Beauty and the Rose: a Beauty and the Rose Novel

by Black, Stasia

  “I’m tired,” I murmur. “I think I’ll go back to bed now.”

  “What?” Logan asks with alarm he tugs on a crisp, white shirt and starts to button it. “But now we can go down for lunch.”

  I sigh. “I really don’t feel up for it. Can’t you just bring me up a plate later?”

  His eyebrows drop low, signaling his alarm. “No, I can’t just bring it up later. I worked hard putting together the meal. For you. You need to be there.”

  Extra long sigh. Why are we even pretending anymore? I’m too tired for any of this.

  But Logan suddenly pulls me forward into his arms and presses a hard kiss against my forehead. “We are going to be okay, you and me. And that starts today. Please,” he whispers, “come downstairs. I know I fuck things up sometimes. But I want to make it better. I love you.”

  His words split my hard façade straight down the middle and I start to shake.

  No. I have to be strong. I can’t let myself get pulled in by beautiful words because the next disappointment will only hurt that much more.

  And yet still, I nod when he holds out his arms for me. He ignores any uncertainty and helps me pull on a yellow sundress over my head. I’m surprised he bothers because I’ve barely worn anything other than a robe or PJs since coming home from the hospital. But maybe he thinks getting dressed will brighten my mood. Fat chance. Still, it does feel nice as he combs out my long, dark hair.

  And afterwards, when he sweeps me up in his arms and carries me downstairs, I sink against his chest. I lean my head on his shoulder and listen to the comforting thump thump thump of his heart by my ear.

  Why can’t things always be simple like this? I close my eyes and luxuriate in the feeling of his strong, protective arms around me. I miss the pretending. I miss the illusion that he could love me more than anything else and the idea that he would fight anything, even his lesser nature, because of that love.

  But maybe that was always a fairytale. And maybe I should learn how to be happy with what I have, because even if it’s not perfect, it’s still pretty damn amazing. I’m not perfect. Why should I expect him to be?

  I nuzzle my face in that spot I love between his neck and shoulder and inhale. I’m just so mixed up about everything. I don’t know which emotions to trust anymore. I wish there was someone to talk to about all this, someone who could help me see clearly and make sense of things—

  But just then, I feel a whoosh and then the breeze on my face as Logan opens a door.

  I pull my face out of his neck and look up right as a group of people start cheering and whistling.

  What the hell—?

  I can’t look enough places at once. The backyard has been transformed. There are lines of chairs and all of them are filled with people. Glittering, beautiful people, dressed to the nines. It’s like a redo of the garden party, everyone who is anyone is here, including the Ubelis and a grinning Armand, and there’s an— There’s an—

  An AISLE down the center of the chairs, covered in rose petals, and at the front—

  I swing my head up to Logan, who’s still holding me in his freaking arms like I’m a damsel in distress, my hair still damp from my bath earlier—

  But he’s grinning as wide as anyone I’ve ever seen.

  “Surprise, gorgeous. Welcome to your wedding.”

  Nine

  Daphne

  “Take. Me. Back. Inside,” I hiss up at Logan, turning my head to look away from everyone gathered in front of the garden.

  Was I not sick enough? Now he’s trying to make me die of humiliation?

  Logan, smart man that he is, promptly turns around and carries me back inside. I don’t take a full breath until I hear the door close behind us, but not before I register the chatter start up in the garden beyond.

  I would so kill Logan right now if I had the energy.

  “Put me down.” It’s taking everything I have in me not to lose my shit on him. What was he thinki—?

  He lays me tenderly on the couch and watches me with an unreadable expression. But he certainly doesn’t look contrite.

  Does he actually think this is okay?

  “You can’t just order me to marry you!” I toss my hands up. After all this time, does he still not get it? “You’re my master in the bedroom, not my life.”

  But all he says is, “You don’t want to marry me?” He watches me with seductive, dangerous eyes.

  A pain twists my guts. I look away. That’s not fair. I don’t know what else to say but, “Not like this.”

