by Skye Warren
Erin
Erin lay awake, unable to sleep, even as Blake rumbled peacefully through a dream behind her. A few minutes later she gave up and carefully slipped out of his arms. She padded out of the bedroom to find her mother sitting on the sofa with a book open in her lap, eyes staring sightlessly in front of her.
She snapped her attention to Erin as she entered. “What’s wrong? Do you need something to eat?”
Erin laughed softly. “Definitely not. You stuffed both of us full of enchiladas. And then the tres leches cake. I think I ate three slices of that cake.”
Her mother couldn’t hide her pleased look, almost smug. She enjoyed feeding people, and had especially liked the way Blake could pack it away. “I can give you the recipe.”
“The enchiladas, yes. I don’t think I should bake that cake, not when Blake and I can eat almost the entire thing in one sitting.”
Her mother patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit then, if you’re having trouble sleeping.”
Erin sat down on the worn couch. She’d spent hours here, studying for a test or watching TV or reading quietly beside her mother. This couch was more her home than the city or the house ever had been. And so it gave her the strength to bring up the topic that had kept her awake.
“Mama, remember I told you that Blake is Senator Morris’s son.”
Her mother grew still. “Yes, I remember.”
“And I know you used to work for them once.”
“Yes.” The word came softer now. It sounded almost afraid, and Erin didn’t want to continue. She didn’t want to be the one to hurt her mother, but she couldn’t continue as if she didn’t know.
“Blake’s father told him that you two were…involved.”
A long silence with only the distant, muffled sound of a slamming car door to fill it. “That’s true,” her mother finally said. “I was young…not as young as you. But much more foolish than you.”
Erin frowned. “It’s not foolish to fall for someone, even if they’re not a good man. We can’t control who we love. You taught me that.”
“That’s right, but you should know, Jeb—Mr. Morris—was a good man. He just made a mistake. There’s a difference.”
“A mistake? He let you get thrown out. He didn’t defend you.”
“I didn’t mean that, sweetheart. I meant having an affair. He cheated on his wife. And even if he cared about me when he did it, that doesn’t make it right.”
Erin had a hard time sympathizing with the Ice Queen after their encounter, but she knew her mother was right. “I guess.”
“And I knew he was married too. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him. I risked my job for that, and I lost it. I risked our family’s income and being able to care for you.” Her mother sighed, shaking her head. “Like I said, foolish.”
Erin took her hand. She knew how strong her mother was—cleaning houses was intense physical labor. And yet her mother’s hand felt small, almost frail. She squeezed. “I’m sorry for how it turned out, but I never would have wanted you to hold back, to not take a chance on love, just because you had me.”
“Now you understand why I worried for you. That you saw me as a role model, holding myself tight, afraid to be hurt. I feared you would do the same.”
In some ways Erin had done that. She’d blamed being busy with school and work for her lack of relationships. But she could have tried more, if she’d wanted to. She could have taken a chance on love, just like she’d told her mother. Even with Doug, she’d held herself back. It hadn’t been until Blake that she’d been able to do that. Seeing him every week and then every day, learning the kind of man he was. Knowing that he would always protect her.
And finally letting go.
Chapter Eighteen
Blake
“Move,” the man shouted into his headset—telling the pilot to go.
Blake moved to jump out, but the man blocked him. The other man had fifty pounds on him, as well as more nights of sleep in the past 72 hours and more food and water. But Blake had the fucking determination, the certainty that he couldn’t, wouldn’t leave his teammate behind. His last one. The only man left. If it was anyone left on this rock, in this oven, it would be him.
A shot hit the chopper—impossible to know where. It rocked the whole machine, and Blake fell off-balance. The doors were still open, but tilted up, and Blake was sliding back, falling. Every second took him farther from Ricardo, every second took him one more foot in the air.
“No,” he roared, lunging for the doors. It would almost kill him to make the jump now, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t fucking be happening.
The guy caught him by the ankle just as he was almost out of the chopper.
He landed hard on the metal grate. The force of his fall swung the chopper far enough that he could see over the edge: the man sprawled on the ground, wounded. And he could see the other men, closing in now that the chopper was leaving range, surrounding him like a pack of wolves.
“No.” This time it was only a quiet sound, stricken. Too soft to hear over the roar of the bird.
Ricardo’s brother. Ricardo.
Something wasn’t right. The bullet must have struck something vital, because the engine was sputtering now. They were still in the air but shifting sideways. At this height they’d crash. They’d burn.
And then they didn’t have to wait that long. A flare of orange out of the corner of his eye was the only clue the chopper would explode in the split seconds before it did, before flames engulfed him, before the force of the blast threw him from the chopper, and then he was falling, falling out of the sky.
Blake
“Blake!”
He jerked awake, heart pumping, body primed to fight an enemy that no longer existed. It took him a second to orient himself, to remember that he was no longer in the jungle in full combat gear, that he wasn’t even in his house and his bed, but was instead in Erin’s childhood room.
