Page 43 of Beautifully Damned
His shadow blankets the bed, his presence heavier than gravity. My back sinks into the mattress, and my eyes roam up to meet his. God, the size difference alone is enough to send a shiver down my spine. What woman doesn’t want a beast like him? One who gets on top of her and begs for a few kisses like a starving man? I’ve never felt powerful, not once. But here… like this… I do.
“Ask your questions, little lamb,” he mutters. “But be ready for the price.”
I try to lift myself up on my elbows, but he presses a hand flat on my chest, and shoves me back down. My pulse kicks up, pounding like a warning in my throat. This is happening.
This is actually happening.
“Tell me the price first,” I murmur, barely recognizing my own voice.
“Ask the question,” he growls. “Then I’ll name the cost.”
“Why didn’t you eat today?” My voice cracks. “You said it was punishment. What for?”
He sits back on his heels, unbuttons the first few buttons of his black shirt, and then keeps going. Slowly.
Roman is… not pretty or polished. But he’s beautiful in a way that makes you ache. Thick, scarred arms. A wide chest. His body isn’t for show — it’s for war. And the scars — there are so many. Lines. Burns. And I can’t look away.
He watches me watch him. “You want to stop?” he asks, one brow raised.
“No,” I say. If he thinks those scars are enough to send me running, he doesn’t know me at all.
“What’s the price?” I ask again.
Roman’s hand drags down his chest, across his stomach, lower, until it hovers just above his belt. “Here.”
My breath catches.
“You want my answers,” he says, “you’ll earn them. With your hands. Your mouth. Your fucking attention. You give, I give. You ask, I answer. But nothing’s free, little lamb.”
If I’m going to make a deal with the devil, I’ll be damned if I walk away empty-handed. “Okay… talk. Then I’ll pay.”
He cages me again, pushing me down into the mattress like he owns every inch of space I take up. His arms are braced on either side of my head, his scent invading all my senses.
“You want the truth?” he asks. “Fine. I didn’t eat today because I needed to suffer.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“Because wanting you is a mistake,” he grits out. “Being here—doingthiswith you—is a fucking mistake. I shouldn’t be touching you. I shouldn’t be in this bed. But I can’t stop. That’s why I’m punishing myself. Because no matter how wrong this is, I want you anyway.”
I shut my eyes.A mistake. That word guts me more than I thought it would. I’m not stupid—Iknowwhat I am to him. A means to an end, a curiosity, a fleeting fascination. But hearing it out loud… it burns.
I won’t let him see the way it stings. I let my hands drift to his chest. My palms glide lower, across hard planes and rough scars. I pause at his hips, skin flushed. Then, I press my lips to the space just beneath his ribs. Softly. Then again. I keep kissing. His eyes are closed, but his body is taut.
“Open your eyes,” I whisper.
He does.
“You think this is a mistake,” I murmur, “but I don’t. And if I’m going to give myself to someone, then I want it to bemydecision. This is the only time I’ll ever get to choose.” I say. “So, I want to make it clear. This is not a mistake to me.”
His brows draw together. “The only time you’ll get to choose?”
“What do you think will happen to me after this, Roman?” I sigh. “My father will marry me off like a bargaining chip. A way to rebuild what's been burned. He’ll hand me to the Moroccans, or someone else who’s interested, the moment you’re done gutting what you want from the family. ”
His face goes cold, all the color has drained out of him.
“So yes,” I whisper, “I want my first time to be mine to choose. Even if it’s only this once.”
The tension becomes something vicious. His arm snakes up and clamps around my throat. “Don’t,” he grunts, “talk about other men when you’re under me. Don’t eventhinkabout them while you’re in my house.”
