Page 61 of The Beast Who Begged Me

Caligula is pulling off his cufflinks, setting them in a mother-of-pearl dish on the dresser. I watch the white shirt pull across his shoulders, the bend of his neck as he works the second cuff, and the wanting hits so hard I have to look away. I didn’t bother to get so dressed up, so it’s easier for me to just yank off my tie, tear at my buttons, ball my shirt up, and slam it into the laundry basket.

“You think I’m relieved?” Caligula asks.

“Huh?”

“Nothing about this situation could be described as a relief for me, Dami. And as for your protection…” He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. “I could have a hundred men guarding that door. I’d still want you on this side of it.”

He’s talking about our argument on the landing, where I asked if he was relieved he didn’t have to be dependent on me for his safety.

I’m not proud of myself for letting that slip out, another sign of that obsessive, possessive nature I’m pretty sure I inherited from my father. I’m starting to wonder if Caligula and I are cursed to relive our fathers’ mistakes.

“I don’t want to have another argument,” I tell him, weariness overcoming me. “I performed for you all evening. All I can hope is that it paid off some of the debt I owe you.”

“I’m sorry I had to make you do that,” he says after a moment. And then he’s headed toward me, and I have to fight not to back up against the wall. Fight not to tell him to stay where he is, to not come too close.

He’s kept me on his leash all day and night, but it’s a single golden chain, not unlike the one he wore home from the Obelisk on the night I bought him. Too delicate, too easily broken.

He slides a hand up my bare chest and looks up into my face. “You’re doing it again,” he murmurs. “The penance act. But I told you what I wanted from you.” He drags his nails down my sternum, hard enough to sting. “I want you to take what’s yours.”

I hear a rushing in my ears, and I picture a big crack running down the Hoover Dam. Because that’s what this feels like: a fucking disaster. I have no way of stopping it, no more than I could shore up a breaking dam. I can’t find the line between us anymore—owner or owned, performance or real, my fury and my confusion and my overwhelming need for Caligula Clemenza.

It’s all one godawful thing now, one destructive force, running in both directions.

I grab him by the hips and slam him back against the wall. Pain flares in my hand and I ignore it. Caligula grunts at the impact, then grabs me by the hair, hauling my head down to his. He doesn’t say another word, just presses his lips against mine in a searing kiss.

And I let him have it. I let him have anything he wants from me.

I shove my thigh between his legs and grind up against him, and he groans into my mouth, a sound that goes straight to my cock.

I pull back just enough to open his pants, but he has to help, because my hands are shaking. I yank them down along with his underwear and he kicks his shoes off, so that he’s naked before me.

I pull open my pants enough to get my dick free, then lift one of his legs, hook it over my hip…and then I’m right there, my cockhead nudging up against his hole, bare skin on bare skin.

The old urge rises up suddenly: I want to hurt him.

Or—no. I want to make him feel something.

I slide a finger into his mouth and make him suck it until it’s slick and wet, then I push that finger into him, watching his face. His head is thrown back against the wall, his golden eyes narrow and gleaming as he watches me right back.

I add another finger, stretching him open. His eyes flutter closed, and when I crook my fingers just right, he lets out a choked cry.

“That’s it,” I rasp out. “Take it.”

But my other hand, the one holding some of his weight, is starting to ache. So I turn, carry him to the bed, and throw him down on it. It gives me a chance to get the lube out of the nightstand and slick myself up, and then I’m back on the bed, pulling his legs up.

I don’t go for a kiss. I just stare down at him as I push into him, just the tip at first, teasing.

“Dami…” he breathes, arching up into me. “Please.”

I shove into that hot passage, and he cries out. His ass is clutching at me, pulling me in, and every nerve ending in my body is urging me to move.

But I don’t.

I hold myself still, buried to the hilt, and look down at him. He’s gorgeous: face flushed, lips parted, those golden eyes dark with need.

“Is this what you wanted?” I demand. “Is this what you needed from me?”

“Yes,” he says, a whine of pure bliss.