Page 39 of The Beast's Broken Angel

Something cracked in him. I felt it—felt the way his restraint slipped like a snapped thread. His mouth was on my shoulder, teeth scraping skin, hips moving again with an urgency that bordered on frantic.

He fucked me like he couldn’t stand the space between us. Like he had to burn this into both of us so neither of us could pretend it meant nothing.

My body rocked with every thrust, the air punched from my lungs each time he bottomed out. The cuffs bit into my wrists, grounding me in the ache, the stretch, the helplessness I had chosen.

He groaned and reached beneath me again, this time with more care. His hand wrapped around my cock like he knew exactly how to undo me, each stroke measured, deliberate.

My back arched. My hips trembled.

I was close again. Too close.

But I didn’t want it to end.

Not yet.

Not when it finally felt like we were unraveling together.

“Don’t think we’re done,” he murmured. “I’ve waited too long to have you like this.”

He pulled out slowly, the drag of him enough to make me twitch and gasp. Then he rolled me onto my back with ease, my arms awkward beneath me but held in place by the cuffs. He watched me for a beat, eyes roaming over my body like he wasn’t done devouring.

He wasn’t.

The pressure built impossibly, every nerve ending on fire as Adrian’s rhythm never faltered.

He slammed back into me, and I was suddenly on my back, the force sending sparks of pleasure through my entire body.

When I finally came, it was with a broken cry, my body convulsing as pleasure tore through me, spilling hot across the sheets beneath us.

The intensity left me shaking, gasping for breath.

Adrian leaned down and kissed me—slow this time, almost reverent—but his hands never stopped moving. One slid up my thigh, the other wrapped around the base of my cock, already starting to stir again despite how hard I’d come minutes ago.

“Sensitive?” he asked, smirking.

I nodded, breathless.

“Good.”

He reached for the crop again. I flinched—not from fear, but anticipation. Instead, he traced it along my inner thigh, then tapped the tip lightly just below my navel. Not hard. Just a reminder. He didn’t need pain to dominate. Just pressure. Presence.

Adrian spread my legs wider and bent down, licking a slow stripe from the base of my cock to the head.

Then he sucked me into his mouth, deliberately gentle, like he wanted to draw the nerves back to life inch by inch.

His mouth was hot and devastating, tongue flicking the tip before he swallowed me down again.

I moaned, hips twitching, but couldn’t move much. With my hands pinned beneath me, I was completely at his mercy.

“You taste like you were made for me,” he said between licks. “And I’m going to make sure you remember that.”

He didn’t let up until I was writhing, leaking again, body overstimulated but desperate for more. Then he pulled back, wiped his mouth, and reached for the nightstand.

He pulled out a small bottle of lube, another pair of cuffs—these for ankles—and something longer, black leather with silver studs.

“Adrian…” I breathed, watching him as he looped the cuffs around my ankles and fastened them to the corners of th e bed. My legs were spread wide now, totally exposed, and my chest rose and fell in shallow pants.

He ran a finger down my stomach.

“You’re shaking,” he said, not unkindly.

“You’re intense.”

He smirked, clearly pleased. “Good.”

The whip wasn’t for striking, not this time. He used the flat side to tease me—dragging it over my thighs, between my legs, up the curve of my hole and back again. He pressed the handle against my entrance, just enough to feel the pressure, and I gasped.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he murmured. “Every sound you make goes straight to my cock.”

He slicked his fingers again with lube and slid two inside, stretching me fast this time. My back arched. I was already loose from before, but the sudden pressure still made me gasp.

He reached for the lube again, slicking himself thoroughly before lining up against my entrance. Didn't ask. Didn't warn.

He pushed in with one smooth, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

My head tipped back against the pillows. I couldn’t even form words.

He fucked me harder this time. Rough. Relentless. One hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my thigh despite the ankle restraints keeping me spread wide. The limited movement only intensified every sensation.

Every thrust knocked a sound out of me, and I didn’t care how wrecked I sounded. I wanted to be wrecked. By him.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and dark.

I forced my eyes open. Met his gaze.

He kissed me fiercely, fucking me deeper as I moaned into his mouth. I felt him everywhere. In my throat, in my chest, in the way my hole stretched around him and refused to let him go.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he said. “Right on my cock. No hands. Just from me.”

He angled his hips, found that spot inside me, and hit it over and over. My toes curled. My hands clenched in the cuffs behind me. I was gone, undone, nothing but sensation.

Then I was coming again, hard and sudden, spilling across my stomach with a cry that bordered on a sob. Adrian fucked me through it, never slowing, driving into me like he wanted to brand himself into my skin.

Adrian filled me, it was with a low, broken groan, hands fisting in the sheets beside my head. He stayed buried deep, hips jerking with aftershocks, and collapsed on top of me with a heavy exhale.

We lay there like that, breathing each other in, sweat cooling between our bodies. He finally reached behind me and undid the wrist cuffs, rubbing the marks gently with his thumbs before moving to release my ankles. The freedom felt strange after being so thoroughly restrained.