  He nods and turns away, walking to a window that looks out on the back garden. “You told me this was what you always wanted.”

  I can feel my face scrunch in confusion.

  He waves to the window and the labyrinth garden beyond. “A wedding like your mother’s. A garden. All your friends.” Then he comes over and crouches in front of me. “And I promised to make all your dreams come true.”

  He’s trying to be sweet but he’s only making it worse.

  He didn’t say anything about love.

  This is just another way he’s trying to take care of me. It’s like that Cancer Wish foundation for little kids, except for grown-ups. He thinks this is what I always wanted, so he’s trying to give it to me before I… Before I…

  I can’t help the little cry of anguish at the thought of the pity wedding everyone’s thrown together for me.

  And I’m sorry, but no matter how much I love them all, I can’t go through with the farce. I can’t be the good little bride like my mother was.

  I can’t pretend that someday Logan’s devotion won’t turn sour. Those flowers out back will wilt, and all that’s beautiful about our love will turn ugly and destructive.

  “No.”

  I look up in confusion at Logan’s declarative statement.

  “What?”

  “No to whatever is going on in that head of yours.”

  “You don’t know what I’m—”

  “You don’t want to get married today, fine. But I’m done with this bullshit between us.” He makes a decisive swiping motion with his hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  He pulls his cell out of his pocket and hits a button. “Hey Armand. Yeah, the wedding’s off. No, no, Daphne is just not feeling up to it today. She’s fine. I promise. We just need to postpone for a few weeks.”

  Logan ignores my indignant scoff and the daggers I’m shooting his way. He smiles and chuckles and says, “Yep.” And then a few seconds later, “Yep.” And then. “Will do. Talk soon.” Then he hangs up the phone and turns back to me like he hasn’t been secretly collaborating with one of my friends behind my back.

  I open my mouth to confront him but he’s already talking. “Now,” he puts a fist to his chin. “What are we going to do with you?”

  I can’t help the outraged noise that escaped my throat. “Nothing. You aren’t going to do anything about me because you aren’t the boss of me.”

  A dark light enters his eyes and burns with intensity. “Aren’t I? In the bedroom at least? Even you admitted I was Master there.”

  My mouth drops open. “I— That was— You’re taking everything out of context!”

  “Am I? Or am I just finally starting to make a helluva lot of sense?” Logan grins at me.

  Then he picks me up and hauls me off to the bedroom.

  I squeal and, as he slams the bedroom door shut behind him, protest, “Logan, we can’t! All our friends are downstairs.”

  “There’s no Logan here,” is his calm response. “The Master is in. And kitten, you’ve been a bad girl.”

  Ten

  Logan

  “Take off your robe and lie down on the bed,” I order.

  Daphne’s eyes are wide, but as I face her and cross my arms over my bare chest, my Resting Dom Face firmly in place, her body relaxes.

  I don’t know if she realizes how much she responds to my commands. Her gaze lowers and the tension flows out of her bod
y. Her shoulders soften and her movements become slow and graceful, more languid as she harnesses her incredible intelligence and focuses on obeying me.

  The way she responds makes me feel ten feet tall. I fall into my own headspace, that godlike realm of the Dom where I notice every wrinkle on her brow, every microexpression and eyelash flutter, every flinch and every excited tremor. I see everything and everything I see, my entire world, is Daphne.

  This is good for us. Maybe it’s time to impose more rules. Power exchange, twenty four seven, three sixty five. The thought is very tempting.

  But there’s a reason I’ve been taking it easy on her. Holding myself back. Even though I just saw her naked in the bath, when she drops the robe, I internally wince at how thin she’s become. How frail. Not that she isn’t beautiful as ever, but the disease has ravaged her body.

  The beast inside me calms. Turns from a violent predator ready to wreak its will and wreck his prey—in the best way—into a gentle lion. I still hold all the power—the control Daphne gives me—and I will use it to protect and care for her.

  But she still needs to know she belongs to me.

