Beast: Part Two (5 page)

I walk through. It stays quiet, and as I’m standing still so a male guard can wave a wand over me, I notice a cluster of medical personnel standing about fifteen yards ahead, at the mouth of a hall.
That must be why Clinton is acting distant.

Finally
he and I are through security. He starts down a hall, but my sneakers are rooted to the floor.

He turns around
.

“Is it bad?”
I ask.

“
Nothing to be scared of, ma’am.”

He
nods at a female guard posted at the mouth of the hall we’re going down, and she nods back at us. I try to keep my gaze on him, but it wanders. I’m curious to see that sheets of metal have come down from the ceiling, covering the barred façade of every cell. The metal sheets leave a small hole for a few of the bars on each of the cells, so fresh air can circulate, I guess, but the cells are mostly covered.

I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I follow Clinton around two corners. Despite my bad sense of direction, I can feel us traveling
through the prison’s hexagonal arms. When we take an abrupt turn left, down a smaller hall, I have the feeling we’re veering off into the middle of the hexagon.

There’s a guard station, behind which a woman with short dread-locks is playing a crossword puzzle. She and Clinton exchange some kind of look—a nervous look?—and then we’re walking past a few nondescript metal doors, down a small swatch of hallway. He stops abruptly at the last door on this little route.

He punches some numbers on a keypad to the left of the door, and it clicks open.

Cooler air flows from the inside of the room, and I
just know that this is his cell. Beast’s.

Clinton
nods, and I hold my breath as I step into the room. Under my sneakers, a plush, burgundy rug sprawls over a white-washed cement floor about the size of mine and Adrian’s combined bedrooms.

The walls are stark white, the ceiling low. In between a few disoriented blinks, I manage
to glean that this room is some kind of prison suite; his flatscreen, in the corner, is bigger and nicer than ours at home; and that’s a queen-sized bed ahead of me.

“Oh.”
He’s in it.

He’s sitting up,
wearing a tight, white undershirt that clings to his big biceps and broad chest. Black pillows are propped behind him, as if in symbolic contrast to the pristine white of his shirt. Light, surrounded by darkness…

He’s covered to his waist with a soft-looking, black duvet.
Maybe it’s the contrast of the bedding with his skin, but his face looks whiter than usual.

I see Clint
on give a wave, and Beast nods in acknowledgment. Behind me, the door shuts.

Then his eyes hit mine.

My legs forget how to work. I almost sink down to the floor. Instead, I step over to the bed and touch the edge of his black blankets with my hungry hands.

My gaze sweeps over him—almost compulsively, but I can’t see anything obvious: nothing but a faint bruise along his cheekbone.

He sits up a little straighter, then captures my wrist in his hand and looks up at me with cautious eyes and a tight jaw. “No questions, Angel. Take off your pants and sit on my face—or else you’ll have to go.”

“But—”

“No buts, Angel. Not today.”

I search his face, but it’s on lockdown. His eyes reveal nothing,
just watch like black lasers as I slowly strip off my red jeans and yellow t-shirt and climb onto the bed.

As I’m climbing up, he scoots down, lying
flat on his back. He leans his head back, but instead of straddling his face, I sink down on his legs and plant a kiss on his beautiful throat.

He shakes his head. “Sit on my face. I want to taste you. Now.”

I start scooting up him, and he grabs my hips, pulling me to him.

“I want this. Need this,” he s
ays, and then he’s lapping at me. As he licks me up and down, he reaches around behind me and threads one powerful arm through my legs, so his fingers are positioned to plunge into my wet cunt from behind.

His other arm wraps around my waist, hand pressing against the small of my back so as he works me with his tongue, he’s almost hugging me.

My eyes
close as I gasp and pant and grind into his warm, wet mouth.

“Yes,”
I’m panting. “Yes…”

“Yes what?” he breathes against my skin.

“Yes, Beast.”