I couldn’t speak yet. Could barely move.

He kissed my forehead, then each wrist. “You okay?”

I nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “More than okay.”

Adrian pulled the blanket over us and curled around my side, one arm draped over my waist like a promise.

“We’re just getting started,” he whispered.

And somehow, I knew he meant it.

My body was still humming, hypersensitive and aching in the best, most dangerous ways. Adrian’s chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His hair was wild from my grip, his mouth red from mine, and his eyes, God, his eyes, held something feral and unguarded that made my heart stutter .

“This changes things,” he said, his voice rough, threaded with want and something deeper I wasn’t ready to name.

“Does it?” I challenged, though the words trembled out of me. “Or is this just another way to control me? Another angle to work?”

The question hit him like a slap. I saw it, the way his expression froze, how the heat in his eyes cooled as if shutters had been drawn behind them. But before he could retreat behind those walls completely, I pushed on.

“Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?” I said. My voice shook, but I didn’t stop. “You find people’s weaknesses and use them. You found mine, Isabelle’s illness, my desperation, my need to save people. And now what? You’ve found another pressure point to push?”

He stared at me, quiet. The muscles in his jaw jumped, tension radiating from him in waves.

“Is that what you think this is?” he asked, low and dangerous, but there was something else underneath. Something fragile. “You think this,” he gestured between our tangled bodies and the rumpled bed, “is just another angle?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said, voice cracking on the truth. “I was a trauma nurse with a normal life and a clear sense of right and wrong. Now I’m here, in this place, in your bed, complicit in things I never thought I’d be. And I just... I don’t know who I am anymore.”

I sat up, pulling the sheets around myself like armour.

“So yeah. I want you. I can’t even lie about that anymore.

This thing between us, it’s real and terrifying and it’s pulling me under.

But I also know who you are, Adrian. I know what you’re capable of.

And I’d be a fool to think I’m not still one more pawn on your board. ”

He didn’t move. Not at first. But something in him shifted.

Not anger.

Hurt.

“You think I’m manipulating you,” he said slowly, and the look in his eyes wasn’t the cold, calculating gaze of the man who’d first dragged me into his world. It was raw, unguarded. “You think this is strategy.”

“Isn’t it?”

His shoulders straightened, his chest lifting with a deep breath. “No. It’s not.”

He stepped back from the bed, and the loss of his warmth left me colder than I expected. He didn’t reach for his clothes or try to gather control. He just stood there, looking at me like I’d carved something out of him with words alone.

“You want to know what this is?” he said. “It’s the first time in twenty years someone has looked at me and seen more than the violence I’m capable of. It’s the first time I’ve wanted something that wasn’t about dominance or leverage.”

He ran a hand through his hair, restless. “You watched me in that basement, saw what I did. And instead of flinching, you stood your ground. You called me out. You made me question myself.”

“That doesn’t mean?—”

“I could have anyone,” he cut in, not boastful, just stating a truth as sharp as a scalpel. “Money, power, fear, people respond to those things. If I wanted you compliant, I’d have used those tools. I’ve used them before.”

He turned slightly, eyes dropping to the floor. “But I don’t want that with you. I want you as you are, sharp-tongued, infuriating, relentlessly moral. I want you to choose this. Choose me.”

The words left a hollow ringing in my ears. A confession I hadn’t expected. A vulnerability from a man who commanded every room he walked into.

“And if I don’t?” I asked quietly .

He met my gaze. “Then nothing changes. Your sister stays protected. You continue your work. We go back to what it was before tonight.”

“But?”

“But I won’t touch you again,” he said, voice resolute. “No more blurred lines. No more pretending.”

He moved away from the bed, running a hand through his hair, his back to me.

“You said you need time. I’ll give it. But Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't take too long.” His voice dipped low, dangerous again, but it wasn't a threat. It was a plea dressed in teeth. “Patience isn't one of my virtues.”

He moved to where his clothes lay scattered across the floor, each piece a reminder of how quickly everything had unraveled between us. The expensive shirt, wrinkled beyond salvation. Trousers that would need pressing. The suit jacket that had somehow ended up draped over a chair.

I watched him dress with the same methodical precision he applied to everything else—buttons aligned perfectly despite the fabric's condition, cufflinks retrieved from the nightstand and fastened with practiced ease.

Even disheveled, even marked with evidence of what we'd done, he managed to look dangerous and controlled.

He paused at the mirror, fingers working to restore some semblance of order to his dark hair. The reflection caught my eye in the glass, and for a moment our gazes held—his expression unreadable but intense.

Then he was gone, the echo of his presence lingering in the silence like the press of lips on skin.

I sat there for a long time, the sheets tangled around me, heartbeat too loud in the quiet room. My body still ached from him. My soul, ached for something else entirely .

I touched my mouth, still able to taste him. Still able to feel the ghost of what we’d just shared. And I wondered, not for the first time, if I was already too far gone.

If I was already in love with the monster in the dark.