Page 10 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
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.
six
. . .
Iris
Dawn findsme in my room, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My lips are swollen, my neck marked with the evidence of Guy's hunger. I touch the darkening bruise at my pulse point, expecting to feel shame or fear. Instead, a thrill runs through me, hot and electric. What kind of woman finds obsession exciting? What kind of person discovers hundreds of paintings of herself and responds by kissing the artist? The answer stares back at me with wide, dark eyes: a woman who's never felt truly seen until now.
We didn't go further than kissing last night. After that explosive first connection in the studio, something shifted. Not restraint exactly—more like a mutual recognition that we stood at a precipice. One more step and we'd both fall. So he walked me back to my room, his hand possessive at the small of my back, and left me at my door with one last searing kiss and a promise that hung in the air between us: "Tomorrow."
Now tomorrow is today, and reality crashes down like the morning light streaming through my window. He's been watching me for years. Painting me. Fantasizing about me. Manipulating circumstances to bring me into his home. Every warning sign, every red flag I've ever been taught to recognize is waving frantically in my face.
