Page 43 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I pull back from his cock, let the spit flood down my chin as he watches. “Beg me,” I croak out. “Beg me to let you come.”

His eyes narrow.

“Beg me,” I repeat. “Or I’ll leave you like this.”

For a second, I think I’ve pushed him too far. That he’s going to shut this down, leave me alone on my knees.

But then he gets this expression on his face that I haven’t seen for far too long.

The look of a man who takes what he wants.

“I told you, Clemenza. I don’t beg.” His free hand shoots out and wraps around my throat. His grip isn’t vicious enough to cut off my air, just enough to feel my pulse thrumming. His eyes bore into me. “But you look real pretty on your knees. Open your mouth.”

My mouth falls open obediently, a Pavlovian response to that dark, commanding tone. He grips the base of his cock, angling himself toward my open, waiting mouth.

“Stick out your tongue,” he rasps, the hand around my throat flexing slightly. “Show me how much you want it.”

I obey, pushing my tongue out as far as it will go, buzzing with anticipation. I want him to lose control, to show me the beast I know is still in there.

Because he is. He’s right here in front of me, that contradictory, hypocritical, loyal-to-the-death beast who bought me and broke me and still refuses to beg for me, even though he’s suffocating under his own guilt.

His thumb strokes up and down the side of my throat, a calming, intimate gesture that makes me weak for him. His gaze is so intense it’s almost painful.

But instead of using my mouth, he starts to work himself.

He pumps his cock in a tight, perfect fist, the slick sounds of his spit-soaked dick and his quickening breath the only things I hear. His knuckles brush against my lips in a teasing, maddening contact. He’s aiming at me, but he’s not letting me touch him. He’s denying me the satisfaction of getting him off.

It’s infuriating.

And it’s infuriatingly hot.

His breath hitches, and I know he’s close. His rhythm stutters. He looks down at me, at my open mouth and outstretched tongue, and he lets out a harsh groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from the depths of his soul.

“Wider,” he grunts, and I obey, my jaw aching with the strain of it. His grip on my throat tightens a little more. “I’m gonna mark you, Clemenza. Paint that pretty face so everyone knows who you belong to.”

A whine escapes me, pleading. Needy.

Begging.

And then he explodes.

The first thick splash hits me right on the tongue, a hot, salty mouthful. But he doesn’t stay so targeted. He paints me, just like he said he was going to. A stripe across my cheekbone. Another on my chin. A glob on my lower lip.

I don’t move. I wait there patiently, let him mark me, make a mess of me.

And I hope the camera captures it all.

His hand slides away from my throat as he sinks back against the wall, breathing hard. He’s still watching me, eyes still fixed on my face where he just laid out his claim for the whole world to see—or the Morellis, anyway. He reaches out to swipe a hand over my cheek, massaging his cum into my skin. I lean into his touch, my eyes never leaving his.

With his bandaged hand, he pulls me to my feet, but I pull away with a deliberate, sharp movement. I’m still hard, but I had a plan.

I had a plan when I started all this, and I need to stick to it.

He looks at me, his chest still heaving. “I’m not finished with you,” he says, and grips me harder.

“But I’m done with you,” I tell him softly. “I got what I wanted.”

Something shifts in him. I see it happen. The confusion and the anger in his eyes harden into something else. Something dark and familiar and dangerous. “A face full of cum?” he growls.