Page 14 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 14

Once, Twice, Maybe Spill it Thrice

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I sabelle is delicious and I’m hard as hell licking up her slit. She bucks and moans as I feast on my wife’s desire, digging my fingers into her thighs until they shake under my hold.

"Dom—" The rest of my name is strangled in her throat as Isabelle bucks, a scream building. So close, so close, almost there and?—

I wake up, my hand around my very hard dick.

Fuck .

Time for a shower.

I’ve jerked myself off, and I still can’t stop wanting Isabelle.

Our rooms are separated by a mere door. I find myself unable to do anything but pace back and forth as I try to think of anything but stripping my wife naked and slamming into her body until she is a screaming, orgasming mess .

Each inhale is saturated with her scent invading from the next room. It’s sweet and maddening. It clings to me. It’s embedded itself into my sheets though she’s never laid on them. My pores are filled with her. No matter how many times I rake my claws through my hair or pace the length of the room, I can’t escape it. Yet I don’t want to.

The atmosphere shifts, heavy and humid with the unmistakable heat of arousal. But it’s not mine this time.

I don’t mean to move, but I find myself drawn toward the door, my mouth watering, my resolve crumbling.

The taste of her lingers on my tongue, maddening and addicting in a way that nothing else ever has been. It’s ruined me. Just one taste, and I knew no one else would ever compare. Her warm skin beneath my mouth carried a flavor that felt like a secret—a whisper meant only for me.

As a man, I would’ve reveled in it, claimed her fully in my study until I left her trembling beneath me. Back then, I could wield my strength, my heightened senses, as a gift. Now, they’re a curse, magnifying everything I want but cannot have.

The sound of Isabelle’s movements filter through the connecting door, faint but unmistakable. The creak of her bed, the rustle of fabric, her breath—ragged and uneven. My steps falter. My body tenses.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

I still. I listen.

The sharp hitch of her breath is a shot of pure adrenaline, coursing straight to my groin. The broken, breathy noises she tries to stifle undo me.

In my mind’s eye, I can see her. Her sounds paint a picture so vivid and inescapable that the door between us might as well not exist. Those wide, honest brown eyes, glazed with desire. Lips parted, teeth catching the corner of that plush lower lip. Her hair spills over her shoulders in waves, tumbling in rich ribbons over her pale skin. Sheets, tangled around her body, envy the warmth of her curves as her fingers press between her thighs.

A low hum fills the air. The muffled vibration jolts through me like a live wire. My wife is using more than her fingers. I shove my fist into my mouth, teeth clamping onto my knuckles to stifle the guttural sound clawing its way up my throat.

My abs tense as heat coils low in my body. My cock hardens further, straining against every ounce of control I’m trying to maintain.

The air thickens as her desire sharpens.

Oh, Isabelle.

My human hand drifts lower before I can stop myself, pushing my pants past my hips to wrap around my thick length. The first stroke is involuntary, a desperate attempt to ease the tension building to a fever pitch. But it doesn’t help. Nothing will—not this, not anything. Not unless I’m inside her, making her cry out my name instead of biting back those maddening little sounds.

The beast inside me howls at the restraint, clawing at my control, desperate to claim what’s already mine. To see her come undone under my hands. To leave her marked, ravaged.

Isabelle gasps—a high, breathless sound that spikes through me like lightning. My strokes match the rhythm of her breathing, the maddening tempo of her arousal.

My stomach tightens as I imagine her arching into the sensation, her supple body writhing, those curves shifting with every shiver of pleasure. Her breasts—round, perfect, and far too inviting—would rise and fall with her ragged breaths, her nipples pebbling in response to the chill of the night air. My claws twitch at the thought of cupping that softness, teasing those peaks with my tongue until her breathy moans turn to screams.

I stroke harder, faster.

And Isabelle. . .she wouldn’t hide what she was doing. She’s too straightforward, too unapologetically herself. She’d show me plainly, unabashed, with that same sultry power she wields effortlessly. Her eyes would meet mine, unwavering, and she’d say something maddening like, "I figured you’d want to watch."

My palm is nothing compared to the heat of her body, the slick warmth I know I’d find if I pushed through that door and pressed her into her mattress. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of arousal through me, and I stroke in time with her muffled noises, imagining the way her luscious thighs would tremble around my hips as I fill her.

But I can’t. She’s so close, and yet I can’t touch her. The beast within me claws at my control, urging me to rip through the door and take what’s mine. To claim her, to mark her, to show her that no one else will ever bring her to the brink like I can.

A low growl rumbles in my chest, unbidden. I fear she’ll stop or notice but her gasps and moans continue in a steady and increasing pitch even as she tries to keep quiet. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stifle it. My grip tightens, my strokes rougher now, desperate. The friction burns, but it’s nothing compared to the fire roaring in my veins.

And then, from the other side of the door, I hear it: a broken cry, muffled but unmistakable. Isabelle’s release.

My knees threaten to give, and my control snaps like a brittle thread. The hunger inside me howls for release, for her, but I can’t let it win. I tear away from the door, zipping up over my unsatisfied, pulsating hardness.

The mansion’s hallways blur as I stalk through them, driven by pure instinct. The need to escape is primal, visceral, something feral thrashing beneath my skin. I don’t bother with shoes or a coat as I shove past the heavy front doors. The cold, snowy night bites at my skin, but it isn’t enough.

There is only one who can satisfy me, but I will never touch her. Never bed my own wife.