  “You’ve forgotten who’s in control,” I say as I gather her damp hair and braid it so it’s out of the way. She lies on the bed as ordered and the only sign she’s disturbed is the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I splay a hand over her collarbone, between her breasts. “I’m going to remind you. Breathe, Daphne.”

  I coach her to breathe deeper and deeper, my voice low and patient. After a few minutes, I take my hand away, and she continues breathing slowly into her diaphragm. Her eyes are half closed, but I cover them with a blindfold anyway.

  “You’ll see what I want you to see,” I say when she makes a small noise of protest. “You’ll move when I tell you to move. Right now I want you to relax and focus on your breath.”

  I pause a moment to watch her obey. Even more slender than usual, Daphne is stunning. Her dark hair contrasts with her ivory smooth skin. Her lips are pursed in a way that tells me she’s annoyed at the blindfold. The blindfold chafes me more than it does her. Covering her lovely green eyes should be a crime.

  I slide a box out from under the bed and contemplate my options. The rope I disregard. Even though it’s gentle and soft, I don’t feel like restraining her. The nipple clamps will also remain in their fancy wooden box.

  Instead, I grab a black box that holds several vials of oil. I pour the contents of the first bottle onto my palms and rub them together briskly to warm them up.

  Daphne’s skin is petal soft. The final bits of tension ease out of her as I squeeze her shoulders, massaging carefully. Her limbs seem so tiny and fragile, like a bird’s. My hands warm her flesh as they rub every inch, reacquainting themselves with her body, every curve and hollow.

  Well, almost every inch. When I reach her pussy, I pass by it, massaging down her legs. I spend a long time rubbing her feet, enjoying the way she coos. But even while she’s ooohhhing and aaahhing, her hips are riding up as if to present her pussy.

  I stop massaging abruptly and slide a pillow under her hips, propping her up. She lies there, waiting, offering up her sex.

  I reach for the black box again. This time, I select an oil that should make her extra sensitive. The kind I paint carefully onto her labia, using a thick brush. With every pass, her hips tighten further, until she’s rocking subtly upwards.

  “Logan,” she moans as the bristles stroke her sex. “Please touch me.”

  I say nothing.

  “Master,” she whispers, then clears her throat and tries again. “Master, please.”

  “You want me to touch you?” I set aside the vial and the brush, and lay a hand on her midriff. “Here?”

  “No. Lower…”

  “Oh, kitten, you have to earn that.” I go back to massaging her sides, even the taut globes of her ass. Being careful not to touch the parts of her I used the special oil on.

  I can tell the moment that oil starts working, because a low moan starts in her throat. It grows louder, and pauses as she realizes she’s making a sound. Then it continues. Her hips are full out rocking now, and her hands are curled into fists at her sides. As I watch, she makes to touch her pussy—

  “No,” I thunder. She freezes and I continue in a softer tone, “No touching. I will tie you down.”

  She lasts another minute with her hands fisted at her sides. Her poor neglected pussy is slick and puffy, arousal turning the shell-like folds a deep rose.

  I’m a sadist, so I smile as I watch her squirm. “Want some relief?”

  She nods frantically.

  “I’m going to let you earn your reward.” I remove my jeans and kneel on the bed, up beside her head. “Make me feel good.”

  I straddle her head and carefully feed her my cock. If her health was back to a hundred percent, I’d face fuck her. And make her hold a vibrator to her clit, and punish her when she grew distracted by her own arousal. I’d make her practice until she could suck me perfectly.

  Something to look forward to.

  This time I make her do the work, looking down at her as she cranes her head to bob up and down on my cock. She transforms her driving need into a desire to please me, and I revel in her abject service. Until she swallows me so far down she gags.

  “Slowly, sweetheart,” I lean back. The pained, eager noises escaping her throat make my cock jerk. She’s not the only one aching to cum.

  “You want me to fuck you?”

  She nods with my cock still in her mouth.

  I pull out of her mouth, even though my balls are screaming for release. “Maybe later. If you’re good.”

