Page 50 of Beau and the Beast

Wolfram let the reins on his mind go a little looser as the water pounded him, streamed over his exaggerated musculature, hot enough to steam up the glass cell.

He imagined a different timeline where they met at a midtown bar instead of in the seclusion of the penthouse. Wolfram would've zeroed in on Beau immediately, picking him out of the crowd. He wouldn't have bothered with small talk—not with Beau. Instead, he would've spoken to a manager, let them know who he was, and he'd have been seated immediately in a private booth. He would've asked, then, what Beau was drinking.

Probably something bottom shelf and sweet. But maybe Beau would be surprising. Maybe he'd be drinking a whiskey sour or straight gin. Who knew—the man seemed full of unexpected twists and turns.

He'd be drinking a bottom-shelf bourbon, Wolfram decided. And so Wolfram would order a bottle of the best bourbon in the house, something ridiculously rare and expensive—and then he would instruct the manager to bring Beau to him.

Beau would come without hesitation. Who wouldn't?

Even if he wanted to know who the mysterious stranger was who was inviting him back to the private booth, the manager would only have to invoke the word "billionaire" and anyone with half a brain in their heads would come willingly.

Beau would come for the prestige and intrigue, but he would stay because Wolfram was Wolfram.

He'd pull the young man close, teasing but firm, until they were sitting hip to hip. Wolfram would pour them both a few fingers of the expensive whiskey and they would appreciate it together as he asked Beau what he did for a living.

"A journalist? That must be very exciting..."

Beau would laugh. His cheeks would go pink from the alcohol and attention. He would smile his bright, arresting smile and push his hair out of his face.

Under the table, Wolfram's hand would find his thigh.

Beau would pretend like he was shocked, but it would all be an act. He would want Wolfram.

In reality, there in the penthouse, Wolfram had already made himself hard with the line of thinking. There was no time to hate himself for the fantasy because his need had grown so quickly, his thick cock now hanging heavy and demanding attention.

He could deny himself. But it wouldn't matter. Wolfram might as well take his pleasure where he could find it—and if he could find it in this caricature of Beau, so be it. The man meant nothing to him anyway.

Beau would blush and act demure—all men like him did. But his need to be taken care of would be too great and within minutes he would be panting, bucking into the pressure of Wolfram's big hand as he dragged it across the front of his soft secondhand trousers. It would be obscene to watch him in the dim light of the private booth, the neon colors splashed across his face, giving him an otherworldly beauty as his mouth fell open in a moan.

There in the shower, Wolfram twisted down his own length. It was so rare that he gave into pleasure like this.

When he'd had his fill of teasing Beau, Wolfram would move in to claim his mouth, taking him into a deep, sweet kiss.

It would be unlike any kiss Wolfram had shared before, like the first taste of ripe fruit in the summertime. It would be so sweet but so hungry, both of them giving into the passion of the moment, wanting more. Beau would break for breath, would say his name so softly that only he could hear.

"Wolfram..."

In the shower stall, Wolfram squeezed his eyes shut. His hand stilled on his cock.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, admonishing himself with a growl.

This wasn't right. Beau wasn't a plaything. Did he even go out drinking? In the real world, would he have even responded to the advances of a man twenty years older than him, rich or not?

Christ, for all you know, the kid is straight.

Wolfram had been wrong about men before. Beau wouldn't be the first person who was absolutely not who Wolfram had assumed him to be.

Maybe he would've been rejected, left alone to sit in his back booth with his expensive bottle of whiskey that he no longer wanted, forced to go home by himself to a penthouse that would someday become his jail—or worse yet, to try and seduce someone completely unlike Beau. Uninteresting, unoriginal, someone who wasn't special or spectacular in any way, who was interested in him because of his status, his money.

The urge to bring himself to completion was utterly gone. His erection flagged. He resumed the shower as normal, turning the water cold and working shampoo into a lather in his mane.

I’ve reached a new low, he thought bitterly.Can’t even indulge in a seedy fantasy without finding a new, novel way to hate myself.

* * *

Wolfram pulledon a fresh pair of the breeches that a discreet tailor had made specially for him and then a vest. It was his standard uniform—and although he knew it was essentially useless, he wasn't about to walk around the penthouse naked, even in his own private wing. The clothes, as perfunctory as they were, made him feel more like a man when he wore them.

But anything more—a true shirt, real pants with full legs, anything with sleeves at all—made him feel bound and uncomfortable. It matted down his fur and pressed it into strange, irritating patterns. Maybe things would be different if he could have a tailor measure him and make something for him—but that was obviously out of the question.

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