Page 65 of The Beast Who Begged Me

Before I think it through, I have him backed up against the wall, and when my hands move over him, the mission has changed. I’m not looking for injuries.

I’m looking for permission.

He gives it by opening his mouth to let my tongue dominate his. I’ve been desperate for another taste of him. His sweetness. His give.

I want to mark him again. Remind him he’s alive.

Remind him that he’s mine. No matter how many worthless Clemenzas swear to him, he belongs to me.

And unless I’m reading things completely wrong, he wants the same thing. His hands fumble at my belt, my zipper, and I grab his shirt; we strip each other with no finesse, only need. He runs his hands all over my chest with a moan, and I grab his ass.

But then I see it. A small red mark on his forearm. Not from the blade, but from my own grip earlier when I hauled him away.

I need to see. I need to see all of him. Make sure there’s nothing I missed. No small cut, no shallow wound, no tiny speck of blood that I overlooked.

I drag him to the bed, push him down on it. Then I fall on him, hold him down, make him submit to my inspection. But he’s clear. He’s fine, and so at last, I slide my lips down his chest, sucking at his nipples until they’re beaded up.

“Dami…Jesus Christ…”

“You want me to stop?” I rasp.

He just shakes his head, and then I’m moving again, down his stomach. I press my face against the flat planes of it, inhaling the scent of his sweat and his fear and his arousal. His cock is hard, already drizzling out some of that sweet candy center I’m craving. I wrap my lips around the head and he jolts under me.

His hand snakes around my thigh, pulling me insistently until I swivel my position, plant my knees on either side of his head, and lower my dick into his open mouth. His tongue slides against the slit, tasting me, and I take all of him in return—and still need more. I suck him deep while I thrust into his throat until he gags.

But he doesn’t protest. If anything, he pulls me closer with his hand on my thigh, the ring on his finger digging into my skin. For a strange moment, I picture the two of us as that ring. Devouring each other instead of ourselves.

That’s how it is between us. We feed on each other to survive.

His cock swells up in my own mouth, telling me he’s right there with me. So I don’t bother drawing it out. I’m too greedy for him.

I press a fingertip against his hole, and his hips lift off the bed, pressing him deeper into my throat. And he’s done: a choked gasp vibrating into my balls as he spills in my mouth. I’m so focused on milking him that my own nut is an afterthought. But he takes it, swallows it down, and I let him stay there after, too, suckling at my spent dick like it’s a pacifier. I take it for as long as I can stand it, oversensitive and overwhelmed, and then I roll off, panting.

He doesn’t give me much more than a second before he’s climbing on top of me again, kissing me, sharing the taste of me. But at last I push him to the side, worried by his frenzy.

It’s just a reaction to coming so close to death. And hell, I like this one better than him freezing up, like he did at the last attempt.

But he needs to calm down. He needs to rest.

He watches me from the pillow, his face still flushed and wet, his lips red and swollen. I pull him close and he rests his head on my shoulder.

I can’t lose him.

“We’re leaving,” I tell him. I lift his chin and make him look me in the eye. “Tomorrow morning. I’m getting you the hell out of here and into a place I control. You hear me?”

He just nods.

It’s not ready, the townhouse. But it’s still better than anywhere else right now, including this mansion with cameras in every corner and enemy ears in every wall. The paint can wait. The locks, the steel walls, the alarms—I made damn sure all those were finished first.

We shower and then let the Morellis know what happened, on Caligula’s insistence. And then Rosa feeds us dinner, and I’m glad to see Caligula eat a whole lot of it.

When we get into bed that night, I sling an arm around him, exhausted down to the bone. But just as I’m about to be swallowed up by sleep, he interrupts. “Dami?” I can only grunt. “There’s something inside the ring.”

I pull myself back to consciousness. “What?”

The ouroboros is still on his finger—I feel it against my skin—but he’s turning it, over and over, with his thumb. “There’s an engraving, I think,” he goes on.

“What is it?”