Page 13 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 13

You Fuck Like a Gentle Lamb

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I revel in Isabelle’s skin, the feel, the smell, as I skim over the delicate shell of her ear before following down the line of her throat. My heart thuds in slow, steady beats as if drugged by lust, even as the tension in my groin continues to grow to a near-unbearable peak.

Oh fae lords, I can't stop. Not when she's so sweet and delectable.

Though I'm only guessing. I've never had a taste. I open my mouth to gently nip and lick at her column of throat.

Oh witchtits, she is fucking delectable .

A low rumble of pleasure rolls from her, encouraging me to press my body to hers until she's pinned against the writing desk. My hardness grinds into her welcoming curves, and my mouth goes dry from the sudden blast of desire.

I lick and suck at her neck with fervor. A dull thud signals she's dropped her book. I couldn't care less. All I can think of is more. I need more of her. I need all of her. I want to mark her, fuck her, make her forget her own name. I've pushed her back until she’s half perched on the edge of the desk.

My claws slip beneath the edge of her robe and trail along the smooth silk of her nightgown. A groan rips out of my throat as I squeeze the generous swell of her breast, testing its firmness.

Belle's legs part on a gasp and I step between them, my hardness finding the hot dent between her thighs.

"I don't think that's all shifters," Belle counters.

For a moment, I don't comprehend the words. It's taking every ounce of control not to rip her clothes off, throw her on the ground and fuck her senseless.

"What?"

"I don't think all shifters bite when they. . .um. . .you know."

My lips curl. She can't get the words out which is beyond endearing considering she reads this content on a regular basis before selling it to others.

"When they fuck ," I enunciate the word crudely, rocking between her thighs, wanting—needing to get closer.

"Yeah," she clears her throat even as her head drops back. "That may just be a you thing."

"No, it’s all shifters. It's compulsive." My claws slip under her shirt. My hand hovers for a moment—this grotesque appendage shouldn't touch something so soft, so perfect. But when she arches into me, seeking more contact, my control splinters. I'm touching, sliding up until I find intricate lace.

"I don't know," she says. "When we made love on our wedding night, you were gentle as a lamb."

I pull away enough to glare at her at the resurgence of our make-believe game.

"Gentle as a lamb?" I repeat in disbelief .

Isabelle is flushed, her eyes dark inviting pools. She gives me a little nod. "Yes, you made sweet gentle love to me on a bed of rose petals. You even cried a tear of joy at the end."

Cried a what?

My claw roughly pushes the strap of her nightgown down, then yanks it further, baring her breast. She jerks in surprise. I find her taut nipple, running my thumb back and forth along it before kneading the full expanse around it and then tugging at the tip again. Her hips buck into mine with a strangled groan. I deny myself a look, though I’m desperate to know if the needy points are brown or pink. Instead, I dive deeper into those brown eyes that glaze as they fill with lust.

"I believe, wife , you are misremembering. Though there was that time I lapped between your legs softly for nearly two hours, not allowing you to come until you begged me, your alpha," my lips slide up to one side in a smirk, "to fuck you, and bite you until you came."

I notch my thigh between her legs so she can better rock her heat along my thick corded muscle. My mouth goes dry with the need to remove our clothing and feel all of her, but I'm unwilling to interrupt the glassy, almost pained look in her eye as she loses herself to the friction. The sounds escaping her throat keep moving upward in strained pitch.

Oh, I’m gonna make you come, wife.

Torn between the need to watch her succumb to pleasure and the urge to claim her throat again, I give in to both—letting my gaze devour her expressions before dragging my mouth back to her skin, only to repeat the cycle. My human hand has been holding her by the scruff of her neck this entire time, and a vision of gripping her by the throat as I fuck her mercilessly like in that book has me rubbing against her harder. Fuck, I'm so hard I could drill my dick through concrete. The speed in which blood has left my head leaves me dizzy.

"Now I want to know." My words come out as a rasp. "Do you have a strong desire to bite when you come? Wife? "

Her lids flutter open and I never want to look at anything else other than those deep brown depths. "Like me specifically, or humans in general?"

The fact she still has her reasoning ability tells me I'm not doing my job. So I drop down and catch one of those tight buds between my teeth, causing her to shriek and moan.

For fuck’s sake. Her nipples are pink. They’re candy pink.

Dear gods man, do not—I repeat—do NOT come in your pants.

"Oh," she coos in a tone that begs for more. Her nails dig into my shoulders as she pushes against my hardness with even more desperation.

The door creaks open, golden lamplight from the hallway spilling across us like an accusation. The sudden illumination catches the library's dark windows, transforming them into mirrors, and my gaze snaps to our reflection before I can stop myself. The sight steals the breath from my lungs.

My massive form looms over her like a nightmare—human hand gripping the back of her neck, fur bristling with savage need, fang gleaming in the new light. I'm a monster playing at being a man, and the evidence is damning. Belle looks so vulnerable beneath me, her lips swollen from my rough kisses, her clothes askew from my claws. What the hell am I thinking?

I stumble back, bile rising in my throat. The heat that had been consuming me turns to ice in my veins. How could I have fooled myself into thinking I have the right to touch her?

"Dominic—" Belle reaches for me, her voice husky with lingering desire. The sound of it makes me want to weep. Or vomit. Or both.

"Your evening tea, dear," Mrs. P says from the doorway, either oblivious to or graciously ignoring the scene before her. The familiar routine of it feels like mockery.

"We're done here," I snarl, more beast than man, already retreating into the shadows where I belong. "Good night, wife."

The last thing I see is Isabelle's face—not twisted in disgust as it should be, but wearing something far worse: understanding. As if she knows exactly why I'm running, as if she can see right through every defense I've built.

I flee before she can voice that understanding, before she can offer words of absolution I don't deserve. The beast inside me howls at leaving her like this, at abandoning what we'd started. But better to leave her wanting than to let her see what kind of monster really lurks beneath my skin.

The sound of my claws gouging the hallway walls follows me all the way back to my chambers.