Falling for the Beast (A Modern Fairy Tale Duet 2)

Was she really going to do this?

For all she knew, she’d look ridiculous splayed out on the bed. Blake hadn’t, but then his body was hard, masculine, and completely unyielding. Hers, she admitted ruefully, was soft. He seemed to like her curves, but that didn’t mean she needed to display them.

No, what was she thinking?

He was far more on display every single day—to strangers, no less. And on that unlikely afternoon when she had caught him masturbating, he had exposed himself to her. His pleasure, his body. His heart. It was only fair she return the favor.

She toed off her panties and unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the floor amid the other puddles of clothing. Half-bending, she almost picked them up to fold them…stalling, of course. Even determined, the urge to delay, to hide, tugged at her.

No more waiting. Blake could pull up at the house any minute.

She couldn’t reproduce the element of surprise, considering her repaired car was out front. But she could make the vulnerability real. The moment of unvarnished intimacy.

Climbing onto his bed, she settled herself back, feeling unaccountably raw. Her nipples pebbled in the chilly air even while her face heated with embarrassment. When she slipped trembling fingers down to her sex, she found her lips dry and curled up tight.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. This required a little imagination.

What had he been thinking of that day?

She remembered now. Her mouth, his cock. She’d sucked him in that little fantasy, and goddamn, it worked for her too. She loved the taste of him, the shape of him, the little ridge underneath, perfect for hooking her tongue around and making him shudder. Imagining it now, she touched two fingers lightly to her clit, warming herself up through contact alone.

No pressure, no friction—just a whisper touch.

Letting her mind drift, she fell deeper into the fantasy.

The hair on his thighs abraded the sensitive outer curve of her breasts as she knelt between his legs. His hands shifted restlessly through her hair, clenching and releasing as if he couldn’t decide which to do. He groaned on every stroke of her lips down his slippery cock. His whole body drew up tight when she angled the point of her tongue into the slit, and she could almost taste the salty precome.

She imagined him finding her. Would he be surprised? Or maybe not. The things they had done were far dirtier than fondling her clit or pinching her own nipples. And yet, a shaky feeling had begun in her center, warning her, berating her. Don’t put yourself out there, it said. Wait. Just wait. For what, though? She’d never quite understood. For the man to make the first move. For her mother to direct her safely through life.

For Blake to decide she was strong enough to stay.

Well, screw that. Her relationship with Blake may have started awkwardly, and mortifyingly, but she had always been an equal participant. Her mother may have raised her, but these past few weeks, Erin had taken care of her.

And she hoped Blake didn’t doubt her anymore, she truly did.

But the important thing was that she knew she was strong enough to stand beside him, whatever problems he might face. His physical injuries, which still pained him. The PTSD which probably always would. And the incipient self-doubt that would always lurk in the shadows of this powerful, confident male. She could handle any of it, all of it. She had done so for their entire time together, and she’d never been happier than she was with him.

She knew, without ego or artifice, that he was happiest with her as well.

Love wasn’t a lightning strike, a sharp point with a definite beginning and an inevitable end. It wasn’t a flash that was over before you could even register the pain. Love was a shelter from the storm, respite from her fears and relief from the reality of his scars.

The air around her shifted, but instead of cold, her skin grew warm.

Little sparks on her nipples and aiming down to her core let her know she was being watched. The sense of contentedness that entered her body let her know who it was. Her sex grew slicker under the regard, but she kept her eyes firmly shut.

This was for him…and for her. A wintry undercurrent of shame made her arousal burn hotter. Soft footfalls on the carpet drew closer.

A gentle caress touched her lips. “Beautiful,” he said.

Above all, she knew him to be honest, and the fact that he found her beautiful, the fact that he found her mouth or face beautiful when her whole body was exposed to him, made her heart clench. A tear leaked from her closed eyelid.

He caught it with his finger and traced its path back up her cheek.

“Don’t be sad,” he said, and she heard the sadness in his voice—an ineffable sorrow for what he had seen, for what he had been through. If there was anyone who understood suffering, it was him. And yet, he seemed to derive more joy than anyone she knew.

He found it in her body, in her company. He found it in books and teaching. He found joy in living again, and her love for him was boundless, expanding.

“Oh, Blake,” she said, too choked up to say anymore. Her tears fell in earnest then.