Page 31 of Beauty and the Daddy

Right now, I'm neither weak nor dead. I'm something worse—distracted by a woman who tastes like cherries and bad decisions.

I pace because if I sit, I'll picture Belle and how she sounded thirty-six hours ago.

My knuckles still throb from yesterday's lesson in respect.

The guy's lucky I didn't kill him. Anyone else who talked about Belle like that would be breathing through a tube right now.

Belle. Fuck.

That little gasp when she whispered my name—like I was a prayer and a curse in the same breath.

The way her back arched off the bed when she came, like her body was trying to crawl inside mine.

Christ. I've had her once and I'm already planning our next hundred times.

This is how empires fall—not with bullets, but with green eyes and pink lips that taste like salvation.

I shouldn't have gone in her room. Even I know that.

I had half a dozen excuses lined up in my head from security, to boredom.

Truth is, I heard her moaning my name and lost the plot.

I should've walked away and closed the door, pretended I didn't hear and see what I did.

But sweet little innocent Belle Donovan with her fingers up that sundress, isn't something you walk away from once you've had a little taste.

It's been years since I let a woman get this deep under my skin, and this one managed it in less than a few days.

Now I know exactly what she tastes like, and how tight she feels around me.

And the way her eyes went wide when I first pushed inside her?

That look alone was worth the seven million her father owes me.

Virgin.

The word rattles around my skull like a bullet that won't find an exit.

I've fucked plenty of women. Experienced women who knew the game, knew the score, knew that morning meant goodbye.

But Belle? She gave me something that can't be taken back, can't be undone, can't be forgotten.

The blood on my sheets. The pain flickering across her face before pleasure drowned it.

The way she trusted me to be careful with her.

I wasn't careful. I was starving.

And now she's branded into my brain like someone took a hot iron to grey matter.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, stunned and beautiful, whisperingyeswhen I asked if she was sure.

She should've been someone else's story. Some college kid, some safe guy who buys her daffodils and coffee.

Instead, she got me. The Beast.

I took her first like I was owed it, and now? I'm fucked.