Beautiful beast part 3 o.., p.1
Beautiful Beast: Part 3 of 3, page 1
BEAUTIFUL BEAST
Part Three
By Jenn Marlow
Copyright © 2015
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 1
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked.
It was so quiet, so low that he had barely heard it. He thought it was a dream, to be more accurate. Her breasts were firmly pressed up against him, and he could feel the glistening stickiness of their bodies being smushed together, which clued him in, because the gross-reality of sex was a phenomenon never found in a dream. This was too real.
And though his mind was awake, his body still wasn’t. He could feel her against him completely, as he struggled to awaken, and he felt her hands move to his chest. His eyes found the strength to somehow flutter open, sleep still caked in the corners and the underside of his lashes. He wondered how long he had been sleeping. The light stung, and the room was blurry. He blinked again and again, trying to bring everything into focus.
She looked like almost like deer caught in headlights when she finally came into his view, and it was then that he realized she was still waiting on an answer. He was right, the question obviously wasn’t a dream. It was real, and it was far from rhetoric. It required an answer, but he wasn’t quite sure how to do so.
It was simplistic in nature, sure. He wasn’t stupid; he knew it only required a yes or no answer. However, he knew that if he responded to her with a simple “yes” it could open the doors to things he wasn’t quite ready to visit.
“You just did...” He trailed, hoping that it would buy him time. What he didn’t know, was that her question was equally as difficult to ask as it was for him to answer. She was buying time even asking the first question, after all, hoping that it might allow her a few more moments to whip up some guts. However, it hadn’t; the question to follow was a cluster fuck of confusion.
Instead, she looked at him, eyes set, obviously not satisfied with what his answer was.
“Sure, go ahead,” he said, defeated.
She wasn’t sure she was quite satisfied with that answer either though. Because now she had to ask. Now she had to find the courage, even if she didn’t quite have it to begin with. Now she had to spill out what had been on her mind for a while now. Now she had to bring forth a lot of the demons she knew he tried daily to keep at bay. Now she had to ask. She had to do what she had set out to do.
“Did you become distant after hearing about Denny because of your wife?” she finally mustered, sounding out of breath, as if she had just lugged around a two-ton freight. But she felt the burden lift off of her shoulders once she had finally found a way to let the words drip off her tongue; she felt good for finally asking.
She sighed with relief, now it was out, and she could only hope with all that she had that he’d find a way to answer; find a way to help her understand.
He looked at her, and his eyes grew wide. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he cut, moving away from her grasp and hurriedly raising himself up to a standing position.
“Please talk about it with me,” she said.
“Why? Why do you want to know? This is silly. It has nothing to do with anything!”
“So, it was just coincidence then?” She was determined now.
“No. I’m saying what does my emotions regarding anything matter in the slightest?”
“You don’t think your emotions matter?”
She could tell he was beginning to get frustrated by the sudden halt of his movements and the increased breaths he took. His face seemed to begin an eruption of red, his blood obviously pumping ferociously. “I didn’t say my emotions didn’t matter in the general sense; I asked what they had to do with anything.”
“So, your wife’s death had nothing to do with your distance after you heard about Denny? It had nothing to do with you treating me differently? You didn’t feel a sort of related empathy?” She was getting frustrated herself. She hated talking about her emotions and her demons as much as anyone, but Roland was almost ridiculous. He found a way to shut people out from literally everything, and she wasn’t going to stand for it. Not with her, not after everything that had happened.
“Let it go,” he warned.
But she wasn’t backing down. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to just answer the question? I want to know what you feel!”
“What I feel?” he breathed. “You don’t get it, do you?!” He was seething, his anger finally rearing its head, spewing from his body for the first time in a long time. She was taken aback, and she wasn’t sure where this argument was leading, but she could tell that it wasn’t anywhere good. “My wife was sweet, compassionate, and full of life and optimism. Everything that I’m not; everything you’re not!”
She wasn’t even sure how to take the words that were flowing so seemingly effortlessly out of his mouth, projected towards her. They burned like magma soaking into the canals of her ears and caused an emotional turmoil that she didn’t expect. She felt betrayed on a level; she felt ignored; she felt as if all of her efforts went unnoticed and they were therefore unappreciated.
She was trying! For fuck’s sakes! She cared! She didn’t understand why that wasn’t enough; but hell, it didn’t seem like enough to anyone.