The tip of his tongue flicks my lips open and traces up and down me, pausing to
roll over my pulsing clit.

My hips jerk
.  “Oh God! I’m close!”

The words burst out, and his mouth stops.

For half a second, our gazes meet, and his is dark. So raw and bare and desolate.

A heartbeat later, he
rears up under me, lifts me in the air, and tosses me down on my back atop his duvet. As he moves on his knees, between my legs, I catch a glimpse of something bright white beneath the white t-shirt he’s wearing.

I open my mouth to ask what happened, but like last time, he knows exactly what to do to head me off.

Hands go to the elastic of his boxer-briefs.

The boxer-briefs are tugged down, freeing an enormous, perfect cock I want to suck.

He grabs my thighs and scoots up closer to my core. He takes himself in hand, aims for my cunt, and, after a flicker of a glance up at my eyes, he slams into me, the force of it so strong I nearly fly right off the bed. 

CHAPTER 6

Annabelle

He slams into me. Draws himself out. “I need your body, Angel. Nothing more. Do you want to feel me inside you?”

I nod and clutch his forearm on his unhurt side. “Yes, please! Now!”

He punches into me again and groans. My eyes fly open. “That’s gauze under your shirt. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He’s
panting as he pushes back inside me. “Fuck me or leave.” He looks desperate. Even a little haggard. I lift my hips and put more effort into thrusting. “Harder,” he orders. “Angle this way.” He lifts my hips just so, and his thick shaft rubs down my clit. I moan.

“That’s right. Let me fill up that wet pussy.”

“Ahhh!” He thrusts so hard… I blink as he pulls out again. All around him, I see stars.

“You like it on your back. My cock stretching that
sweet cunt.” His hands stroke my shoulders, and I peer up at his pale, intense face. “Tell me how you like it, Angel.”

“Hard,” I whisper.

He gives it to me hard, and I grunt like an animal in heat.

“Again,” I moan.

“Again.” He thrusts, and I feel his balls slap at me.

“You’re my whore,” he says. “
I call, you come. You’re here for me. Just me.” He slams back in and groans roughly.

“You’ll take all of me.” He twists his hips, wedgin
g himself still deeper. Till I feel nothing but his huge cock; I exist only to clench and pulse around it.

“Feel that. That’
s me owning you.” Out and—“oh, fuck!”—in again.

I wrap my hands around his arm and throw my head back, allowing my legs to fall all the way open. My hips to lift exactly when my body wants them to.

I’m nothing but an orgasm barreling down the tracks, and he’s barreling with me.

We come together—
him panting, me screaming.

He
sinks down on his side, balancing on one elbow, and my eyes rove down him, seeking out the scar on his leg from that night. That’s when I notice his shirt is stained red.

“Shit.”

The second I reach for him, he rolls away from me. He lands agilely on the floor beside the bed and looks at me as if I’ve done something to intentionally hurt him. His eyes are dark. His face is tight.

“I don’t need or want a lover, Angel. You’re here because I like that s
weet pussy, and you want my money and my cock.”

What he says is so blunt, it takes me by surprise, even though I’m sure perhaps it shouldn’t. I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them, then look at him. “That’s not true for me.”

“What is?” His face is twists. “I told you that you would be my whore. We would fuck, and I would pay you.”

“Is that how you do every woman you see here?”

He gives me a strange look, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet. “I don’t need to pay them, Angel.”

“Because they still want to fuck a movie star.
Here’s the thing: I don’t.” I slide down off the bed as pressure mounts inside my chest. “I don’t think you’re that person anymore. Maybe you never were, but I
know
you’re not now. I’m here because I held you one night in the desert when I thought you were dying. You
were
dying. You were DOA as well until they brought you back, weren’t you?”

His face is a mask. He doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t get it! What’s the point of saying that you don’t remember me? Even if you don’t remember the wreck, I was there at the party earlier that night.”

