Still she didn’t turn. His hand gripped her neck, forcing her to turn and then her eyes locked with his. Her crystal gaze burned him like frostbite—hot, cold, uneven, angry yet lustful.
“You left me.”
“Do you remember what I told you while we were dancing??
?? Her gaze transformed, anticipation and something else, something primal filling the blue orbs. She nodded slowly. “What did I tell you, Frankie?” Anteros lowered his hand into her dress, capturing the peak of her nipple in a sharp pinch.
She gasped, leaning toward him. “That you didn’t have time to properly punish me.” Anteros twisted her and her mouth fell open wide. He twisted harder and she asked on a gasp, “Do you have time now?” The car was going to be there soon. He didn’t really have time, but he would make it.
She needed to be punished. For everything. For tonight, for this past month, for everything she did to him.
“Take off your dress.” He could see the war raging on inside of her brain when he commanded her. Part wanted to stand up and slap him, to leave, but there was a piece of her that called to him, he knew, because there was a piece of him that called back. She slowly got up and undid the zipper at her side, her dress falling in a heap of satin fabric at her feet.
“You’ve been very good so far, Frankie, so I’ll give you a choice.” He stood up, running his thumb down her jaw. “You can either end your punishment right now and walk to the car, or beg me to go easier on you.”
“Like this?” Her eyes popped. “I’m naked. There are people out there.”
He shrugged. “Not many.”
She jutted her chin out. “I’ll never beg you.” At her words, Anteros gestured to the door. Frankie looked to the door, to him, and then back to the door. With a bold breath, she took a step and opened it. Her face transformed when she realized just how many people were still out there. The sound of lingering music and partygoers drifted inside and Frankie quickly shut the door.
She turned back.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Oh Beast, I want you so bad. I’m begging.” His cheek quirked, but he said nothing. Leaning back into the couch, he draped his arms over the sides and studied her. In the dark she was no less radiant, but he could tell the silence was making her uncomfortable. She rubbed one smooth arm, looking around.
Everything was amplified in the dark, quiet room. The swish of his suit fabric against the couch. Her shallow, nervous breaths. When “Have Your Self A Merry Little Christmas” started to play, even the muffled song was like screams.
“Come here.” He drew one arm out, gesturing with his hand for her to come to him. She slowly tiptoed over, as if reconsidering with each step. When she was within reach, he grabbed her arm, forcing her to tumble off balance and into his lap. She gasped, arms tugging on his lapels. That thing between them sizzled and popped. It was what he’d been waiting for. That connection. That pulse.
“Do you like this?” he growled against her ear. “Do you like being made to do things, Frankie?” She said something, but it was so quiet he didn’t catch it. His fingers roamed her body, traveling all along her skin. Where he met her flesh, her skin rose and goose-pimpled, but he was sure to avoid the most sensitive parts of her.
She arched up to him, as though trying to force his hand, but he carefully bypassed the parts she wanted him to touch. She made an aggravated moan. Anteros wrapped his fingers around her neck and tightened his hold, forcing her to look up at him. Her face reddened, her mouth parted, and her eyes widened, but then she slackened as if waiting.
“I can’t hear you,” he snarled. Still she didn’t say anything. Anteros tightened his hold on her neck and drew her close so his lips were against her ear. “Beg me or you’ll go home with an ache between your thighs.” He loosened his hold on her and she swallowed in air greedily. As he spoke, he lightly dusted his fingers between her thighs, over her sensitive flesh. She bucked against him, her hands gripping his shoulders.
But Anteros let her go, because she still hadn’t begged.
“Wait.” She grasped the fabric of his suit, keeping him from leaving. He raised a brow, watching as she pulled her lip between her teeth, eyes darting from his to the floor. He could see the words stuck in her throat, bobbing up and down, but he wasn’t going to help.
“The car is here,” he offered. “Maybe you’ve reconsidered that option.”
“Please,” she said, sounding pained. Her nails scythed his shoulders.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and he pushed her back into the couch.
Twenty-One
“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, face planting into the leather seat of the limo—a limo this time, not a town car. He was stretched out on the opposite side, but that few feet of distance wasn’t nearly enough. Did I enjoy myself, he asked with a wry smile on his face, a smile that let me know he’d partaken in every form of debauchery possible tonight and there would be no remorse, only revelry.
He’d ripped me open, and I was simultaneously numb and screaming. Lying in that room, I’d been depressed, abject, totally broken because once again he reminded me I was nothing to him. He left me there for hours, which gave me hours to think about how I didn’t want this life. This wasn’t what I’d dreamed of. I didn’t want to don a mantle of shadows and murder and blood. Not even a month with the Beast and I could feel myself changing irrevocably. What would happen if I became the Princess? Who would I be?
And then he’d come into the room, hot, wanting, like fire, and stepped on the broken pieces of me, reminded me in the worst way possible that it wasn’t about my wants. He reminded me that my willpower was just smokescreen. He owned me. He could make me move, make me moan despite myself.
He could make me beg.
Because my wants were his wants.
Somehow I’d started to crave him; he’d become my drug.