“I have friends,” I mutter.
Grace snorts her opinion of that. She’s met Mal, Charm, and Wolf, and her opinion was not good.
“No, you have jackasses who haven’t landed you in trouble yet,” she says. “And overprotective ones at that.”
To be fair, Dad pulled me bodily around in front of my best friends, who always see me as a sub in need of care. Wolf interfering with my never-quite-stable dad wasn’t the best way for my closest friends to endear themselves to my bossy sister.
“Be nice,” is all I say though, and she lets out a puff of laughter.
“You sound happy, brother,” she says, at last, “and it’s been awhile since I could say that about you. I’m counting this as a win.”
“It’s not a permanent thing, Grace.”
“Doesn’t have to be. I gave up on trying to get you to settle down years ago, I just want you to be happy for now. Can we focus on that?”
I swallow hard, because fuck, I don’t deserve my sister.
“How is Dad?” I ask.
She’s quiet and I feel a pang of worry. “Grace?”
“Dr. Ortiz started him on a new cocktail of meds. He hasn’t been doing well on them, but you know how it is—they want to give them a few weeks to get into his system, see if they do any long term good.”
“But you don’t think they will.”
Her silence is enough of an answer.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, and she sighs.
“I don’t know what to do, James. I feel like we’ve done everything. There’s not a lot left to do but watch him crash and burn.”
I inhale sharply. “You don’t mean that.”
“No,” she says, reluctantly, “But I’m also running out of ideas and I’m not sure how much more I can handle.”
“What happened?” I ask, because this—this isn’t like my sister. Something caused this kind of defeated resignation.
There’s a beat of silence and then she glances at Lainey, still murmuring to herself as she colors.
Dread clenches in my gut and her eyes are full of tears when she looks at me. “She saw. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been—he took a naked ramble through the house, waving a knife around and talking about the coming apocalypse, but—James, she saw. It terrified her. I don’t—I don’t know how to raise a little girl in this environment.”
I nod. What the actual fuck do you say to that?
“We’ll figure it out, sis. I’ll—I’ll think of something. Ok?”
She watches me with big desperate eyes, and I force a smile, and nod firmly. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”
I feel it when Beauty comes into the room. I'm in the library, where we spend our evenings, but it's early enough in the day that I should be at her feet. I can feel the tension in her as she stands in the doorway and watches me where I sit at the window, staring out at the empty city. Her reflection is a pale, distorted thing on the glass in front of me, and I resist the urge to turn to her, to see the sharp clarity of her and let her ground me.
"You are upset," she says simply.
It’s a statement and an invitation, and I swallow my smile, feel it stick bitterly in my throat.
"Yeah," I say honestly, "I am."
She hesitates a long moment and then steps closer, and it's strange.
God, she's such a fucking dichotomy, brilliant and demanding and confidant, yet also this hesitant mess of nerves and tension and grumpy morning smiles. She’s the sweet curve of her body when we're relaxing and she’s the sharp sting of her nails in my hair.
I never know which side of Beauty I'm going to get at any given time, and the thought is fucking terrifying.
I don't know what to be, because I don't know who she will be.
"Tell me?" she asks softly, and I shudder.
"My family—my family is a mess. I keep trying to protect them and I don't think I can."
She's quiet and still, and I blink against the blinding sun.
"Dad has some mental health issues. Bipolar disorder. Paranoia. He’s brilliant, but he struggles. My sister has been taking care of him, but he's getting worse, and it's not fair to ask her to raise Lainey around that kind of instability."
"But?"
"But I don't want to have him committed. He can function, when he takes his meds."
She’s quiet for a long time before speaking. "You care about them a great deal, don't you?"
That startles me, because—what the fuck?
I turn and frown at her. "Of course I do. They're family."
Beauty shrugs thin, elegant shoulders. "Family can be the ones who hurt you the most, James."