“So were lots of women,” he says flatly. “Do you think you’re different? That we had a connection?”
He paces back and forth over the rug, giving me a good glance of his shirt, where red is blooming slowly larger. “You know what I remember about that night?” he says. “The smell of blood. That’s all it was for me. I killed three people and I went to prison for it. I’m sorry if I’m not what you want me to be. You want me to tell you thank you? I’m not thankful. I should have fucking died.”

I purse my lips
to keep them from trembling.

He sits down
on the edge of the bed and looks down at his thighs. They’re bare, and very muscular. I can see the scar across the left one—the one from that night. It’s thick and pinkish white and jagged. I can’t even imagine how much it must have hurt.

“
There are lots of reasons why the world would be a better place if I had died that night. If you knew what I did tonight—how I got this gash—” he plucks the fabric of his shirt between two fingers and pulls gently, lifting it up off his skin— “then you’d understand. If you knew anything about me. But you don’t. And here’s the thing, Angel: you don’t want to.”

I step a little closer to him. “I’m not as fragile as you think.” I look into his tired face. “Let me get to know you beyond just ‘Beast.’
If something gets too much for me, I can say so myself. In the meantime, let me call you Ricardo. You’re a man—not a beast.”

H
e blinks out at me, reminding me for a moment of a sullen child. He slowly shakes his head. “I am a Beast. I’m not human—that’s for sure.”

My heart stops for just a second.
“Don’t say that.”

“It’s been a long time since I was.”

He
drops his head into his hands. “I do things that would make you hate me if you knew.”

“I don’t think that I could ever hate you.”

His wide eyes lock with mine. “Annabelle, my father is a sociopathic drug addict. I barely knew my mother. I’m on my eighth year in prison. I’m not the kind of guy you need to give a shit about. Who cares who stabbed me?”

“I do,” I say quietly.

“Then you’re stupid.” He stands up, and I can feel the storm of his emotions swirl around him as he works to change the mood of things. As he works to push me away. “You’re a stupid girl, Annabelle, and it’s time for you to go.”

“You’re
trying to drive me off.”

“Yes hell I am.
I hope it’s working.” He waves at the door, and when I don’t move, he steps over to me and takes me by the elbow. “I see now this was a mistake. You need to go, Angel.”

My eyes are wet with tears. He’s right. I
am stupid. To think…what did I think? That we might really hit it off? That the feelings I’ve been carrying around with me all these years could be unloaded? Updated? The truth is, I didn’t think at all—I only felt. And from the moment I first saw his face on
Good Nebraska
, when he was a fourteen-year-old actor and I was just a little girl, I’ve simply…felt for him. I don’t know why. There’s no making sense of it. It’s just a sort of magnetism.

One
fat tear rolls down my cheek. I shake my head and dash a few more away with my fingertips.

“Angel,” he groans.
“No.”

As quickly as he took me by the elbow to try to steer me out the door, his hands are spreading out around my waist.
He picks me up and carries me to the bed and lays me down and climbs up on me. His arms are around me before I have a chance in hell of processing what just happened.

His face is buried in my neck. His lips move, soft and slow, behind my ear.

“Angel… Angel… My Angel. I remembered you. Of course I did.”

I cling to his shoulders,
but I can’t seem to find the nerve to look at him. “You did?”

“I
kept track of you,” he says softly. “High school. College. Like a goddamned stalker. You were just so fucking nice. That’s goddamned weird where I come from.”

I wrap my arms gently around his waist and press a light kiss on his
pec. His other side is still bleeding down his shirt. I loosen my grip on him and sit up.

“I was obsessed with you,” I confess. “And then
afterward…I would try not to think of you, because it drove me crazy. Knowing you were here… I hated it.” I press my hand against his cheek. “You don’t belong here.”

His mouth finds my mouth, gently exploring, then tugging away
. “Oh, Angel. That’s where you’re wrong.”

I run my fingers through his ha
ir. My other hand finds his and begins stroking his knuckles. I’m surprised to find his hand is shaking just a little.

