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

And when he bent his head and tormented those pretty breasts, he didn’t hold back. He made them shake, sucking her hard and then releasing. He marked the pale skin with the stubble on his cheeks, with his teeth. He used her flesh in every way he wanted, reveling in the soft sounds that slipped from beneath his hand.

He moved down her body, teasing and sucking the tender skin of her stomach, pushing her to the brink and then soothing her, quieting her again. To do what he wanted, to go where he wanted, between her legs, tasting her, he would need to remove his hand from her mouth. He didn’t want to. Not when he knew how it affected her, when he’d felt her squirm under his body, felt the soft pants against his hand. She wanted this as much as he did—more. So when he finally released her, when he moved down her legs, taking her jeans and panties off as he went, he made a new plan.

Her panties were damp with arousal. He pressed the wetness to his mouth—a dirty kiss. Then he bunched the soft fabric and reached up.

Her lips parted, in surprise more than acceptance.

He used the opening anyway and pushed the fabric half into her mouth, a gag more effective than his hand, both more intimate and less, more tightly controlled and setting her free. Her body moved in a sinuous wave, painting shadows on her skin, giving only glimpses of her pink flesh. He longed to spread her wide. His dick throbbed, imagining that tight heat wrapped around him.

But he wouldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t do that to her.

Even in this state, half feral, he couldn’t risk scaring her with how he really felt.

So he gave himself time, by moving between her legs, by kissing her clit. He wasn’t gentle, though. It was the one solace he gave himself, to fuck her with his tongue and his stubble and the graze of his teeth. She bucked up into him, her muffled moans a sweet music, humping his face until she keened out her release.

Liquid gushed onto his tongue and he swallowed it down. Only when he had drunk every drop of her pleasure, when he’d granted himself that reward, did he rise up and plunge inside.

She was slick and swollen and so well prepared. But even now she clenched hard around his intrusion, making him grunt in sweet agony. It felt too impossibly good inside her. It made him want to rut fast and hard, to finish as quickly as possible. But it also made him want to revel in slow, languid thrusts, making this sex last forever. It was a cruel paradox, one that had him pistoning his hips without any control at all, without any thought but to have her, take her, claim her.

Her eyes filled with tears, casting a strange and ethereal light. She looked like some kind of otherworld creature, a fairy come to torment him, come to save him. He was drunk on her, and on whatever magic made him this way—almost cruel.

Why did the sight of her lips stretched around her damp underwear make him wild? How did she make him crazed with just one fucking question?

Who was your first?

She was his first—the first woman he’d loved, the first woman he’d let in. The first woman to truly love him back, and he hated that she’d ever fucking doubted them.

It made him rough when he pushed inside her. Rough enough to hear her gasp. He tore the panties from her mouth so he could kiss her the way he wanted, deep and crude. He fucked her with his tongue the same way his dick thrust inside. He wanted her to taste her juices, to know that he was the one who had made her feel this way.

Only when she whimpered a final, softer orgasm did he let himself go. He pushed inside her again and again, almost fighting her, rough and hard and everything he shouldn’t be. He fucked her like an animal—and that was how he came, with a roar that could be heard through the entire house.

He slumped over her, blanketing her with his body. She still shook slightly beneath him. Aftershocks? Or had he really hurt her?

He raised his head, and she smiled at him—so sleepy and full of love that his heart seemed to squeeze. He rolled over, bringing her with him, so she was sprawled on top of him. In minutes their breathing had evened out and matched up.

A soft snore, and he knew she was sleeping. It made him smile, but he was nowhere near sleep.

Who was your first?

As if the question was anything to do with a long-ago girl or the fact that she’d had braces and he’d been nervous out of his mind. No, the question was about the fear he’d seen in her eyes. The fear that he’d seen when she’d met his parents, seen their house. Maybe the fear had always been there and she’d just hidden it—or he’d just pretended not to see.

She still saw the class differences between them.

And he’d been an idiot not to see them too. Not that he believed himself above her in any way. But their childhoods had shaped them. He didn’t want to think of himself as a pompous, self-entitled prick, but he couldn’t deny that was exactly what he’d been raised to be. And no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how much he believed in equality, no matter how much he was head-over-fucking-heels in love with Erin, it could never change his past.

Chapter Thirteen

Erin

Erin woke up the next morning with an ache between her legs. It took a moment to remember what had happened yesterday—the long drive, the Ice Queen, the wild sex in Blake’s childhood room.

After that there’d been an awkward dinner with only a long table and dim lights to hide her blush. Neither of Blake’s parents had commented on their little nap, thank God.

And for whatever reason, his mother didn’t launch into any more guilt tirades. Mostly she just drank martinis while Blake’s father grilled him on his position at the university, his career plans, and his investment portfolio. Blake put up with it through the salad course and the main course before he persuaded his father to talk about political maneuvers from his heyday.

Once he got started, Mr. Morris didn’t stop talking. It was hugely interesting to listen to his stories, a front-row seat to some of the major political dramas in their past. When Blake winked at her from across the table, she knew he’d done that on purpose.

What could she say? She had a weakness for men who could talk history.