It's not a revelation. I know it's not. But it's not not one either. I shift and drop my feet to the floor, coming to a stand in one lithe move. It pushes me close to her, so close I can feel her breath against my lips through the soft material of her ever-present mask.
"What happened in your family, sweetheart?" I murmur.
All the soft, sweet warmth in her vanishes. Her eyes flash cold, and I see fear there for a heartbeat before it's gone and she slaps me.
It’s hard enough that I taste blood where my teeth dig into my cheek, and I stumble a step back, shocked.
"Beauty—" I start and she makes a sound that's fierce and furious. It freezes me in my tracks and she falls back a few steps.
"That was not appropriate," she says, and my head drops. I know that tone, that subtly different voice, lower and just a little bit richer, but blank.
That is the voice my Domme uses.
"Yes, mistress," I murmur, and she stares for a long moment, then turns on her heel and retreats.
I should leave now. There's hitting and then there's hitting, and slapping me like that—totally unacceptable. I'd end a scene for less, at the Kingdom. Mal has kicked members out for this kind of shit, and I don't even blame him.
I should walk away.
I rub my jaw and watch the open, empty doorway, and then I follow her and take my place at her knees.
I'm in way too fucking deep to walk out now.
Chapter 11.
The tension is still there later that night. I sit at Beauty's feet through dinner, and she is almost brusque as she feeds me bits of chicken and vegetables. I'm kinda glad she doesn't attempt to share the rice—I feel like that would be a messy waste of time.
After she rises, she pauses and looks at me.
"I would like you to join me in the black bathroom in ten minutes."
Then she's gone and I'm left blinking at the empty space where she stood.
I rush through scraping Beauty's barely touched dinner into the trash, tossing the dishes into the sink for Cook, and bolting back to my room to change into a clean pair of pants.
This is new. Beauty prefers the darkness of the black room and the brutality of her tools.
The black bathroom is, as its name would suggest, painted black. There is a large wide black marble sink, a shining mirror, silver accents, and fluffy black towels. There’s a large tub and a free-standing shower with a hanging shower head. Water is already swirling in the tub, inky against the black, shining with promise.
Beauty is what really holds my attention.
She's standing there, barefoot, in tight white pants and a white corset, laced up the front in startling black.
Her mask (because of course she's wearing a mask) is plain, almost severe, and white. Her dark brown hair spills over her bare shoulders and into her face, and she's—empty handed.
She never comes to me like this, empty handed and startlingly visible and cold.
God, she's cold, barely looking at me when she orders, "Undress and get into the tub."
I do as she says, not bothering to make it a show. She isn't here for a show. She has a very specific goal in mind, and I’m merely a tool to use as she gets there.
I hiss a little when I step into the water and she adjusts the temperature until it's pleasantly hot, but not so hot it'll scald me. I
lean back, adjusting my legs wide and open, a blatant invitation.
She doesn't even look at me.
Beauty just watches the water steadily rising until she seems satisfied with it, and then she perches on the edge of the counter and finally—finally—she looks at me.
Listen, I know I'm hot. For fuck’s sake, I seduced Charming and Mal. I'm a good-looking guy, when I'm on my knees and when I'm not, but like this—I know I make a pretty picture. I spread my legs a little more, so she can see the heavy erection that's already forming, the heavy weight of my balls, and arch my back in invitation, giving her the dirtiest smile I can manage.
I've worked in the sex industry for the better part of a decade. I can do fucking filthy.
"I would like to watch you ejaculate," Beauty says, clinical and detached, and I make a low noise of need, reaching for myself, quick and grabby.
She doesn't react to that, and her eyes are too cold for me to read anything in them, which bothers me a lot. I try to form a word—any fucking word will do—but her gaze cuts from my face to my hand, moving quick and just the right side of rough, stroking hard. It's been three days since our last scene, and even though I got her off yesterday, spreading her legs wide under her desk and licking her as her fucking heels dug painfully into my back until she came on my tongue and I came in my fucking pants (the ones she made me wear the rest of the goddamn day), I’m still hard and aching for it, desperate for that sweet spot of oblivion that washes all my thoughts clean.