  I slide off the bed and go back to massaging her tense body. This time it does nothing to calm her. Grinning, I lean close and blow on her sex.

  “Uhn, Logan, it’s too much!”

  “Poor baby.” I’m hard as a steel pipe. It’s hard to walk away from the bed back to my box of toys, but I manage. Her head snaps my direction when I turn on the vibrator.

  “Let’s see how much you can take.”

  She whimpers when I order her not to cum, but she still does her best. I take pity on her, somewhat, and start on the lowest setting. But I don’t keep it there for long. I slowly increase the tempo of the vibrations, until her breath comes in shocked hitches, until a deep flush roams down the valley between her breasts.

  “Please,” she whispers, and it becomes a chant. “Please, please, please.” She’s so close, her toes are curling and her head thrashes back and forth.

  I toss the vibrator away and mount her. There's a slight tingle on my cock as the oil coats it. Worth it to sink balls deep inside her.

  Daphne sighs and clamps her legs around me. Her pussy clamps on my cock.

  I pull the blindfold off. The half-hazy, half-frantic look in her eyes almost sets me off. I cup her face and kiss her, drinking deep of her until I’m lost in her mouth.

  I grip her hair and break away. A sweat breaks out over me as I slowly dip in and out of her sweet channel. We’re face to face, so close our breath mingles.

  “You will marry me. One day,” I vow.

  Her lips part but she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are unfocused, so I wait for her to return to me, continuing to ease out and in of the perfection of her body.

  She winds a hand around my neck, her nails biting my skin. I pull all the way out and slam back into her, making us both groan. My orgasm rises, a great rush of pleasure spreading its wings over me and I thrust faster and faster, chasing it. Daphne’s channel squeezes my cock, impossibly tight. Any tighter and we’ll be joined forever.

  “Next time you’ll say yes,” I pant in her ear.

  She’s breathless but pert as she retorts, “Next time, you should actually ask.”

  I speed my thrusts and our laughter turns to gasps. We’re still smiling as we go over together.

  Eleven

  Daphne

  I’m in dreamland, riding a wooden horse while wearing a huge white dres
s, frantically trying to get to Logan so I can marry him—but every time he comes into view, the Merry-Go-Round swings me away before I can say ‘I do.’

  Then “Mambo No. 5” breaks into my dream and shatters it, pulling me awake.

  I roll over and grab my phone, answering it with a half audible, “Hello?”

  “Daphne, darling, how are you?” Armand trills in my ear. “Did I wake you?”

  “It’s okay.” I push my hair back from my face. Yesterday I left Logan at the altar. But not really, since he never asked me to marry him in the first place. Compounded by the awkwardness of him inviting all our friends. We made up but I still haven’t dealt with the fallout.

  Armand is prattling in my ear like it never happened. “I’m calling to share the good news, darling. I’m expanding into New Rome, opening seven new locations.”

  I make appropriate happy noises. I’m still waking up.

  “I have a new investor. Just listen to his name: Sebastian St. James. Doesn’t it just scream wealth and power?”

  I murmur my agreement, but I only understand half of what he’s saying.

  “I nearly swooned when I met him,” Armand continues. “So stern and handsome. But young.” A pause, and then he adds, “You must meet him.”

  “Uh, no,” I say quickly. Is Armand seriously matchmaking right now? “I think I’m good with the one I got.”

  “Are you now?” Armand’s tone is so offhand, I know he’s super interested.

  “Yes. Definitely. Logan is the man for me. Speaking of which,” I close my eyes as my stomach knots in embarrassment. “Uh, I’m sorry you came to my wedding...and it never happened.”

  “It’s no problem, girl. I’m always happy to plan a wedding.”

  I wince. I hadn’t realize he’d planned the whole thing. When I say so, he laughs.

  “Your wedding, when it happens, will be the event of the year. I will make it so.”

  “Uhh, thanks,” I make a mental note to elope if I ever want to say ‘I do.’ “Is Cora mad? She and her husband came all this way, and—”