Page 33 of Refrain (Beautiful Monsters #2)

“I just want you to know. I need you to understand,” she says. “No matter what…no matter what. I’ve never lied about this. Helping Domi. Piotr. Vlad. None of it was a lie. ”

“I know.”

She doesn’t want the validation. She just needed to hear it out loud— she did.

“Your face looks better,” she says while rising to her feet.

She gathers up the bloodied rags and carries them into the kitchen.

Then she wipes the counter down—a task I suspect she does to keep her hands busy more than anything.

She’s on her third pass when she finally addresses me directly over her shoulder. “You live here alone.”

It isn’t a question, but I still answer her. “Yeah. It’s just me.”

“Just you and no one else?” She deliberately skirts around the subject of Dante. “No roommate? No girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” She shuts the faucet off and returns the rag to the sink. “I should get going.”

She’s halfway to the door when I call out. “Wait.”

I’ve never thought of myself as too much of a selfish prick, but here I am.

Maybe I just want to comfort her. Let her know I’m willing to listen, good old Espi.

It’s all bullshit, though, when I can smell her from here.

I can still taste her. Spicy, fiery red.

Sharp, desperate green. My stiffening dick is a warning sign, but I would rather cut the damn thing off than have her leave while looking like that. Raw. Open. Wounded.

I’d bind my fucking hands if she asked me to, anything to get rid of that pain. “You can crash here for a bit, if you want.”

She feints for the door on the tips of her toes.

She wants to leave. Greed holds her back.

Just like that, she’s in front of me again, her gaze on the wall, her face half turned away.

Her fingers seize mine though. Tugging. Pulling.

I see it on her face. She doesn’t want this…

whatever it is. She needs it the same way I need the nicotine to chase out the shit I can’t bear to think on.

She wants a drug to clear her head.

“Does this…help?” I don’t have to explain what I mean. I just trace the inside of her wrist with my thumb .

The way she shudders could mean anything. Then she jerks her head once. Yes. She doesn’t resist when I tug lightly on her hand, drawing her a step closer. Another.

She swallows hard, a small noise dying in her throat. That fucking sound. Whatever shred of control I’ve maintained until now breaks. She’s in my arms. On my lap, straddling me. I take hold of both of her wrists—she can’t touch me. She can only show, guiding me to her body slowly, hesitantly.

My fingers find her hips, and I watch her face to see what she wants. Soft? Hard? Her jaw clenches— hard. It’s not enough. She raises my hands higher, her grip tight over my wrists. I cup her rib cage and follow the trail up…up.

Fuck. I have to grit my teeth and grind my thighs together to cut off the reaction building beneath my skin. This is for her . My dick will have to deal with my hand. This is for her.

I just let my head fall back and eye the ceiling while she writhes against my palms, her hips on my waist. I don’t grab until she makes me, digging her nails into my skin.

Then I squeeze. I let her use me like a rag doll to distract from whatever the fuck she’s feeling inside. She makes me grope her. Tug. Rub.

I know it’s not enough even before her ragged breathing shudders against my ear.

“Please…”

I can feel her lips moving. She has to lick them to find enough leverage to speak again, her mouth practically over my earlobe.

“I need you to touch me. Please. Just for a minute. I…I need you to—” She breaks off when I tug my jacket from her shoulders.

My fingers are stupid, impatient fucks. They don’t stop to savor.

They just take. Every gasp. Every moan she has building in her lungs.

I fucking paw at her through the gray cotton of her shirt.

My thumb finds her nipple, teasing it into a sharp point, while the other hand cups her stomach, holding her steady.

Physically, anyway. Her pulse is a rapid-fire staccato.

I can practically hear the damn thing beating against her rib cage, spurring me on, drowning out any rational thought.

I breathe her in and get drunk. High. Wasted.

Her shirt’s off. She’s braless underneath, her tits bouncing with every writhing action her hips make.

I’m going to come in my pants if she keeps this up.

I don’t fucking care if I do. Watching her is better than my fucking hand.

I’ll give her the humiliation on a fucking platter if it means I get to feel her.

Smell her. Taste her. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.

She’s desperate.

I dart my gaze to the clasp of her jeans; she’s already tugging them down her hips before I can process the fucking invitation. Her legs spring apart, allowing enough room for me to spread my thighs and force hers open wider.

Her hand snatches up one of mine, leading the fingers to the waistband of her black lace underwear. I make my fucking hand limp. She’s the one who guides me there. Who rocks her hips to feel me there. She wants me there.

She’s silk. Hot. Wet. Goddamn perfect. All of those things I hear Arno and his men boast about when they get drunk enough to compare conquests.

The touch alone is enough to make me almost regret. Almost touch that place at the back of my mind I never dwell on. I start to think dumb shit. Like maybe…maybe I could control this—not get addicted to it. Maybe…

But then she moans, and it’s like gasoline on the fucking fire. I stop thinking about anything but this. Her. My universe is her pussy. Oxygen and sanity don’t mean fucking shit. I’m shoving a finger inside her. Crudely. Roughly.

The sharp cry smothered into my ear says it all—She craves it.

I’m consumed by it. The way her heat envelops me like a glove. It’s suffocating. It’s fucking intoxicating.

I don’t come down until I’m sliding another finger beside the first, twisting my wrist for leverage, watching her face contort. Her eyes drift shut. Her mouth opens. She’s panting, riding my hand with more abandon than she could on a pole.

I’m her plaything. A tool to get her off. And, when she does, my fucking brain explodes. My dick stiffens. The only reason I don’t burst in my jeans is because she slams her chest to mine, her mouth against my throat, and the pain and pleasure short-circuit every nerve in my body.

She comes down slowly while I ease my hand from between her legs. Her breathing returns to normal. Her pulse steadies.

We stay there, a tangle of limbs on the couch. I don’t think I can leave, even if I wanted to.