The icy wind cuts at my exposed skin, biting through the thin material of my pants, but I’m still an inferno. My claws extend as I shove off into the snow, my bare feet crunching over the frozen ground as I start to run.

My breaths fog the air as I bound through deserted streets, the sharp sound of my footfalls ricocheting off buildings. The beast takes over, my instincts sharpening as I leap onto a rooftop with inhuman grace, claws scraping against the slick, snow-covered surface.

A full-body cramp grips my muscles, but I force my way through it. I’m not free to fully shift, to run. My body fights itself, pushing and pulling with unrelenting pain. The confines of my condition only further aggravate my ire, and I push harder.

Above the city, I move like a shadow—swift, silent, and wild. My muscles burn with exertion, each stride pushing me farther from the mansion, farther from her. But no matter how fast or how far I run, Isabelle is right there in front of me. Her scent, her sounds, her taste—they’re etched into me.

I leap from rooftop to rooftop, my breath coming in harsh gasps. The cold slashes at my throat and fills my lungs, but it’s not enough. I need more—I need to be free of this need, this desire that’s turning into an obsession.

I descend into the streets again, my claws scraping against brick as I drop into an alley. My body moves on instinct, navigating the twisting, snow-dusted pathways until the familiar scent of the docks reaches me. The salty tang of the harbor mingles with the acrid stink of diesel and rot, grounding me in its familiarity. I stop at the edge of a pier, my breath heaving. The water stretches out before me, dark and endless, an abyss that mirrors the one inside me.

I am, without a doubt, suffering the most horrendous case of blue balls in history. The unrelenting pain is not just physical—it’s maddening, clawing at the edges of my control like an animal that refuses to be caged.

And Isabelle? She’s the cause and cure of all of it.

Back when I was whole, women were about pleasure. Something fleeting and physical, easy to control and discard. But Isabelle? She’s something else. Something I can’t define, can’t compartmentalize. She’s unyielding, unapologetic, and somehow, without even trying, she’s pushing past every wall I’ve built.

But Isabelle isn’t just some woman.

She’s so close, and yet impossibly out of reach. This was supposed to be transactional, a means to an end.

I think of all those times, glimpsing her through the window from the car as she worked. The way she runs her fingers over the spines of books with a kind of reverence. The way her lips twitch in dry humor at my expense. Her unflinching courage when she stands her ground against me. The loyalty and endless patience she shows her father, no matter how erratic he is. She’s more than alluring—she’s relentless. A force of nature I didn’t anticipate.

It’s maddening .

I can’t help but remember another young woman who possessed the same fearless frankness. She also would say whatever came to her mind, without trepidation. Even when she was telling our father she didn’t want to go to Europe for the summer. Instead, she planned to start an internship at a veterinary hospital. She delivered the news firmly, unfazed by the dark, drawn brows of our patriarch that had brought grown men to their knees, begging for forgiveness.

I close my eyes, remembering Lisette’s confident, knowing smirk.

There she is, wearing a cable knit sweater and multicolored skirt with too many bracelets on that jangle irritatingly. The ghost of my sister seems to know what I’m thinking and cocks her hip, propping a hand on it with the clear message she doesn’t care what I think, she’s not taking them off.

With such a large age gap, I was never annoyed with her so much as fiercely protective. Where I fulfilled the duties of our family with unquestioning obedience, she was always far braver and independent.

A small, dark hole blooms in the center of Lisette’s forehead, blood dripping in a slow, deliberate stream. Another hole appears, then another, spreading across Lisette’s face and body as if invisible bullets are riddling her all over again, her now-light blue party dress soaking crimson with every phantom shot.

My memory twists into violent flashes of bullet-ridden flesh, of lakes of blood, and I choke on the acrid stench of bodies burning. The bodies of my family. My pack.

I open my eyes, but it’s too late. Lisette’s open, sightless gaze haunts me from where I found her unnaturally splayed over something else. Something that when I saw it made me turn and vomit instantly.

My gorge rises even as my muscles and tendons stretch and riot with unexpressed rage, continually trapped in this half-form. Pain ricochets through my bones, trembling with the fury and grief I can never release.

My body is a prison—the cursed in-between—and is slowly breaking me down. It’s a constant reminder of what I’ve lost and what I failed to protect. I fall to my knees and claw at my own chest, trying to make the pain stop. I can’t tell which is worse: the torment of my memories or the relentless, excruciating war inside my body that’s tearing me apart piece by piece. Quite literally. I’m on borrowed time.

I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve died with them.

But here I am, trying to start over, trying to survive. And my salvation has a name.

Isabelle .

Get it together, you fucking idiot. This is not a real marriage. This is about making pack.

But even as I think it, the words ring hollow. Isabelle isn’t just some means to an end. She’s…

The sea’s icy wind slaps me in the face along with a realization.

That’s it.

That must be it.

Isabelle’s words return to me from the night she surmised why I shackled her into this marriage. It may take more than time and proximity to create a Pack.

It’s about connection.

This transactional situation is keeping us separated from each other .

Scrubbing my clawed hand over my face, I realize if I want to form a pack, I have to change the rules.

To Isabelle’s detriment.

I spend the rest of the night stalking the city with restless dread, knowing the conversation I need to have with her. Knowing it may be the most monstrous thing I’ve ever orchestrated—and as the crime lord who holds the strings of the largest Thorn syndicate in existence, that’s no small claim.