by JL Mac
The bed jolts, startling me. I jump, jackknifing myself upright. My vision goes white and splotchy. Fighting to blink back the obstruction my sight clears enough to see Frieda sneering down at me with her lip curled as though something smelly has crossed her path.
“Carrick says for you to eat,” she announces before haphazardly dropping a breakfast tray on the duvet. A note is scribbled on a small card in his handwriting. I’ve seen his handwriting on papers on his desk a hundred times.
He’s back? He wrote this. He’s gotta be back. Why isn’t he here? Did he find her? Dread knots in my throat, threatening to cut off my air supply. If he had saved her he would be here now, right?
I force myself to read what he’s written and not just see his handwriting.
Celebrate.
“Celebrate,” I breathe looking in disbelief from the card in my hand to the neatly plated Eggs Benedict sitting before me. I clutch the card to my chest and fall apart as emotions so much bigger than me collide, converge and consume me whole. “Oh, Lan,” I gasp realizing I’d sell myself to this devil of a man a thousand times over if it meant feeling this brand of relief. I would go through every moment of this journey all over again. I would submit to death and anything else Beast has in store for me if I knew that I would feel this relief. “Mom,” I whimper. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never see them again. It doesn’t matter I’ll be his captive until he decides he’s done with me. I wouldn’t take any of it back. I cut into the breakfast with tears still streaming down my face and I do as my captor ordered me to do. I celebrate.
The day has gone by and night has fallen and I again find myself pacing. “Where is he?” I can’t help but hope and pray that maybe he stumbles into some semblance of a heart and allows me to see Lan. Even if only one last time. I swear I’ll break ribs I’ll hug her so tightly. Frieda has avoided me all day with exception of the best breakfast of my life, a club sandwich for lunch and the less than spectacular spaghetti she shoved in front of me tonight. I ate the breakfast, savoring every bite. I picked at lunch, having a bite here and there. I pushed the pasta aside. My nerves are too unsettled to eat anything else. My eyes are raw and red-rimmed from on then off again bouts of crying. Relief and gratitude has bombarded me and I can’t seem to mollify my own emotions.
I pad barefoot out into the hallway. I always go right to the stairs that lead down to the main area of his penthouse. He told me he expects me to be in his bed upon his return. I don’t even know where his lair is. I take a tentative step to the left. It must be down here. I walk to the large door at the end of the hall and rest my hand on the cool sleek, satin finish handle. It isn’t locked, to my surprise. Beast is a cagey man. I had assumed his space might be secured. It isn’t. I step into his master suite and inhale him.
His bedroom is beautiful. Dove gray walls, a dark red brick accent wall, which the headboard of his bed is situated against. A massive square monochromatic painting of a big black swirling image is hung above his solid wood, modern bedframe. A gray duvet is tucked neatly into the edge of his mattress. Deep sapphire blue pillows dot across the headboard. A massive television is hung on the wall across from the entrance but his view is of Boston like the king that he is. He reins over these people, even the ones that aren’t aware of it. He flicks his wrist and circumstances alter. He lifts a finger and scenarios change. He raises a brow and people submit. He extends a hand and lives are forever modified having been marked by his presence. Like Lan. Like me.
He controls politicians, cops, and thugs alike. He sways and steals and bullies and does God only knows what. I wander over to a long dresser against the wall beneath his television. I pull the top drawer open, browsing through its contents. Trunk style boxer briefs are folded neatly in stacks. In the drawer beneath this one are a variety of socks. Ankle socks, dress socks in every color and even a stack of deep green tall socks.
“Boxing socks,” I mutter recognizing them from the videos of his boxing days I’d seen. I place them back into the drawer, close it and wander into his closet next. A suit jacket I recognize as the one he wore before he left is draped over a chest of drawers freestanding in the center of his massive closet almost like a kitchen island. No man has this much clothing. I pick the jacket up, feeling the fabric in my hands. I slip my arms into the sleeves and snort at how ridiculous I must look. Snooping through the drawers I find cuff links, tie clips, ties, watches, handkerchiefs… Carrick Ferguson may be a rotten bastard, but he is a well-dressed, rotten bastard.