My breathing goes high and choppy, and I can feel my climax building as I work my dick. Her gaze is on me, cool and assessing and never once moving away from the rough slide of my hand and my cock fucking into it, and I whine, arching up, right there—
"Stop."
I freeze, so close to the edge I can taste it, and she makes a low noise of impatience in her throat that prompts me to release my dick.
"You should wash your body," she says simply, and I stare at her, too startled to do anything more than that.
"Beast, unless you would like to use your safe word," she says, formal as fuck, which is funny all things considered—
"I don't," I rasp out and reach for the soap, going about it quick and efficient because why not? That's what she is.
I finish quickly, avoiding my erection, and move to stand.
"Fuck your fingers," she says, and my gaze shoots up, searching for hers. "You may use two."
We've done this. She's given me orders, walked me through working myself open before she fucked me with a bright pink—pink? Really?—dildo. She's talked me through jerking off.
This isn't unusual, excerpt where it is. I catch the lube she tosses to me and she stares at me, finally meeting my gaze, all imperious demand. I pop the top open, slick up my fingers, and go to work.
I'm still riding the high of pleasure, close enough to climax that I don't have to tease myself for long. I shiver a little, rubbing circles over my hole, before I push in and moan, because fuck that's good. The slight burn, the fight before my fingers slide deep and I gasp, rocking down on them. It's awkward as hell, contorting and writhing in the water until my finger brushes over my prostate and I whine, thrashing a little.
"Again."
I do it again and again, until I'm gasping and my dick is jerking and then when the orgasm is boiling in my blood—
"Stop."
I almost scream.
She stands and picks up a towel. "You should get out. The water must be cold."
That—that doesn't—
"Beast," she says, patient but annoyed. "Get. Out."
I do, and she hands me the towel, watching me as I dry myself, the way I flinch and shudder as I pat over my cock.
"Lie on the bed, ass in the air."
I freeze, staring at her, and then do as I'm ordered. I'm the best sub in the fucking Kingdom. I can do this.
I can be what she needs.
Beauty doesn't speak when she enters the room, just moves loud enough that I know she's there, slipping up behind me and pressing a smooth, cool plug into me. I moan and rock back into it, and she slaps me, hard enough that I know she means it. I go still.
When the plug is all the way in, the base nestled against my ass and curving up behind my balls, she taps my shoulder. "Sit up."
I hiss as the head of the plug brushes my prostate when I shift, and she twists that damn cockring, the one from our first fucking scene together, onto my aching dick.
It hurts, and I'm such an idiot. I've finally caught up, finally figured out what the hell she's doing, and I want to curse.
I fucking hate edging.
She fixes nipple clamps to me next, with a weighted chain connecting them, and then arranges me on the bed on my hands and knees, with my ass in the air.
I hear her pause after she crawls off the bed, and I want to turn my head, want to see the look on her face at the sight of me like this. I want to read the expression in her eyes that no one else seems to understand but I fucking get it, and that means something, dammit. It does.
She makes a low noise, and it's not the happy noise I fucking love. It's one of disgust and disapproval.
Oh fuck. Fuck. No.
"Beauty," I gasp, and she makes it again.
I forget how fast she is until she fucking moves. Before I can really comprehend what's happening, there’s a ball gag shoved in my mouth, stretching my lips almost obscenely wide.
"Shut. Up," she snarls into my ear, buckling it with ruthless efficacy and I whine behind the gag.
"You need to be quiet," she mutters and stands. The blow comes quick, but I’m expecting it. I gasp against the ball, and she growls. "Cocky. So fucking cocky." She hits me again. "A brat. You need to learn your place."
