Page 90 of The Beast

He turns away, running a hand through his paint-streaked hair. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

That’s it.

I grab his arm and spin him back toward me. Before he can react, I’m pushing him—hard—until his back hits the wall. My hands fist in his paint-stained shirt, holding him there.

His eyes widen, and before he can say a word, I kiss him. Not gentle, not tentative—I crush my mouth against his, pouring every ounce of frustration and want and fury into it. Five years of grief. Five years of loneliness. Five years of aching for a ghost who turned out to be flesh and blood after all.

He freezes for a heartbeat. Then his hands come up—not to push me away, but to grip my hips, pulling me closer. His mouth opens under mine, and the kiss turns desperate, hungry. He’s back. Once again, he’s back.

“Bedroom,” I gasp against his lips. “Now.”

He doesn’t argue.

We stumble down the hallway, shedding clothes as we go—his ruined shirt, my blouse, a tangle of fabric left in our wake. By the time we hit the bedroom doorway, I’m in my bra and he’s bare-chested, and the sight of him—scarred and beautiful and mine—makes my breath catch.

I push him toward the bed. He goes willingly, sitting on the edge, looking up at me with something like wonder.

“We’re doing this my way,” I tell him, climbing onto his lap. “You don’t get to take over. You don’t get to bail.”

He kisses me.

And for a moment, everything is perfect. His hands in my hair, his mouth hot against mine, the solid warmth of his body beneath me. I can feel how much he wants this—wants me—and I rock against him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

I reach between us, working at his belt. He’s shaking—I can feel the fine tremor running through him—but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t pull away.

I free him from his pants. He’s hard, straining, and when I wrap my hand around his cock, he makes a sound like something breaking.

“I need—” His voice is ragged. “I need to⁠—”

“No.” I stroke him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure. “You don’t need to do anything. Just feel.”

“You don’t understand.” His hands clamp down on my hips, fingers digging in hard. His eyes have changed. Gone hard in a way that should frighten me. The beast is there, pacing just behind his gaze, and I can see him fighting to keep it caged.

“Let go,” I whisper. “I trust you.”

Something snaps.

One second, I’m straddling him, in control, setting the pace. The next I’m on my back, his weight pinning me to the mattress, his hand wrapped around my throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. But the threat is there—along with the memory of the nightmare. Of waking up to his fingers cutting off my air.

“Gabriel.”

His hips jerk forward, driving into me without warning. I cry out—part pleasure, part shock—and his hand tightens reflexively.

“Gabriel.”

He freezes, staring down at me with horror blooming in his eyes.

Then he’s gone—scrambling backward off the bed, hitting the floor hard, retreating until his back hits the wall. His chest heaves. His whole body shakes.

“No.” The word is barely human. “No goddammit, no.”

I sit up slowly, my hand going to my throat. He didn’t squeeze hard—barely touched me, really—but the intent was there. The instinct.

I reach for him.

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand, warding me off. “Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. He draws in a breath. “I told you.” His voice is low. Hard. “I fucking told you this would happen.”