I tug the jacket closed around me, turn the closet light off and close the door behind me. I’m not sure when he will be back and I have no way of knowing but he did say to be in his bed when he got back. Was he serious? Of course he was serious. He doesn’t just say things to say them. He means every word. I absently wonder what I’m supposed to be wearing to bed. He had not said but there really is never much room for fucking up when it comes to Beast. A wanton voice in the back of my mind dares me to slip into his bed wearing nothing, anticipating pleasure. I turn to leave his room to roam this place until I am exhausted enough to sleep. That’s when I see him holding a tumbler of whiskey, looking not at me but out at his kingdom.
“See anything you like?” he asks in his rich, low voice. His broad shoulders are relaxed. His countenance, at least in profile is tranquil.
I can’t help the gasp that flies out of me. Before thinking better of it I drop my arms, his suit jacket slipping off to crumple on the floor. I charge at him. “You got her,” I state as I press my nose into his chest and breathe. I clutch at him like I’m drowning in my own anxiety. Beast drains his glass, drops it to the floor and hauls me up his chest, compelling my legs to wrap around his narrow waist.
“Tell me you got her,” I implore him.
“Yeah. Got you too,” he says wickedly.
I take his face in my shaking hands enjoying the scrape of his scruffy beard against my palms. I rest my forehead against his and sigh, letting the weight of my troubles slip off my shoulders. The fear, the anxiety, the worry… this monster has chased away my demons. At least one of them, anyway. A small fucked up part of my dark little heart falls irreversibly and wholly in love with this man at this moment. I’ll allow him that tiny piece of real estate in my heart though it wasn’t technically part of the deal.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
“My name is Ena Devlin and I belong to you,” I whisper. His normally stormy eyes are clear and focused on me. His gaze is childlike in this moment, wonder and curiosity swimming in those gray pools. I’m frightened of my own words, impossibly scared of him now more than ever. He has hurt me before, physically. He has that power based on size alone but now… now, knowing how my heart is behaving, Beast can hurt me so much more. I’ve exposed the tender underbelly where he could easily strike and render me permanently damaged. He could break my heart if he chose to. Does he know he has it? Does he know how I am at his mercy? Does he know how he could hurt me if he felt so inclined? Still… in this moment I choose to sacrifice myself. I choose to risk it all. He did what I was beginning to think was impossible. He saved my sister. He won me. The awful, rotten, violent man he is, he won me. He’s the worst kind of person, but how do I reconcile that man with the same man I saw utterly destroyed over the death of one of his closest friends? Or the man who chose to cover me up with a blanket on his private jet even though he’d just fought with me? Or the man that sent me stupid eggs benedict after saving my sister’s life?
“My name is Ena Devlin and I belong to you,” I repeat whisper soft, touching my lips to his. Beast walks us to his bed and lay’s me down beneath him.
His lips come down violently against mine and the metallic taste of blood teases my tongue. One of us has a busted lip. I can’t say that I care at the moment. I suck at his lip, savoring his brutality, relishing his violence. His need to mark and claim me is evidenced by his unapologetic force. He kisses me demandingly with need and hunger and skill. His tongue slips against mine, greedil
y drinking from me as I plunder his mouth with my own tongue.
“Fuck, baby,” he growls against my mouth then tears himself away from me. Doubt etches his brow into a frown. “I warned you. I told you I wasn’t going to be nice,” he cautions me, daring me to run.
“Then don’t be nice,” I answer serenely. Beast comes unraveled, all but slamming me backward. We tear into our clothes, tugging, and ripping threads. Dizzy with lust, I roll on top of him and rip my shirt up over my head. My bra follows my shirt and I settle further into his hips, grinding my core against the length of him. I’m wet and aching and feeling just as wild as he looks. I know he feels it. He must. His eyes are feral, his growl hinting at just how much he needs this. If his need is anywhere near as strong as mine, it’s off the scales. We’ve been playing this lust filled game of cat and mouse for weeks and things just got doubly intense thanks to emotions I am not prepared to feel. I’m surrendering to it all. I can’t even say with any sincerity that I regret it. Best forfeiture ever.
