Page 37 of Her Beast

Once he was free, he looked up and met Smith’s dark, hungry gaze. “Tongue my slit.”

Malcolm swallowed convulsively at the familiar order—one he gave often to the whores who serviced him.

Smith’s eyelids fluttered as Malcolm probed the tiny opening with the point of his tongue, his own cock hard and throbbing even though he’d ejaculated barely an hour before. The familiar masculine taste of semen sent blood roaring in his ears and Malcolm sucked on the little hole, desperate for more.

Smith groaned and carded his fingers into Malcolm’s hair, pulling him onto his prick.

Malcolm had to stretch his jaws wide to take Smith’s thick rod into his mouth and the skin at the burnt corner of his mouth cracked and split. He didn’t give a damn about the pain and feasted on the silken flesh, making love to the fat crown.

“So good,” Smith murmured, his hips pushing closer, urging Malcolm to take more. “Touch me.”

Malcolm raised both hands to Smith’s taut, narrow hips and cupped a muscular buttock in each hand, squeezing as hard as he could.

Smith gave an earthy chuckle. “Your hands are strong; you’ve been doing your exercises.”

Indeed, he had.

Even though Malcolm could squeeze Smith’s delectable arse and feel the muscle he couldn’t feel the silken skin, at least not with his left hand, and barely with his right, which had suffered burns on the tips of his fingers. But he could appreciate the sheer artistry and shape of the other man and allowed his fingers to explore the defined musculature of his back and then around front to his favorite part of Smith's body—what painters and sculptors called the Adonis Belt.

As for Smith’s cock? Well, Malcolm had never been able to take all of him but he took as much as he could, mouthing and licking and sucking while he reacquainted himself with the feel and taste of a thick, hard jack. It had been years, but sucking cock—just like swimming, it seemed—was a tricky skill to acquire but difficult to lose.

Smith’s powerful hips were slow and easy at first, pushing deeper with each thrust and testing his limits. Malcolm opened wider, silently indicating his eagerness for more and Smith worked him with controlled pulses.

Malcolm tasted the coppery tang of blood and knew the injured corner of his mouth had torn from the girth of Smith’s shaft, not to mention the increasing violence of his thrusts.

The pain incited rather than dampened his lust and he dug his fingers into Smith’s rock-hard arse. It felt oddly liberating to be used—nothing more than a hole for Smith’s pleasure, an empty vessel to be fucked and filled. As the thrusts grew more violent, Malcolm opened his throat, timing his breathing to each stroke.

Smith grunted. “Yes … good … so … fucking …good.” He pistoned roughly, his thrusts savage and his fingers painful in Malcolm’s hair. “Coming,” he gasped, his cock thickening and spasming as he flooded Malcolm’s throat with hot, bitter spunk.

Malcolm swallowed every drop, milking his balls dry before Smith opened his eyes and pulled out, his chest rising and falling as if he’d been running. He cupped Malcolm’s jaw—the injured side this time—and brushed his thumb over Malcolm’s lower lip, thumbing the bloody corner of his mouth, before lifting his hand to his mouth and sucking his finger clean.

He cut a glance down to where Malcolm’s cock hung heavy, hard, and leaking. “Come for me, Mal.”

Malcolm barely needed to stroke himself twice before he came off, hot spurts jetting onto his knuckles, the sensation in his overworked balls somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Spent and exhausted, he heaved a contented sigh and rested his head against Smith’s hard belly as he caught his breath.

“I think you needed that,” Smith said, his voice thick with humor.

Malcolm’s throat and mouth already hurt—and they would be worse tomorrow—but Smith spoke the truth.

Why the hell had he waited so bloody long to take the other man up on his offer?

Because you’re a stubborn fool.This time the voice was his own, rather than his dead wife’s.

Smith’s fingers slid under Malcolm’s chin and he tilted his face until he met his gaze. “A man can’t exist on his own, Malcolm.” Something like desolation flickered across Smith’s severe features. “Trust me—I’ve tried.”

He helped Malcolm to his feet, pulling him up easily, even though Malcolm was at least six inches taller and three stone heavier.

Once he was standing Smith did something he had never done before: he embraced Malcolm.

They had engaged in every manner of debauchery over the years, but never this. Never just comfort.

Malcolm’s arms rose slowly and he patted Smith, tentative at first, gradually tightening his hold.

Christ. Who knew this could feel so bloody good? So… comforting?

Only as he was standing there, the tension draining from his body, did Malcolm realize that he’d been in a silent, but lethal, state of rage for days—ever since Smith had given him the information about Harlow and Sheehan and what they’d done all those years ago. His revenge had barely begun and yet he was already exhausted.

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