He panted while Erin stroked his back.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
She hesitated. She knew he wanted the truth, not just some false assurance he would have to doubt every time. “You caught me on the arm while I was trying to wake you up. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, I’m just telling you so you won’t worry.”
He still worried, he couldn’t help but worry. He loved her. It had been a kind of death sentence, finishing off the man he’d been so he could rise from the ashes. And now he was this man, one who worried with every breath he took, one who spent every waking second wanting to give her what she needed.
Only in his dreams did he lose himself in his old life. In his dreams and in the moments after them, when his body still shook with the need to fight, to fuck, to claim her in a primitive way. He’d held himself back from her before. Made himself wait. He’d stood at the window to his room until he felt enough like his regular self to touch her.
There wasn’t a window to stand at here. There wasn’t anywhere to go in the cramped room and he had no intention of leaving it. And besides, he’d learned over the course of this trip that he didn’t need to hold back. He wasn’t a thoughtful, kind, gentle lover when he was like this, but she didn’t need him to be. Instead he was selfish and crude. He took what he needed from her body like a thirsty man would drink from a lake, with no thought to the lake’s comfort or whether the lake needed the water more.
When would the nightmares stop?
He knew the answer now. They wouldn’t stop, not ever, but somehow there was still hope. There was still this woman beside him, her body for solace, her heart to love.
Her eyes were wide—not with fear but acceptance. He pushed her back and shoved her nightgown up.
Bare.
She wasn’t wearing any panties. His brain seemed to short out, and any semblance of reasoning fled. He shoved his pajama bottoms down and pressed his body between her legs, forcing her legs wide.
He stroked his cock once, twice, while she la
y spread for him, waiting. He didn’t say anything to her; he was beyond words. He dipped his fingers into her pussy and took the wetness there—not for her clit, but for his cock, fisting himself with her arousal.
Then he braced himself over her, fitted the head of his cock to her opening, and drove himself home.
She gasped and reached for him, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Any other time he loved for her to touch him, loved for her to be free. But this was about using her—her body, her heart. This was about taking what was his. And so he grabbed her wrists together and held them over her head. He used his other hand to hold her hips steady as he fucked her hard enough to shake the bed.
He fucked her until his body was covered in a sheen of sweat, until his muscles were wound tight—until her pussy spasmed around him three separate times. Her body was limp beneath him, wrung out, and still he kept fucking her. This was what he was: an animal, a machine. A soldier. Something that could thrust and invade and fight for hours, and that was what he did.
“Can’t,” she whispered.
But he felt her tightening around him already, felt the gush of liquid heat his cock. He had no mercy in this moment. It was why he’d never touched her like this before. She’d wanted him—the real him, even at this time. And he knew that she could take it. So he gave it to her, hips pistoning, hand on her wrists, holding her on his cock, forcing her to come again.
It brought her to life, the orgasms, making her limp body buck and rock against him, shaking her breasts loose from the lacy fabric of her nightgown. Her brown nipples were stark against her pale skin, and he reached down to lick them. Only then, only sucking her firm, pebbled skin did his balls clamp down, did his come shoot deep inside her, did a groan rip from him, helpless with relief.
Even after he had come, he remained in her, thrusting lazily, enjoying the wet slide of her around his softening cock, using her to wring the final pulses of pleasure from his body.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
“Yeah,” she answered, breathless and sleepy. “Don’t move, okay? Stay.”
He could do nothing but obey her—his woman, his salvation—and remain inside her as he drifted off to sleep, knowing he was too heavy but unable to stop the slide, shifting just enough that she’d be able to breathe.
“Forever,” he promised.
In seconds her breathing evened out, and he knew she was asleep. He followed her down, still joined, her legs cradling him, her pussy cradling him, her breasts cradling him. And he took without remorse all she had to offer, all her comfort and softness and beauty. He covered her in both possession and protection, knowing he would never let her go.
Epilogue
Blake
Six months later
Blake eyed a tree in the distance. It was really the perfect tree. He couldn’t imagine why he’d never realized it before. His vantage point was new. They’d set up the wedding arch in the very back of the property where a stream babbled in the distance. From here he could see the back of the house with the bright red hummingbird feeder and new gazebo. Erin had turned his house into a home, and he thought he might have always wanted that, longed for it, even when he could only pay her to dust the furniture.
He glanced at the woman beside him. His lover. And in a matter of minutes, his wife.
The pastor was taking his time.
Her eyes sparkled at him from underneath the veil as if she knew how impatient he was. He would have dragged her to the courthouse the day she said yes if he hadn’t known she wanted a ceremony. So he’d nodded and smiled through the fittings and the tastings and the meetings with the designer. The end result, he had to admit, was fit for a princess—and he knew that it had all been worth it.
Well, it would be worth it if it could end soon.