In one swift movement Beast flips me so that he’s on top of me, anchored securely between my legs. His knees bent, sitting back on his haunches, licking his lips like the predator he is. “Ena,” he growls. I can’t tell if it’s a prayer, a warning, a question, or a demand. Perhaps my name on his lips is all of those things. Either way, I answer, arching myself into him, silently asking for contact, pleading even. Beast snags my panties at my hipbones and jerks them down my hips so fast they feel abrasive against my thighs and yet I arch into him, begging. Wetness collects at my center and threatens to have me pleading for mercy and release if he doesn’t give me what I so desperately need.
He braces his arms inside my thighs and pushes himself down the bed so that his breath skitters across my pubic bone, winning a shiver from me in response. His teeth flash a wicked smile that makes him so impossibly handsome it hurts. My hips undulate toward him, urging him to put me out of my misery. His soft yet demanding kiss lands at the hollow between my inner thigh and my center. I groan in response. Beast nips my skin causing me to gasp. “Stay still or you’ll regret it,” he warns, his hot breath tickling my entrance. I’ve never been so turned on or needy in my life. Of course, I’ve only ever been intimate with boys. Beast isn’t just a man, he’s an animal, the kind of man that other men wish they were, unrepentantly masculine and violent, commanding and powerful.
His tongue slips luxuriously slow down my entrance, testing, tasting, teasing. I try focusing on my breathing but his masterful mouth is impossible to ignore. Without further preamble, he deftly spreads my flesh and seals his lips around my most sensitive area. I let out a moan and involuntarily roll my hips into his mouth. He takes and takes greedily, feasting on me with pass after pass of his tongue. He alternates between movements. His lips seal over my flesh, suckling until I’m gasping for air and just as I feel the wave of euphoria building he releases me, slowly, lavishly licking me from top to bottom and back again.
Countless decadent, torturous minutes pass with him laving his perfect mouth against my needy flesh and finally… mercy. I grip his short hair in my hands and capitulate to his skill, his demands, his presence, his everything. Glorious sparks of light flash against the black backdrop of my closed eyelids. “Beautiful,” I hear him purr, distantly, remotely. My deepest muscles clench and release, shuddering with relief, sending violent tremors of pleasure outward. I pant, desperate for breath. Distantly, I hear Beast shuffling around. I force my eyes open to see him bare, erect, impressive, thick and long poised between my thighs. His dark eyes are nearly black, and as wild as I’ve ever seen them. A wicked smile tilts his lips, still glistening with the evidence of my release. He smiles full on then drags his tongue over his lips. He attacks my mouth before I can thinks twice about how insanely erotic it was to see him lick the taste of me off his own lips. He licks inside my mouth, sharing ecstasy with me. “You taste amazing,” he declares against my mouth. I moan in response, arching upward against him, aching to be filled.
“I did my part,” he grits out, his eyes wild, sweat beading on his brow. I nod, emotion threatening. He did. He did do his part. He found Lan. I grip his neck and bring him back to me, his mouth against mine.
“Now, I’ll do mine. I’m yours,” I breathe against his lips. I couldn’t have anticipated the effect my repeated declaration would have on him. All at once and with great prowess, and no little amount of discomfort, he tilts his hips, positioning himself at my opening and plunges forward, deep, painful and wholly claiming my body with his. A breathless, soundless, cry forces my mouth to pop open, my nails to claw at his muscled back and my legs clench around his hips.
He groans a nearly pained sound, drawing the length of his shaft back so that the thick bell shaped tip of him is all that remains, then he slams home once more. I hold on for my life as he loses all semblance of humanity, unleashing himself against my body. My muscles ache and tighten with each punishing intrusion. Syrupy-sweet ecstasy teases at the edges of my awareness, warning me of impending reprieve. My breathing grows choppy. My legs grip him tighter though the subtle feeling of muscle cramps are cropping up in my thighs, calves, and the arches of my feet. He leans his head down sealing his lips over one taut nipple. He licks, sucks and nips, grazing his teeth along my peaked flesh. He repeats the same ministrations on the other breast, all while that wave of relief builds. Intoxicating euphoria gathers, and bursts forward, leaving me whimpering his name as his own brows knit together, his dark eyes find mine and the look on his face…
Fucking hell.
