The BBW and the Beast: A Shifter Retelling of Beauty and the Beast (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 1)

by Sylvia Frost

  She arched her back, pushing her sweet center closer to his lips. Then he took her underwear between his teeth and tugged them down. Her knees shook. He stroked her leg to calm her as his tongue darted out and licked the edges of her core.

  Holy Astrum, she tasted like home.

  Her hips bucked.

  He growled. “Don’t make me tie you down.”

  He pressed his tongue deeper into her, soliciting another reaction. He liked the idea of binding her to his bed forever, and if he could trick her into making it a reality, he would.

  She moaned loudly and pushed her sex farther into his face. Naughty girl.

  Samson bolted upright and away. The flavor of her still lingered. He made eye contact with his mate and licked his lips so she’d know how good she tasted. Then he turned to flick on the lamp on his bedside table. He’d need more light to be able to tie the proper knots to keep her secured to his bed.

  As light flooded the room, Isabella contracted, pulling his comforter up around her body to cover herself.

  Samson’s wolf snarled in anger. With curves like Isabella had, she should’ve felt no shame for her body. “Why are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding,” she said. “I’m cold.”

  “I’ve tasted your heat,” Samson said. “I know you’re not cold.” He prowled around the perimeter of the mattress, trying to decide from where he could yank the comforter free with the most ease.

  “I would guess that you’re ashamed. Probably because of the foolish tendencies of hu — men your own age, who have no taste.”

  Isabella’s fingers fell away from the comforter. “Actually, no. I know most guys are tools, and if I thought you were like that I would not be in your bed.”

  Samson stopped his hunt, surprised and concerned. “What is it, then?”

  She must have sensed his earnestness, because she sighed and said, “Promise me you won’t make fun of me?”

  “I swear it,” he said.

  Bel fidgeted. “I just have this strange mark on my back, and I didn’t want you to touch it and freak out. “

  A tender feeling unfurled around Samson’s heart, like a seedling’s first root. He knew immediately what she was talking about. Her mate mark. All this time, even as she ran from him, even as he doubted her, she had been marked as his own. As his mate. She pulled the comforter up to her neck. “I’ve had it for twelve years, so I guess it shouldn’t matter, but I don’t know…”

  “Oh, beauty.” Gracefully, Samson hoisted himself back onto the bed beside her. He pressed a kiss to her neck – the only skin left showing – and rested his hand over hers on the comforter. “There is no shame in my bed. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, biting her lip, and allowed him to fold away the comforter until again she was naked. This time he could see the curve of her back, and the mark at the base of her spine.

  Wonder filled him. In the shape of an ellipse, her mark almost looked like a petal. He reached out a finger to touch it. His own mark pulsed as he did.

  Now was the time to tell her about his true nature, and their true past, but he couldn’t find any words, let alone ones to explain as complicated a concept as that one.

  She froze, an army of goose bumps breaking out around her back, all of her suddenly at high alert. Completely open. Completely vulnerable to him.

  He stroked her mark.

  “Oh,” she sighed.

  He lowered his lips to the patch of fur and kissed it.

  Her whole body clenched in response, and she murmured, “S-Samson. I-I… please.”

  She trembled against him, and he clutched her against his hard, muscled chest, wanting her to say it.

  “P-please take me,” she whispered.

  His wolf snapped, all control leaving him at her plea. He tore down his jeans and briefs, having slipped off his shoes a few moments earlier. Then he gently but firmly turned her onto her back and slid on top of her. The heat of her pulsed once against his cock. Then he was inside of her.

  The first thrust was glorious, but the second was better. She was wet and warm and his. And when she threw her head back and moaned, his whole body seized in excitement. His wolf protested that it still wasn’t loud enough, so he slammed into her harder. And harder.

  “Samson!” she screamed, so loudly he was sure his name would be branded on her vocal cords.

