Page 84 of Beau and the Beast

“Where are you going?” His voice was edged with panic.

“To get some of the bigger cushions,” Wolfram explained. “For the floor.”

Beau puffed a laugh in the dark. “I think there’s room for two ofyouon this bed. We’ll definitely both fit.”

It’s not a matter of fitting, he thought.

“It’s really no problem,” Wolfram said.

“Come on—I’ll feel like an ass if I kick you out of your own bed in the middle of the night. I’ll sleep on a cushion—“

“No, you’ll stay in bed.”

“Then we’re at a politeness stalemate,” Beau said. Wolfram could see him smile in the dark.

Just listen to him. You can get throughonenight.

Sighing and hating himself, Wolfram slipped back into his bed.

Chapter Sixteen

Wolfram didn't allowhimself to lapse into sleep until he was absolutely sure that Beau had fallen into his own deep slumber.

It was overwhelming, almost oppressive to have the man so close to him, his quiet sounds and scents filling up the room.

When Wolfram did sleep, subconscious imagination and the real progression of time braided together, finding a strange synergy.

The dream continued right where reality left off.

Beau was no longer on the empty side of the bed, had moved under the blanket to press the length of his body up against Wolfram. In the way that dream logic sometimes had, Wolfram didn't question it, didn't stop to think about what he was doing or why. He turned in to return Beau's touches, placing a hand on his waist and drawing him nearer.

They moved together in the dream in a pleasant haze of affection and sex, tender unlike anything Wolfram had experienced in the real world. Beau strained to straddle him, unfazed by Wolfram’s strangeness, unconcerned by the enormous hardness trapped between their bodies. Beau just smiled and moved himself against Wolfram.

With one hand, he held Beau's hip and with the other, he stripped the sweater off of him before allowing himself then to do all of the things he'd thought about in the study, to gently mark the pale skin of his neck, to drag his face against his bare chest and throat, tempering some of his sweet scent with Wolfram's own.

Beau moved gracefully in his hands, pressing his body against Wolfram, and finally dragging down his breeches until he bounced free. He treated Wolfram like any other man, not like the monster that he knew he was, and he stroked down Wolfram's length, palming him at first with one hand and then with both.

Wolfram let himself hip up off the bed and into Beau's grip, growling deep in his throat, grinding his horns against the wall at the head of the bed until flakes of plaster came free.

"I want you to come," Beau said quietly, his mouth falling open at the promise. His lips were flushed and he practically panted as he watched Wolfram thrust into his hands, trying to keep up with his rhythm.

And then all at once he was coming, Beau dipping to receive him, flushed mouth struggling around his girth to swallow as pleasure and relief ripped through Wolfram, as he groaned and whispered Beau's name. Watching him was obscene and perfect, Beau stroking him to completion with both hands, unable to swallow around him but doing his best, wanting to please him, to not waste a drop.

Beau looked exhausted when he finally straightened out, dragging the back of his forearm across his ruddy mouth and smiling at Wolfram.

“Wolf, that was…” he said dreamily, his sentence trailing off. He let his body slump and then fell back bonelessly.

When Beau’s head hit the pillow, Wolfram opened his eyes.

He’d been dreaming the whole time. Beau had never come to his study. He’d never climbed into bed with Wolfram. They hadn’t wordlessly come together in the center of the big bed, as if it was natural, as if it was something they both wanted.

Wolfram had come in his sleep.

As he surfaced into consciousness, he could feel the hot slick plastered against his thigh.

It was so goddamned much. His cursed body produced so much of it normally—but this was ludicrous, made worse by the fact that for almost two weeks he’d been denying himself the release that his body had just wrested from him in his sleep.

The fabric of his breeches clung to him and—he realized with horror—so did the blanket that covered him. He’d come enough that he’d soaked straight through. The pure shame at the realization was cut by an absurd echo of arousal.

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