Page 5 of The Beast’s Hidden Rose (Obsessed #8)

five

. . .

Guy

Her question hangs in the air like smoke— Are they just fantasy?

Or prophecy? —and something in me snaps.

The control I've maintained for three years, the distance I've forced myself to keep, crumbles beneath the weight of those seven words.

She's barely made it ten steps down the hall when I'm moving, my body following her without conscious command, drawn by an invisible force stronger than gravity. Stronger than reason.

"Iris." Her name tears from my throat, rough and demanding.

She stops but doesn't turn, her back a tense line in the dim hallway. Lightning flashes through the windows, illuminating her in stark relief—a study in stillness amid chaos. I close the distance between us in four long strides, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight.

"Don't ask questions you don't want answered," I say, close enough now that she must feel my breath on the nape of her neck.

She turns slowly, her chin lifting in defiance despite the rapid pulse I can see beating at her throat. "What makes you think I don't want the answer?"

The hallway suddenly feels airless, the space between us charged with electricity more potent than the storm outside.

I study her face, searching for fear, for disgust, for any sign that I should back away now before I cross a line I can't uncross.

But what I see in her eyes isn't fear—or at least, not only fear.

There's curiosity there. Challenge. And something darker, something that mirrors what I feel clawing up from my depths.

"You should be running," I tell her again, my voice dropping to a growl. "Any sane person would be halfway to town by now."

A small smile touches her lips, surprising both of us. "I never claimed to be particularly sane."

My hand moves of its own accord, rising to hover just beside her cheek, not quite touching. "If I touch you," I warn, "I may not be able to stop."

She doesn't flinch away. Doesn't close her eyes. "Maybe I don't want you to stop."

The last thread of my restraint unravels.

Three years of watching, wanting, waiting—culminating in this moment, this woman, this surrender.

I cup her face in my palm, feeling her warmth against my skin for the first time.

The contact is electric, sending shockwaves through my system.

Her eyes widen, lips parting on an indrawn breath.

My thumb traces her cheekbone, memorizing its curve with touch rather than sight.

"You don't know what you're asking for," I murmur, giving her one last chance to retreat.

Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyelids growing heavy. "Show me."

My control shatters.

I kiss her. Hard. Not the gentle first kiss of normal courtship, but a claiming.

My lips crash against hers with three years of pent-up hunger behind them.

My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place as I devour her.

My other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her against me until there's no space left between us, until I can feel every curve of her body pressed against mine.

For one heartbeat, she's frozen, perhaps shocked by the sudden intensity.

Then she melts, her mouth opening beneath mine with a small sound that might be surprise or surrender.

Her hands clutch at my shoulders, not pushing me away but pulling me closer.

She kisses me back with unexpected fervor, matching my passion with her own.

The kiss deepens, my tongue claiming her mouth as I want to claim the rest of her. She tastes like mint and something sweeter beneath—something uniquely her. I explore every corner of her mouth, my grip in her hair tightening when she nips at my bottom lip with surprising boldness.

I back her against the wall, caging her with my body, one hand still tangled in her hair, the other sliding down to grip her hip.

Our bodies align, and I know she can feel my hardness pressing against her.

I should be embarrassed by how quickly, how completely I want her, but there's no room for shame in this moment. Only hunger. Only need.

"Mine," I growl against her lips, the word escaping before I can catch it. "You're mine, Iris. Have been since I first saw you."

I expect her to pull away then, to come to her senses at such a possessive declaration. Instead, she arches against me, her hands sliding up to tangle in my hair, pulling me back down to her mouth with surprising strength.

"Prove it," she whispers against my lips, and the challenge in those two words nearly brings me to my knees.

I kiss her again, deeper still, one hand sliding to her thigh, hitching it up against my hip to press us closer together.

The friction pulls a groan from deep in my chest. Three years of painting her body, imagining touching her, and now she's here in my arms, responsive and willing. Reality surpasses every fantasy.

When I finally break the kiss, we're both panting, her pupils blown wide, lips swollen and red from my assault.

I rest my forehead against hers, trying to regain some semblance of control, of sanity.

But her hands are still in my hair, her body still pressed to mine, and control feels like a distant memory.

"Is that answer enough?" I ask, voice rough with desire. "Or do you need more convincing?"

She studies my face, her expression a mix of wonder and wariness. "I shouldn't want this," she admits. "Any of it. You've... you've been stalking me, painting me without my knowledge. I should be terrified."

"But?" I prompt, hearing the unspoken continuation.

"But I've never felt more seen in my life than when I looked at those paintings." Her fingers trace the scar on my cheek, the first person to touch it voluntarily since the accident. "And no one has ever kissed me like they were drowning and I was air."

Thunder crashes outside, the storm reaching its peak, mirroring the tempest between us. I brush my lips against hers again, gentler this time but no less possessive.

"This changes everything," I warn her. "There's no going back from here. No pretending this didn't happen."

"I know." She sounds both frightened and thrilled by the knowledge.

"I want all of you, Iris." The confession rushes out, unstoppable now that the dam has broken. "Not just your body. Every thought, every dream, every fear. I want to consume you. It's not healthy. It's not normal. But it's the truth."

She should run. Any sane woman would. But her eyes hold mine, steady despite the trembling of her body against mine.

"Then take me," she says simply, and those three words unravel me completely.

I lift her into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist as if we've done this a hundred times before. I carry her back toward the studio, back to where this all began, my mouth never leaving hers for long. Each kiss grows more desperate, more consuming. Each touch promises more to come.

The paintings watch us as I carry her across the threshold—dozens of Irises witnessing the moment fantasy begins its transformation into reality. I lay her down on the chaise in the corner of the studio, the one I've imagined her on countless times, my body covering hers, claiming hers.

"Last chance," I murmur against her throat, where my lips have found the pulse point that jumps beneath her skin. "Tell me to stop, and I will. Tell me to leave, and I'll go. Make the sane choice, Iris."

Her hands frame my face, forcing me to look at her. In her eyes, I see desire, fear, fascination—a storm to match the one still raging outside.

"I don't want sane," she says, and pulls my mouth back to hers.