He jerks and spills into me, tremors of release wracking his incredible body.
A sane woman would go get in a hot shower. She’d wash off the sweat and the sex. The scent of his pleasure, the sticky residue of his assertion of ownership over me.
I’ve been called a lot of things but I’ve never been accused of being reasonable, or sane. I skip the shower, content to smell like him for the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beast
Two minutes after I tugged her closer to me, she was out like a light. She didn’t bother getting up to clean up or shower. She just smiled lazily, closed her hypnotic eyes, and she was breathing deeply with sleep less than a few minutes later. She was out like she hasn’t slept in forever. I had the idea on the way back to the penthouse that I’d have a drink and then strip her down. Tie her up. Whip her, punish her, remind her of her trespasses and her lies…
Ha! Pussy!
I came in and searched the place for her. When she wasn’t to be found, my heart sped, panic bloomed, and I wondered if she’d managed an escape. I heard her mutter to herself from my closet and I was alarmed at the level of relief that I’d felt. Of course, that sense of relief has nothin’ on the relief I felt when I finally sank into her, burying my cock as far as it would go. Though I could see it was at the brink of her pain threshold, she’d taken me, held on and begged for more.
“So fucked,” I mutter, scrubbing one hand through my hair. The sun is just peeking above the horizon. It’s early but I have to get myself in order. I don’t have time to think about Ena and how addicted I am to her. A few things high on the priority list in my mind are demanding my attention. The Princessa goes home today and Capo and I are having a little meeting. Alana Perryman will also return from the dead soon with a regretful story about being dumb and running away. Teeny, my dear friend Teeny, has more fucking explaining to do.
Just another day at the office.
I slip from my bed and stop to appreciate the spectacular woman wrapped in my sheets. She’s more than beautiful. She’s goddamn entrancing. Her long red hair is all over the place, spread out in every direction. Her pouty lips are slightly parted. Her eyes are relaxed and peaceful. I drag my gaze over her body, drinking her in. She has that old Hollywood look about her. All woman with generous helpings of hips and ass and breasts. My eyes narrow on the yellowing marks on her neck. The bruising has faded significantly but it’s there and along with it m
y own gut-deep self-hatred for having put those garish marks on her.
I grit my teeth and reach for her, not caring that I’m disturbing her sleep. I’m a selfish fuck. The world knows that. “Mine,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the hollow at the base of her neck. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, depositing another kiss along her abused skin. She hums a raspy, sleepy sound and squirms further into me.
Jesus Christ this woman.
“Can I call you Carrick now?” she asks sleepily.
“Yeah. You can call me Carrick,” I say smiling against her skin. I meant to get my ass out of bed, work out, shower and get on with my laundry list of shit to get done today but my cock has other plans. “Shower with me,” I order. She sits up blearily rubbing her eyes but she gets to her feet obediently, still stark naked. I have to swallow my laugh. So, Ena Devlin isn’t a morning person.
“I think I slept like the dead,” she whispers, stretching her arms above her head. “Think you had something to do with that,” she purrs turning to me, looping her hands around my neck.
“Mmm,” I hum, kissing her ear. “Shower. Now.”
Steam rolls in dense waves around us. I snag the body wash but Ena takes it from me. “Let me,” she says look up at me through mist-covered lashes. She squeezes soap into the loofa and works the soap into a thick lather. She goes about washing my body, taking her time as she goes. “Do all your tattoos mean something?” She asks tracing her index finger over the rose on my chest. “Yeah. They do. Not all of them are some fucking deep poetic thing but yeah. They have a reason.” She nods and continues tracing her finger through soap bubbles across my skin. My cock is solid and bobs heavily between us.
“How many men have you been with?”
“W-what?” she stutters looking nervous. I’ve surprised her with my question right out of left field. “I—uh—one.”