Beauty keeps hitting me and the words keep coming, and it’s the words, the words that are the worst. They’re worse than the constant pressure on my prostate, worse than the sharp weight on my nipples, worse than the fucking ring that won't let me come, won't let me end this.
Dirty. Whore. Bad. Don't deserve this. Not good enough. Bad. Slut. Needy. Bad. Cocky. Brat. Bad. Replaceable. Bad. Dirty. Bad. Needy. Bad.
Bad.
She hits me again, a sharp bruising slap against my balls as she throws those words at me and I scream against the gag, scrambling away from her, slamming into the headboard.
She gasps. "James!"
I hear it, the shock and fear in her voice, but it doesn't compute, doesn't reach me, because she doesn't want me, she doesn't want me, she's doesn't need me.
I'm shaking and she's there, her hands so goddamn steady I’d shout if I weren’t sobbing, and my cock is free and I come, hard, spasming and screaming into the gag, thrusting against her, and I'm bad, I know I am. I shouldn't have come. She's going to be angry.
I whine when she gently pulls the plug free, cleans me quick and efficient, removes the ball gag, and then I curl up away from her, shaking as I wrap around myself.
"James."
"Fahrenheit."
She freezes, her eyes so shocked I almost laugh.
What about that freak out didn’t make it obvious I was safe-ing out? What about that was healthy and ok? I shake and curl up and say, as clearly as I can, "Unless you plan on providing some fucking aftercare, Beauty, leave me alone."
"You aren't well."
I snort. "No shit," I spit.
Bad, bad, bad.
"I would like to help," she says, and her voice is small.
“No, you don’t,” I say, shaking my head. She reaches for me and I flinch, pulling away from her. I can’t take her being gentle, not right now, not after that.
The words ricochet in my head, a screaming accusation, and I’m not good enough for her. I curl tighter into myself and make a pained noise as my knees rub against my tender nipples. “Go away,” I whisper into the sheets.
“James,” she begins and I shove up. I don’t want to be here, don’t want to be with her.
“I fucking safe-worded, Beauty. The scene is ove
r.” I hiss the words and brush past her. I can feel her watching me, feel the weight of her gaze, so I keep my back straight and my gait steady, and I don’t shake.
I’m the best fucking sub in the Kingdom, and I’m not about to break where she can see me.
When I’m finally in the quiet cool gray of my room, I crumple, slam into the plush carpet with a groan I barely catch, and I shatter, falling apart under the weight of pain and her words, and the knowledge that whatever I do, I’m not gonna can do enough.
Whatever I am, I can’t be what she needs.
Chapter 12.
I wake up slowly and almost cry out when I move. My whole body fucking hurts.
It comes crashing down on me, the whole night and the steady pounding words, the gag in my mouth and the way I bolted after it was over, without waiting for the aftercare that I knew wouldn't come, crashing into my room and curling up as small as I could in a corner, the blanket wrapped around me my feeble protection from the night.
I'm still there, in that damn corner, my back a line of fire as I press against the wall and balance on my sore ass and legs that are long dead, pins and needles shaking up and down them.
I need to move, need to get into the shower and loosen up all the tense muscles that are screaming at me. I need to stretch out on that big bed and let my back and legs breathe where she beat me. Make sure that the skin isn't torn up and is healing well.
I need to do anything but sit in this corner, thinking about that fucking black room and the pressure that didn't feel like pleasure, not once she started talking and all I could do was hear how much I let her down, and all I could feel was the screaming pain and the desperate urge to bolt, to get as far as possible from her.
I fucking used my safe word. A decade of doing this shit, and the only time I had was with Charm, and he was into blood play.
I loved my best friends, but I didn't want to carry the man's damn brand on my skin.
Last night wasn’t even that bad. I’d been through worse, physically and psychologically. Hell, sometimes at the same time, when Mal was feeling his feels.
So why the fuck did I freak out so badly? Why did I safeword in the middle of it, thrown into a blind panic?
Wicked Beast (Wicked Ever After Book 2) Page 5