Page 74 of The Beast

I laugh. “It worked,” I whisper.

“I guess it did. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I shiver. “Because I woke up this morning and I still wanted you. But not to punish. Not to prove anything. Just...to have you. To be inside you. To watch your face when you come apart.”

Oh god.

“So that’s what I want now.” His hands slide down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I want to take my time. I want to learn your body again—every curve, every sound, every place that makes you gasp.” His lips brush my ear. “I want to make you come so many times you forget your own name. And then I want to do it again.”

My knees actually wobble. “That’s...very specific.”

“I’ve had all day to think about it.” He’s smiling now—that wicked smile I remember from before, the one that always meant I was in for a very long, very satisfying night. “Any objections?”

“Not a single one.”

He kisses me again, and this time there’s no hurry. Just the slow, devastating exploration of his mouth on mine, his tongue sliding past my lips like he has all the time in the world. His hands find the hem of my shirt, then slip underneath to trace the curve of my waist with agonizing patience.

“Bedroom,” I manage against his mouth.

“Eventually.”

He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall, then drops to his knees in front of me. My breath catches as he looks up, those ice-blue eyes burning into mine while his fingers work the button of my slacks.

“Gabe—”

“Shh.” He tugs the silk down my hips, taking my underwear with it. “I told you. I’m taking my time.”

And he does.

His mouth finds the inside of my thigh first—soft kisses, the scrape of his beard, the hot press of his tongue against sensitive skin. I’m already trembling by the time he reaches the apex, already wound so tight I might shatter.

Then his mouth is on me, his tongue teasing my clit, and I stop thinking entirely.

He knows my body. Even after five years, even after everything that fell down around us, he knows exactly how to take me apart. Slow, devastating strokes of his tongue. The press of his fingers inside me, curling just right. The way he groans against my flesh like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.

I come with his name on my lips and my fingers fisted in his hair.

He doesn’t stop.

“Gabe,” I gasp as he works me through the aftershocks and straight into another climb. “I can’t.”

“You can.” His voice vibrates against me. “Again.”

The second orgasm hits harder than the first, a wave that crashes through me and leaves me boneless. My legs give out entirely, but he catches me, rises, presses me back against the wall with his body while I remember how to breathe.

“Bedroom now?” I manage weakly.

“Now,” he agrees.

He carries me there—actually carries me like I weigh nothing—and lays me on the bed with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. Then he strips off his shirt, and I watch the scars ripple across his skin as he moves. Beautiful and brutal.

Mine.

“Your turn,” I say, reaching for him.

He lets me undress him. Lets me trace each scar with my fingers, then my lips. The bullet wounds. The burns. The raised welts that crisscross his back. I kiss every one of them, feeling him shudder under my touch.

“Izzy.” He catches himself. “Bella.”

“You can call me Izzy.” The words surprise me, but they’re true. “When we’re like this. When it’s just us.”