Page 102 of The Beast Who Begged Me

Right now, it’s here, on top of him.

I should tell him. Give him the chance to get off this bed, call me a fucking liar, walk out while he still can. Instead, I kiss him again and let him pull me close.

I want him happy. I want him exhausted enough to sleep while I get up and do the thing he’ll never forgive.

His hands move down my back, his hips grinding against mine. I slip a hand beneath his shirt and spread my palm across his stomach. Goosebumps rise beneath my fingers, and he sighs into my mouth. I’m already hard for him.

I can’t lose him.

I can’t let him walk out and get himself killed.

When he tugs at my shirt, I let him pull it over my head. He drops it on the floor and kisses along my collarbone to the base of my throat, where a sharp little bite makes me gasp. I slide a hand into his hair—careful of the implant at the back of his neck—and tip his head aside to return the favor. His breath catches as I bite where his shoulder meets his neck, then breaks into a moan.

We strip off the rest of our clothes between kisses, and he pushes me onto my back.

“I want to ride you,” he says, breathless.

For once, I should let him take the lead. I owe him that much, don’t I? That tiny measure of control?

He swings a leg over me, straddling my hips, his slit glistening with pre-cum. I wrap my hand around him, and he thrusts into my grip. “That’s it,” I murmur. “Take what you need.”

He fucks my fist, head thrown back as he revels in my touch. Then he leans over me, braces his hands on my shoulders, and takes my mouth. I kiss him back, swallowing the apology I should be making for what I’m going to do to him.

Again.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “Tell me you stocked lube in this awful place,” he pants.

“Of course I did.” I pull out a drawer under the bed. There, between a flashlight and an extra bottle of water, is a brand-new bottle of lubricant. I toss it to him, and he catches it with a laugh.

He slicks his fingers, and I watch as he slides one inside himself, then two, stretching himself open for me. Then he coats my dick, positions himself over it, and sinks down in a slow, wet slide.

The pressure of him closing around me is almost too much. I nearly confess. Tell him he should run from me, that I’ll always be the man who bought him, imprisoned him…

But then he shifts slightly, and all thought leaves my brain. His hands are braced on my chest again, and I reach up to wrap mine around them, lacing our fingers together, clumsy with my bandaged hand.

His head is thrown back, his throat exposed, and I remember the machete.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, looking down at me.

I sit up, forcing him back, and he gasps as I push deeper, hitting that sweet spot inside him that drives him wild. I take hold of his hips and pull him up until only the tip of my dick is inside him, then bring him down hard.

I need him exhausted. Fucked out.

Completely wrecked.

So there’s no more finesse. Just a desperate, primal need to erase the fear that’s been eating me alive since Sammy was taken.

But he seems to be enjoying it just as much as I am, his hips bucking to meet every thrust. My hands slide over his sweating back, then down to cup his ass. I bite his shoulder again, harder this time, and his cry makes me do it once more. I mark him as mine.

Remind him that he’s alive.

Remind myself why I’m doing this: to keep him alive.

I turn us over, settling him on his back, and push his legs toward his chest. He wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me down for another kiss.

“Harder,” he gasps against my lips, and I give it to him, ramming into him hard enough to make the bed frame creak.

His hands are in my hair, tugging, urging me on. His breath brushes my ear. “Don’t stop.”