  Still he went deeper. He wanted to penetrate her very soul, to lose himself inside of her forever. Just as he felt his orgasm dawning, he tilted her chin down, forcing her gaze to meet his, and said, “You are mine now, Isabella.”

  Even with her blurry vision, he felt her gaze connect with his own as realization washed over her. The knowledge that she was as thoroughly owned by him as he was by her. Then she began to tremble, vibrating around him in little earthquakes as she came.

  He threw back his head and gave one final triumphal thrust, spilling his seed inside her. Marking her as his own.

  His mate.

  12

  They fucked. A lot.

  It would be an understatement to say that Samson enjoyed his new mate’s body, and an even bigger understatement to say that Isabel enjoyed his. There was so much exploring to be done, and the mating heat was so strong, that Samson still hadn’t found time to tell her the truth about his nature and what their coupling meant.

  Samson grimaced as he walked up the stairs. He had left the house an hour ago to grab groceries while Bel stayed at home napping and finishing up some writing. She had confessed to him with a giggle against her shoulder that she had started up on a long-overdue sequel to Mates of Darkness.

  I’ll tell her now. “Bel,” he called.

  There was no answer.

  He took the steps up two at a time and flung open the door.

  His room was empty, bed made, and while Bel’s smell lingered in the air, she wasn’t there. None of this worried Samson; he was sure she was in the collection room, but then a flash of something metallic lying on the bed caught his attention.

  Samson darted toward it and plucked it from the bedspread along with the note it lay on top of. He read the note first.

  “You should’ve told me it was you. I don’t like being lied to.”

  For the first time in three days, Samson’s wolf, previously quelled by his mate’s touch, reared its head. Angry, afraid, baring its teeth in the face of this new development.

  Then Samson turned over the second object in his hand, staring at it with pure frustration.

  It was her glasses.

  From twelve years ago.

  13

  “Stupid man.” Bel kicked a nearby tree, glad when the toe of her boot made contact with the trunk, even as she winced in pain. As the hurt blossomed from her toe up her leg, she leaned against the tree she had just assaulted. She would’ve sat down, but the ground was muddy from the recently melted snow.

  She had found her glasses at the back of the storage room, behind a wooden figurine of a rose. At first she hadn’t recognized them as hers, but then she had tried them on. And the prescription had been perfect.

  Yes, it was possible that the glasses had been left at the house after the old owners had moved, but the minute Bel saw them, she knew they hadn’t been.

  Samson was her mystery man. Like most things it was the explanation that made the most sense, which was why Bel had resisted it for so long. But the truth was he had been her first kiss. Part of her wanted him to be her last, but he had let her tell the whole story of their first meeting without saying a single word. What else wasn’t he telling her?

  In the distance, something rustled in the trees. Bel ignored it. “I don’t want to talk to you!” she shouted, expecting it to be Samson. She wasn’t surprised that he had tracked her down; she had left giant tracks in the mud.

  She dug her toe into the ground. “Come any closer and I’ll fling mud at you.”

  There was still no response, except for the loud cracking of a twig. She guessed it was fair for him to give her the
silent treatment. She knew she was being childish. Communication was the cornerstone of any good relationship, not running away.

  Bel sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m being stupid. I just need time to think. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

  Something moved in the trees. Something big, but not tall. And very, very dark.

  Bel gulped. “Samson?”

  Samson didn’t answer.

  “Samson!” Bel shouted, clutching her puffy pink coat closer to her body.

  Two eyes, so bright they glowed even in the late afternoon, stared back at her.

  That wasn’t Samson.

  Bel didn’t even have time to scream as a wolf as large as a colt sprang out of the woods and right toward her throat.

  14

  “Samson!”

  Samson’s wolf’s ears perked up as the sound of his mate calling his name echoed through the forest. He had shifted and found her tracks an hour ago, and had followed them at a leisurely pace at first, trying to plan exactly what he would say to her.

  Then he had sniffed out a second set of tracks. Wolf’s tracks.