“
Adrenaline,” he says.

I kiss his palm. He winces. “Don’t.”

“It hurts?”

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “It’
s wrong, Angel. The only time these hands are kind is when they’re on your skin.”

“Then they should be on my skin more.” I push him gently down on the bed, and am surprised when he submits. He’s flat on his back, and I can see his boner sticking out against his boxer-briefs. “Don’t give me any trouble. I want to fix where you’re hurt, and then I want to fuck you.”

His eyes widen, and I giggle. “You better turn on the TV so I’m not heard screaming.”

He
smirks, and I snap my fingers. “You think I’m kidding?”

“No. You wicked banshee.” He
leans over and grabs a remote from his nightstand. He points it at the TV. I see a newscaster’s suit and return my attention to Beast.

I lift up his shirt, in awe of his beautiful body. I move
the gauze and find an angry-looking stab-wound.

“How did this happen?” I whisper.

“I should tell you,” he muses. Worry whispers over his face, and when he speaks again, his voice is very soft. “I should—but can I not?”

I nod slowly. “
It’s okay.”

I kiss his neck, his mouth.
I’m already wet and needy, and I can see his hard cock, so I know I need pull away. “You have a First Aid kit?”

He tucks a hand behind his head and nods. “Below the bathroom sink.”

I get it and return to find he hasn’t moved. I clean the wound, and he squeezes my knee.

“I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “I just want to feel you. Make sure you’re real.”

I grin as warmth spills through me. “I’m real, and I’m here. And after this, I want to suck your dick. What do you think about that?”

His cock twitches, and I laugh.

I doctor his wound and seal a bandage over it. Then I take his boxer-briefs down and watch his cock spring free.

I put my mouth around it, and his hands come down on my shoulders.

“Angel. Angel, Angel…”

He thrusts into my mouth. I moan, sending vibrations through his shaft.

I take him deep down in my throat and cup my hand over his balls. That’s when he stiffens.

My eyes fly up to his. I follow his gaze to the flatscreen and, when he remains frozen, I move my mouth off of him.

“What’
s wrong?”

He holds up a hand, and I listen to the announcer
as the blood drains from his face.

“…killed Blaine McGuire, leader of the Aryan Force at La Rosa. Police say Hammond will spend time in solitary confinement, and may well have his sentence extended.”

It’s like a movie, how the next few minutes unfold.

For the first thirty seconds or so after that, he just sits there, stone still. My heart races. That’s what he did
to get this stab wound? He killed someone? My heart aches. My stomach hurts. I’m not sure what to say. And maybe it doesn’t even matter at the moment.

He’s off the bed and across the room, yanking open drawers in his desk—ignoring me—when
I hear footsteps in the hall. He flies to the bed and pulls me down off it, shoves me toward the bathroom. “Go in there, Angel. Stay quiet.”

And so I see the whole thing happen
through the vent at the bottom of the door. I see them burst through the bedroom door. Men in suits—one in a dress suit, and two others wearing black.

The one in the suit says something I can’t hear, and Beast’s voice booms.
“You fuckers lied to me.”

The man in the suit chuckles. I
don’t know who he is or what his role is here, but it’s an evil sound.

One of the men wearing black pulls out what I think is a gun, and I almost shriek. He fires it, and a streak of what looks like
blue lightning jumps from the gun to Beast’s shoulder.

H
is knees hit the rug. He moans a little as his head lolls in between his shoulders. The men in black each grab one of his arms and hoist him up.

“Solitary,”
the suited man orders. “Dose him when you get him there. I want him docile as a kitten.” He walks ahead of the men and pushes the door open. Then he turns around. “And when you’re done, check this area for her. I don’t trust him not to spill the beans, and if she knows, we’ll have to deal with it.”

I watch
as the suited man holds the door open, and the other two lead Beast through it.

His room is quiet except the pounding of my heart.

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