Page 79 of Marriage of Revenge

When I kiss her again, it's slow. Deliberate. My hands map her curves like territory I plan to conquer, and the whimper she makes when I grab her ass? Pure fucking sin. I press her harder against me, letting her feel how rock-hard I am, how much I want to bury myself inside her until neither of us remembers who we're supposed to be.

The Beast wants to devour her whole. But some part of me - the part that remembers piano keys and perfect notes - wants to take her apart slowly. Wants to learn every new curve, taste every scar, make her body sing like she used to make my music dance. Want to hear her beg for my touch, feel her wet and ready against my fingers before I claim her completely.

Want to mark her as mine in ways that'll last longer than morning.

Her breath hitches, coming in short gasps that match the pounding of my pulse. With one hand, I reach for the shower, letting steam fill the air while my other hand traces down her spine, claiming every inch. The soft sound she makes when I find that sensitive spot at the small of her back? It hits me harder than any victory ever has.

"Do you remember the first time I made you laugh?" My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, desire scraping it raw.

"When you tried to do a pirouette?" Her lips curve, and something in my chest tightens. "You knew I was stressed for the audition..."

"And clearly you're more talented than I am." I pause, watching how the steam makes her curls wild, how her skin flushes pink with heat - or maybe want. "You still are."

"I don't know. Maybe your pirouette is better than mine, now."

"You still have more grace in your hand than I do in my entire body."

"I don't agree."

Her fingers lift to my face, and every muscle in me tenses. Nobody touches the scars. Nobody. But when her touch traces them - not hesitating, not dwelling with morbid curiosity, just accepting - something cracks open inside me. I've had women look at me like I'm their dark fantasy come to life, the Beast of their wet dreams and nightmares. But never real. Never just... me.

The way she touches me, like my scars are just another part of who I am, not what defines me... fuck. Her eyes hold no fear, no twisted fascination - they see past the Beast straight to whatever's left of Tonio. That gaze strips away years of armor, reaching something I thought I'd burned away.

My hands tighten on her hips, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer. Because this? This isn't just about claiming her body anymore. The way she touches me, sees me - it threatens to undo everything I've built since flames reshaped my world.

But I want more. Want her hands mapping every scar, every mark that tells my story. Want to feel what it's like to be touched by someone who isn't afraid of the monster I've become.

And fuck, doesn't that make something crack in the walls I've built around whatever's left of my heart? Just a hairline fracture, but dangerous as any weakness can be.

"It's a nice bathroom," she says, a blush staining her cheeks pink. The way she glances down then back up tells me exactly what she's thinking - trying to calculate if I'll fit inside her. That thought alone makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.

A laugh rumbles up from somewhere deep inside me - not the Beast's calculated amusement, but something real. Something only she seems able to draw out. "It is indeed," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her nose. The gesture is too soft, too tender for what this is supposed to be. But like everything else about her, it catches me off guard.

Steam curls around us like desire made visible, and when she steps under the spray, her content sigh hits me straight in the gut. My marble tub might be carved from the finest Italian stone, but right now it's got nothing on how hard I am watching her.

Water cascades over her curves, each drop a tease that makes me want to follow its path with my tongue. My gaze devours her like I'm starving, promising everything I plan to do to her. When her eyes meet mine, they carry an answering hunger that makes my blood burn hotter.

I strip off my remaining clothes, letting her see exactly what she does to me. When she opens her eyes, water running down her shoulders like a lover's caress, those perfect lips form a silent 'O' of appreciation. The way she stares at my cock, need written clear as sin across her face, makes me want to pin her against these expensive tiles and claim her right now.

But first? First I'm going to make her beg for it

"Not going to fit," she mutters, and my laugh rumbles deep in my chest. My cock throbs at just the thought of stretching her, burying myself so deep she forgets where she ends and I begin. When her tongue darts out to wet her lips, every instinct screamsto guide her to her knees, to feel that pretty mouth around me. But no. Not yet. Not until I've made her come undone first.

Her fingers reach for me tentatively, and desire surges hot as flame through my veins. But I don't let anyone touch me - not there, not like that. Not anymore. I catch her wrist, bringing it to my mouth instead. Press my lips to her pulse point where I can taste her racing heartbeat.

My hands find her shoulders, working tension from muscles that carry too much weight. The contrast of warm water and firm pressure draws a sound from her that goes straight to my cock. Each knot I find tells stories of battles I wasn't there for - but I'm here now.

"Hmmm," she sighs, and watching her eyes flutter closed, seeing her surrender even this small piece of control - fuck. I grab the soap, letting my hands map every new curve, every scar I don't remember. Moving slower than I want to, building need with each deliberate stroke until she's practically melting under my touch.

"Whenever I close my eyes," I growl against her ear, "this is what I'll see. You wet and wanting, trusting me to take you apart." My hands slide lower, possessive yet careful. Because this isn't just about claiming her body anymore. This is about making her forget everything but how I make her feel.

Even if it means letting her past my own walls in return.

When my fingers finally reach her pussy, I keep my touch deliberately light, barely grazing sensitive flesh. The gasp that tears from her throat shoots straight to my cock - watching her body respond to me, seeing pleasure ripple through her like waves... fuck. Nothing's ever felt this right.

"I'm sorry," she whispers suddenly, voice trembling. "I'm not... with the early menopause, and never having..." Her fingers twist against my shoulders, and something in my chest tightens at her vulnerability.

"Listen to me, Bell'cenda." I catch her chin, making her meet my gaze. "Never apologize for this. For any of it. My job is making you feel good. Making you forget everything but how I make you feel."

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