  Luther.

  He had galloped after that, leaping between trees and down hills, his every breath ragged with fear. Luther was not a safe man for anyone. Before he had gotten lost to his wolf form, he ran with one of the most dangerous werebeast motorcycle clubs in the country, the South Pack. He killed, stole and had sex with human women who were not his mate. There was no telling what Luther might do to Bel, but all Samson knew was that if he hurt her, he’d rip his brother’s throat out, tear it into a million pieces and feed it by hand to the local wildlife.

  He listened intently, praying he would hear her again, even if it was only a scream. Just something to tell him she was alive.

  Finally, he crested the top of the last hill and reached the end of the trail. Here the pines were thin and tall, planted at even intervals in a reforesting effort, so Samson could process everything he needed to know in a single glance. His mate was lying on the ground, and on top of her was the dark, mangy form of his brother.

  Samson flew, propelled by pure fury, and slammed into Luther with all his might. His brother fell down easily, malnourished from his time in hiding. But Samson didn’t wait for him to get up.

  He would kill Luther for daring to touch what was his. Slowly.

  His brother whined, a high noise that only stoked Samson’s bloodlust. Samson lunged for his throat.

  “Wait, stop!” his mate yelled.

  Samson growled. He wondered what kind of sense she had to yell at what she must have thought were two battling wild animals, but as he drew back from his brother’s throat, he saw what was wrong.

  His brother wasn’t a wolf at all anymore.

  He had changed back into a man.

  And a pathetic one at that. Naked, skinny for a shifter, and pale as the last dregs of melted snow, his brother looked dangerously close to death already. His dark hair was knotted around his face, his only clothing his numerous tattoos and scars, the tattoos marking poor sod human or werewolf he had killed who had gotten in the motorcycle clubs way. He looked nothing like the rebellious young adult he had been when he left home.

  “S-Sam,” he croaked. “Wait. You don’t understand.”

  Samson growled, his lips pulling up around his teeth to show his long fangs. If Bel hadn’t spoken, he would’ve eviscerated Luther already.

  Luther crossed his legs, covering his crotch with his hands awkwardly. “I just needed to remember what it felt like to be human. I thought if I touched her maybe…” He shook his head, mangy hair covering his hollow cheeks, shoulders tensing. “Never mind. Kill me if you want. I deserve it.”

  Samson’s back rose, his tail standing up straight. While Rex hid his emotions under his tight control and mastery of most of the human financial markets, Luther usually suppressed his under a surly strength and quick claws. The similarities between Samson and his youngest brother were disturbing.

  Samson’s hackles lowered, his wolf calming at his brother’s words, the bonds of their pack reminding him that Luther, for all his foolishness, was not the enemy. In fact, it was Luther he had come here to find. In everything with Bel he had forgotten that. He had let down his pack. Father would’ve been disappointed. And Mother. Samson couldn’t bear to think of her, even after all this time.

  “S-Samson?”

  The voice of his mate was so small, so broken, that it made the shameful mewl building in his throat crescendo. His tail curled, and he resisted whining. She wasn’t supposed to find out like this.

  Luther looked between Bel and his brother a few times before realizing, “She doesn’t fucking know, does she?”

  “Samson!” Bel repeated, her voice screeching higher.

  “This is your business,” Luther nodded stoically. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  From the corner of his eye, Samson watched his brother, still naked, turn and stumble toward away. It was a mark once again of his failures, that he had so many problems to deal with that he couldn’t even enjoy his reunion with Luther. All of his being focused on his mate.

  She was staring at him with a mixture of betrayal and wonder. “I-I’m going crazy.”

  He started toward her, sure that if he nuzzled her side she would recognize him and realize he wasn’t a threat, but she jumped backward when he did. So Samson knew that it was time for him to tell the truth.

  And he began to change.

  15

  Bel didn’t believe it.

