Page 9 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I bought him. I put him in a cage, taunted him. I’ve done things to him that I’d kill any other man for doing, and here he is, letting me touch him when I have no right to.

None.

I soap the rest of his body down, and he starts wriggling around, his intentions extremely fucking clear. “Quit it,” I order.

He ignores me, sliding back and forth, a slow, deliberate rub of his ass over my lap. I’m thickening under him, and it makes him bolder. He presses down until my whole length nestles into the seam of his ass. My hand goes still against his chest, but he only takes it as encouragement, reaching back to hold on to the back of my neck as he grinds down.

“You can barely fucking breathe,” I point out through clenched teeth. “You shouldn’t be⁠—”

He turns his head enough to catch my eye and let me read exactly what he needs. My cock throbs against his ass in agreement.

I know what he wants. But he could barely stand when he got out of bed. I lift him a little with the arm around his waist, use my free hand to guide myself between his thighs, then settle him against me again. He shifts around, trying to get me closer to where he wants me—inside him—but I tighten my hold.

“We do it my way or not at all,” I tell him.

He makes me wait a second, just for pride’s sake, but he nods in the end. He’ll take whatever I’m willing to give him.

He always has. From the darkest deeds to the kindest. From the basement to the crème caramel. From attempted murder to sleeping like a guard dog at the foot of his hospital bed.

I loosen my hold and press my mouth to his neck. “That’s my good boy.” My palm settles against his chest, where his heart beats fast beneath it.

He’s alive. Alive.

“Touch me,” I tell him.

He doesn’t move, except to tip his head back so I see the smirk on his face.

He’s alive, and he wants to play. “I’m not gonna beg for it. Put your hand on my dick, or you don’t get to come at all.”

He reaches down to where I’m snuggled between his legs, iron hard against his soft inner thighs. He wraps his fingers around me and I blow out a long breath, resist the impulse to thrust.

When he strokes, it’s a slow, languid pull. The water makes it easy, his fingers sliding over my blunt head, thumb circling my slit, already leaking for him.

Then I buck into his fist, one helpless movement that tells him how much power he has right now.

“Your turn,” I say quickly, and reach for him.

I match his pace, keeping it more teasing than satisfying. When he wiggles impatiently, I shift my grip, let my thumb rub into that sensitive spot on the underside of his cockhead. I know it’s there because I’ve tested every inch of him. I know what makes him squirm. What makes his eyes roll back. What makes him shoot.

I could have lost him.

The thought of it makes me clutch him harder in my arms. I could have lost him, and I would have had no one to blame but myself. I would never have seen him smile at me again. Never held him again. Never had the chance to tell him…

But I can’t tell him. I don’t have the right.

I increase the pace of my strokes on him, and he matches me. I get off on the contrast of his elegant hand around my thick cock, the way his fingers tighten whenever I do something he likes.

His eyes are shut, his head resting against my shoulder, water trickling over his chest as he pants. I find the tight bundle of his nutsack and tease it, feel it screw up even tighter. His movements get more erratic and his hand falters on me.

“Harder,” I tell him, and his hand tightens.

I want him covered in me. A primal claim so every other man knows who he belongs to.

“Look at me.” I want to see his face, remind myself he’s really here. Alive. Remind myself that maybe I have a chance to change things, as long as I don’t fuck up again.

“Come on,” I growl, my voice thick. “Make a mess for me.”

His balls knot up high. He’s going to pop, and I don’t want him to hold back, so I press my thumb into the V under his cockhead, and that’s it. His back arches off my chest, every muscle locking up. The sound that comes up in his raw throat tells me how wrecked he is, and he spills over my knuckles, warm as the water. I drag it out of him drop by drop until he’s too sensitive to be touched, and still I don’t stop.