Page 82 of The Beast's Broken Angel

So I didn’t think. Ifelt.

Each stroke was a memory—Adrian’s teeth scraping skin, the low growl of his approval when I moaned without meaning to. His hands pinning mine to the wall. The raw hunger in his gaze like he could devour me whole and wouldn’t regret a single bite.

I stroked my cock with a grip that bordered on punishing, chasing a phantom that lived only in the space between memory and need. Every slide of my fist brought withit another flash—Adrian’s teeth sinking into my shoulder, his voice thick with hunger as he ordered me to stay still while he pushed inside.

My hole clenched at the memory, aching, empty, desperate to be filled. I swore under my breath, tilting my hips forward, needing friction, needing something to ease the pressure building low in my gut.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered, eyes squeezed shut. I couldfeelhim—his cock stretching me open, slow and relentless, the burn of it searing through me until I was gasping his name like a prayer. The first time he took me raw against that goddamn desk, he didn’t ask. Heclaimed. And I’d let him. I’d fucking begged.

The way he growled,“This hole’s mine,”like he was carving the words into my skin with every thrust.

I whimpered at the thought, my cock twitching in my hand. I didn’t need porn, didn’t need imagination—I had the truth of it etched into every bruised nerve, every mark he’d left behind. I remembered the way he’d fucked me like I was something he owned. Like he was daring the world to take me from him.

My fingers slipped lower, teasing the rim of my hole with slick need. I gasped, nearly doubling over from how sensitive I was. Just one brush of touch and my body was lighting up like he’d walked into the room.

I was soaked with sweat, hand working my cock in long, messy strokes as I toyed myself with the other, slipping one finger in and groaning at the stretch. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. But it gave me just enough to pretend he was there, holding me down, forcing my legs apart so he could see everything.

“Fuck, Adrian,” I breathed, voice breaking as I imagined his cock splitting me open again. That thick, perfect drag of himbottoming out inside me, until I was trembling and ruined and wrecked.

I shoved another finger in, teeth sinking into my lip as I rocked against my hand, fucking myself as I pumped my cock harder, faster. My thighs were shaking now, the tile slick beneath my feet, the steam around me suffocating—but all I could think about was the way he’d grabbed my hips and pounded into me like I was nothing but a hole to fill.

And I’dlovedit.

I didn’t just want his cock—I wanted the way he looked at me when he was inside me, like he was home. Like I was the one place he didn’t have to pretend.

I moaned, the sound echoing in the shower, obscene and broken, as I pushed myself harder, chasing that edge with everything I had. My cock was throbbing, flushed and leaking, my hole aching around the stretch of my fingers.

I came with a choked cry, back arching, muscles locking as I spilled over my hand and onto the tile. It felt endless—wave after wave crashing through me until I collapsed forward, panting against the wall, both hands braced to keep from falling apart completely.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because no matter how deep I fucked my fingers in, no matter how hard I stroked my cock, nothing came close to the way he took me. The way heusedme. The way he kissed me afterward, like I was something precious, even when he’d just fucked me raw.

I stayed like that, breathing hard, cum cooling on my stomach, water washing everything down the drain.

But the ache in my hole lingered. The need. The memory of his cock, his voice, his claim.

I hated myself for wanting it again.

And I knew—knew—the moment he touched me next, I’d let him do it all over again.

Shame prickled along the edges of my spine, but it only added to the burn. I wanted to hate it. To hate him. To be disgusted with myself for craving more.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

The slick slide of my hand quickened, jaw clenched as my knees buckled slightly under the weight of it all. I angled my hips forward, pressing against the cool tile as if I could anchor myself to something real. But there was no anchor. Just sensation. Just the echo of Adrian’s touch—claiming, unapologetic,dominant.

I came with a strangled gasp, forehead knocking against the wall as the tension snapped loose. My release painted the tile in uneven streaks, already sliding down toward the drain, as if it could wash away the evidence.

But the guilt stayed. The hunger stayed.

Even as I leaned there, trembling and spent beneath the stream of hot water, I couldn’t shake the truth of it: Adrian had carved himself into me. With teeth and hands and a dangerous kind of tenderness that made it impossible to pretend it was just lust.

I hated that I wanted more.

I hated that I didn’t hate him nearly enough.

And worst of all?