  Even as she saw the wolf twist and turn, its bones lengthening like they were made of Silly Putty, skin replacing fur. Even after there was no denying that the beautifully muscled, feral-looking man in front of her was Samson.

  “This,” Bel said, pointing at Samson so hard she wondered if she might accidentally trigger some kind of magic spell, “isn’t happening.”

  “Isabella,” he said, reaching out, pleading.

  Bel kept herself from looking down. “No. You’re extinct.”

  His hand fell to his waist and he tried to smile at her, but she could see fear in his eyes. “Now you understand why I didn’t want you writing my biography.”

  “But werewolves can’t… werewolves have…“ Why were words, the one tool she was most comfortable with, failing her when she needed them the most?

  “Mates,” he said softly.

  Oh, God. Bel’s hand flew to the small of her back. The patch of fur there was hot and pulsing, even through her coat. “So that’s my — “

  “Your mate mark, yes.”

  It should’ve been a relief. But it wasn’t. Bel wrote stories; she didn’t participate in them! In fact, the whole reason she wrote, the whole reason anybody wrote, was to take the monster and make it manageable. To play pretend. It wasn’t supposed to be real. This isn’t what I wanted.

  “Christ Almighty.” Bel’s hand flew away from her back, as if it had burned her. “I know the stories. But what does it mean?”

  “It means that I’ll do anything to protect you. That I love you. And that one day, I hope you’ll bear my children.”

  Bel gasped. Samson had said his declaration so plainly, like his love for her was just a fact. Her mate mark burned even hotter, her blood singing with desire. But her heart felt cold.

  Samson must’ve noticed, because he didn’t move any closer. “It will take time for you to process your own feelings, I know.”

  “My feelings? You lied to me for three months! You just told me you’re a werewolf,” Bel mumbled through her teeth. They would start to chatter soon. While she had thrown on a coat, her pants were too thin for the weather. “I need to go home.” Mud squelched underneath Samson’s feet as he stepped toward her. “Then let’s take you home. You can ride me.”

  “R-ride you?”

  “There are some upsides to being a werewolf,” he said. Bel got the sense it was supposed to be a joke, but he wasn’t smiling, and she was a million miles away from laughing. “There’s no way—”
He ignored her worries, and instead brought one of his calloused hands to her chin, tilting it upwards. By the time she realized what he was doing it was too late; she was caught in his orbit.

  “Bel,” he whispered. It was the first time he had ever called her by her nickname.

  Bel just stared, decoding the secrets of the face she only now recognized. The slight slant of his gold-flecked eyes, the wideness of his mouth, the wiriness of his beard. She could see the beast in him. His monster had a name. Werewolf.

  But it was more than that. As his right hand slipped away from her chin down to the side of her arm, sending a warm flip of pleasure rippling through her, she realized he was holding her like she was a snowflake melting too quickly. Like he knew he had to let her go. Like he had always known.

  “Please, let me take you home,” he said.

  His breath was warm against her cheek, and smelled like firewood, whiskey and high summer. She knew which home he meant, and she knew that if she went back to his glorious mansion in the woods, she might never be able to leave again. Their bond would ensure it.

  She managed to shake her head and say, “I can’t, Samson.”

  He didn’t ask why, but his grip did stiffen. “It’s not safe out here, and with the cold -- ”

  “No, I mean I can’t go home with you. I need time to think.”

  Her heart clenched as she waited for his response, for him to say too bad, she was his now. She knew how mating worked; being apart would be physically painful for both of them.

  But, eventually, he simply nodded and turned away.

  16

  Bel had started walking back to her father’s house when a fancy black car pulled up. It was his brother, Rex. He said nothing as he drove her home, but she got the sense that he was far from happy. Unhappiness was soon a feeling Bel became well acquainted with.

  With every mile farther away from Samson, the pain in her chest increased. Even after her father had welcomed her back with open arms, she couldn’t muster a smile. As days turned into weeks, it only got worse. But how could she go back to Samson after everything that had happened?