He had sat through a long sermon about loyalty and love. He had spoken vows he’d written himself and listened to Erin’s vows without choking up visibly in front of their small group of friends and family—an extreme achievement, he thought. He’d slipped a ring on her finger, a thin gold band to match the antique engagement ring she wore. And let her put a ring on his finger, pretending not to notice the way her hands shook.
And after that had begun the longest pronouncement of a union he’d ever heard. He forced himself to stay still. Forced himself not to send a silent message with his eyes to the pastor to finish already. With his scars and his dress uniform, it might come off more intimidating than he intended.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Thank fuck.
He lifted the thin veil and draped it behind her, pulling her in close. His lips were an inch from hers, and still he hadn’t kissed her. “How long until we kick everybody out?”
Her lips curved against his. “Hmm. Three hours?”
He groaned. “At least tell me you aren’t wearing anything under that grown.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Because there’s a tree over there with our name on it. And the dress stays on.”
Then he kissed her, his lips firm on hers, his tongue claiming, every movement a promise of what he’d do to her three hours later, of what he’d do for the rest of his life. To cherish and obey, to honor and protect, forever.
* * *
Thank you so much for reading FALLING FOR THE BEAST. I hope you loved Blake and Erin’s emotional and erotic story! If you enjoyed this duet, you’ll love OVERTURE, a new forbidden romance.
Forbidden fruit never tasted this sweet…
“Swoon-worthy, forbidden, and sexy, Liam North is my new obsession.”
—New York Times bestselling author Claire Contreras
The world knows Samantha Brooks as the violin prodigy. She guards her secret truth—the desire she harbors for her guardian.
Liam North got custody of her six years ago. She’s all grown up now, but he still treats her like a child. No matter how much he wants her.
No matter how bad he aches for one taste.
ONE CLICK OVERTURE NOW >
“Overture is a beautiful composition of forbidden love and undeniable desire. Skye has crafted a gripping, sensual, and intense story that left me breathless. Get ready to be hooked!”
—USA Today bestselling author Nikki Sloane
Turn the page for an excerpt from OVERTURE…
Excerpt from Overture
Rest, Liam told me.
He’s right about a lot of things. Maybe he’s right about this. I climb onto the cool pink sheets, hoping that a nap will suddenly make me content with this quiet little life.
Even though I know it won’t.
Besides, I’m too wired to actually sleep. The white lace coverlet is both delicate and comfy. It’s actually what I would have picked out for myself, except I didn’t pick it out. I’ve been incapable of picking anything, of choosing anything, of deciding anything as part of some deep-seated fear that I’ll be abandoned.
The coverlet, like everything else in my life, simply appeared.
And the person responsible for its appearance? Liam North.
I climb under the blanket and stare at the ceiling. My body feels overly warm, but it still feels good to be tucked into the blankets. The blankets he picked out for me.
It’s really so wrong to think of him in a sexual way. He’s my guardian, literally. Legally. And he has never done anything to make me think he sees me in a sexual way.
This is it. This is the answer.
I don’t need to go skinny dipping in the lake down the hill. Thinking about Liam North in a sexual way is my fast car. My parachute out of a plane.
My eyes squeeze shut.
That’s all it takes to see Liam’s stern expression, those fathomless green eyes and the glint of dark blond whiskers that are always there by late afternoon. And then there’s the way he touched me. My forehead, sure, but it’s more than he’s done before. That broad palm on my sensitive skin.
My thighs press together. They want something between th
em, and I give them a pillow. Even the way I masturbate is small and timid, never making a sound, barely moving at all, but I can’t change it now. I can’t moan or throw back my head even for the sake of rebellion.
But I can push my hips against the pillow, rocking my whole body as I imagine Liam doing more than touching my forehead. He would trail his hand down my cheek, my neck, my shoulder.
Repressed. I’m so repressed it’s hard to imagine more than that.
I make myself do it, make myself trail my hand down between my breasts, where it’s warm and velvety soft, where I imagine Liam would know exactly how to touch me.
You’re so beautiful, he would say. Your breasts are perfect.
Because Imaginary Liam wouldn’t care about big breasts. He would like them small and soft with pale nipples. That would be the absolute perfect pair of breasts for him.
And he would probably do something obscene and rude. Like lick them.
My hips press against the pillow, almost pushing it down to the mattress, rocking and rocking. There’s not anything sexy or graceful about what I’m doing. It’s pure instinct. Pure need.
The beginning of a climax wraps itself around me. Claws sink into my skin. There’s almost certain death, and I’m fighting, fighting, fighting for it with the pillow clenched hard.
“Oh fuck.”
The words come soft enough someone else might not hear them. They’re more exhalation of breath, the consonants a faint break in the sound. I have excellent hearing. Ridiculous, crazy good hearing that had me tuning instruments before I could ride a bike.
My eyes snap open, and there’s Liam, standing there, frozen. Those green eyes locked on mine. His body clenched tight only three feet away from me. He doesn’t come closer, but he doesn’t leave.
Orgasm breaks me apart, and I cry out in surprise and denial and relief. “Liam.”
