“You’re awake.” He wasn’t drunk anymore.
I scrambled back against the headboard. I couldn’t do it a second time that night, couldn’t put myself through it again. I was already teetering on the edge of sanity. “Please, go away,” I whispered. “I’m done for the night. I’m so tired.”
Unperturbed, Beast stalked over and threw off the covers. He grabbed me by the ankles, pulling me down to the edge of the bed. His fingers speared into my hair, making a painful, tight knot of it, then he pulled me close to his face.
“You’re not done until I say you’re done,” he whispered against my cheek. Before I could respond, he’d thrown me back to the mattress. His fingers bruised my thighs, spreading me open, and then his palm was on me. Over the satin panties that went with the stupid nightie I had to wear, he pressed me.
Palmed me.
Rubbed me.
He worked into me with a delirious, tauntingly slow method, his other hand keeping me spread and pinned. I pressed my face into the mattress. I would not like this. Sanity demanded I did not like it. He continued to work me, not bothering to remove the panties. I bit the sheets.
“Feel that?” he asked, rubbing me. “Because I can see it. I can see you fucking ruining these panties.” At that he let go and I sighed, hoping it was over. Then he tore the satin off of me and flipped me over so I was on my back. My breath hitched; I was so open this way. On the edge of the bed with him between my thighs, I tried to keep my legs as closed as possible but he leaned down, bruising me with his hands again.
“Are you done?” he asked. His gaze ripped into me. Distantly I wondered if I could ever get used to it.
“I…” I trailed off. Bluegreen eyes washed inside of me, the air licking at my lips, making me feel even more exposed. “Yes. I’m done.” I knew it was a trick question, but I didn’t care. Without removing his eyes from mine, he thrust a finger up into me. I cried out. My neck arched off the bed and then teeth—his teeth—were on me. Hard, too, not soft or sweet nibbles, but deep scoring against my flesh as if he were claiming something, marking it with his bite.
He pressed against me. Two fingers now, maybe three, entered me. I lost myself in sensations, in the feel of his heat against me, in the sweat building along my arms and legs and neck in a delicious tingle. His cock was iron against my thigh, hard, heavy. I suddenly wished I didn’t have the babydoll on so I could feel him directly, feel his flesh pressing into mine. Feel his muscles, the hard rivets of him press into my soft skin.
He slipped his fingers out of me and I whimpered, but that whimper transformed into a groan as he plunged inside me. All of him. Thick, pumping. I reached out, needing to touch him, to anchor myself, but he pushed my arms down. With one hand, he trapped my arms above my head. With his other arm he stretched out the babydoll, exposing my breasts. While he pounded into me, he kept one hand locked on the shirt he’d stretched, his other keeping me pinned. His gaze raked over me, watching me with single-minded intensity. It was feral, like an animal that had just caught its prey.
“Are you done?” he asked, sliding out then plunging inside with ferociousness. “Are you?”
“I’m not done until you say I’m done,” I replied. My voice sounded drugged in my ears. His cock moved in and out, pounding with wild, ferocious abandon. This was what I’d imagined sex with a Beast would be like, what I’d feared since the night he took me. Right then I wasn’t afraid, though. Right then there was something deep within me, something curling and twisting and yearning for more.
I don’t know up from down anymore.
There’s a hurt inside of me. A hurt he created. A big, gaping hurt. He took a shovel to my soul, and dug with abandon, not caring about the cracks and irreparable holes that would be created. It’s a throbbing hurt. A soul-deep hurt that aches and cries and is viscerally alive with its pain. It has strings, it moves for him; he makes my pain dance like a marionette.
And I cry for him to cut the strings.
But when he cuts the strings, I bleed, and I think I might die.
My head lolled to the side as he released the babydoll. The nighty was totally, utterly stretched. I sighed, feeling deliciously spent, uncaring that I was naked and on display. With his free hand, Beast grabbed my chin.
“Are you done?” he asked. I nodded. I was done, but not for the reason I had said before—not for the reason that had driven him to this. My body and legs were jelly. I was positively satiated. I could sleep for days. I could practically feel the Cheshire smile on my face.
A harsh sting vibrated against my cheek and my eyes popped wide open. He had slapped me! The sting ricocheted in my body then settled into a dull, delicious ache as if reinvigorating all the parts of me that had fallen into their satiated comfort.
“You’re not done until I say you’re done,” he growled. I nodded and he pumped into me again. I could feel my body working back up. His bluegreen stare was heated, on fire, like a forest ablaze. I looked away from him.
There was a hurt inside of me, a hurt he created.
But he was the only one that could make it go away. He was the only one that could fix me now.
His touch seared my skin and soothed the wound.
His kisses flayed my lips and stitched the flesh.
His length tore apart my insides and wove sinful satisfaction.
He was the god of my pain, but his touch was my religion.
He pulled out, still hard, and asked, “Are you done?”
“Am I done?” I asked, looking up to him.