sketchbooks. Dozens of them, neatly stacked, each labeled with dates on the spine.
My heart quickens. I know I should stop, should respect his privacy, but these are different from the paintings in his studio. Those were finished works, intended to be seen eventually, if only by him. These feel more intimate, more personal—the raw material of his artistic process.
I select one at random, the date showing it's from four years ago—before he ever saw me at the farmers market, before his obsession began. Safe territory, I tell myself, justifying the intrusion.