She felt that she had made leaps and bounds over her trespasses and obstacles though; she felt she had travelled into the forest of thick wood into the unknown; she felt as if she had done anything and everything she could to be more open—for him and for her.
She was fucking trying—and dammit all, she was being open with him. Maybe it really wasn’t enough, though; maybe it would never be.
Her lips fell apart only to close again—over and over. She was speechless, breathless, and words were not forming. Her mouth felt dry; bare of anything and everything. But he definitely found the words inside himself.
Indeed, the words continued to spew out from the orifice of his mouth, as if it was a fucking volcano still flowing with fiery lava. It was as if he was a dragon, trying to burn her to a crisp, leave her as dust, leave her as nothing.
“I didn’t just lose her, Alex!” he screamed, finally becoming breathless.
“I know… you lost yourself…” she managed, finally formulating some sort of thought into a sentence —if only just barely.
“Maybe so, but I didn’t just lose her… she was fucking stolen from me!” he lurched at her.
Alex knew the death of his wife had plagued him. She knew it was always going to. She knew that if Denny met his demise, she would likely feel the same way—if she didn’t wind up in a psych ward.
Good people dying so soon was damaging to those left behind. It almost made her wonder what the point of all of it was—of life. It made her wonder why good people get to meet such horrifying fates. It made her wonder why they weren’t given the opportunity to grow and meet the futures that they had envisioned for themselves. Especially when people like Alex and Roland got to stick around to meet their futures—without them.
It seemed backwards. It wasn’t fair. She knew that. She knew what it did to him, knowing that he lived and his wife—who was a better person in every way—didn’t. She would feel the same way. But right now—looking at Roland’s face, sad and full of mourning devastation—Alex knew that if someone felt that strongly about another person, they couldn’t be all bad. She already knew that about him though. There was a pang in her heart just looking at him. She felt so much love for him despite all that was just said. And beyond love, even more than love, she felt empathy because of her own life’s turmoil. Her brother meant the world to her; and she could relate to his feeling, just as she knew he had related to hers when he first found out about Denny.
And Alex smiled when she realized her train of thought. The love for her brother—that sweet, complicated love—it meant that she, too, had redemption. She, too, held a devout sense of love for another and that in itself meant that she wasn’t all bad. She couldn’t be.
Maybe there was a point, after all, she thought. Maybe they would find it one day in the hopefully long span of the rest of their lives.
And maybe they wouldn’t, but regardless, Alex knew she wanted to spend every remaining day she had with Roland.
“She was stolen from you. I know that. But I love you—and I’m here now!” she responded, forcefully yet with an agonizingly obvious sense of love and affection.
She reached out to him, hoping that he would let her in, let her touch him and feel him. But he didn’t. He cringed and pulled away, tears breaking stone barriers as they fell down his cheeks.
“She wasn’t collateral damage, Alex!” he cried, falling to his knees. “She was everything!”
“I know she wasn’t! I’m not saying she was. I’m saying she’s gone, and I’m not—and together we can figure out what the point of all this is! We can figure out why the fuck we are still here and she’s not!” Alex cried, kneeling down to meet his gaze.
&n
“Then… it just is. But we’ll still be together.”
“I wasn’t supposed to find love at all… let alone twice, Alex.”
“Who is to say? I said it once, and I’ll say it again: You’re not as bad as you think you are.”
“And I am telling you that I am. I promise you on that.”
“Fucking prove it! You cuddled with me for fuck’s sakes!” she screamed, her anger boiling now. She was sick of hearing him blatantly refuse himself, refuse her, her love, and everything else she was saying. She found herself seething just an inch away from his face.
His eyes darted around her despite the close distance between the two. He wouldn’t look at her; he refused to look at her. He continued to scan the room. She felt invisible; she felt useless; she felt disposable. How could he be so uncaring? How could he pretend like she wasn’t kneeling with him, spilling out every intention, every thought, every hope, and every dream? How could he still hide in the confines of his own mind?
“I will.”
And that’s all he said before tackling her and pinning her down. He was rough and villainous. Harmful and distasteful. He was proving a point, and dammit all if she didn’t believe him for a moment, as her back crashed against the floor and she found the man painfully heavy on top of her. He nipped, bit, scratched, and clawed at her clothes. It was all so much; it was all too much—until she found herself submitting to the pleasure underneath the pain.
Yes, it surprised her, but fuck it began to feel good. Her clothes where torn away before she even knew it, and even more than that, she found herself eventually flipped over on her stomach, her view only the wood floor beneath her.
He smirked, as he spread her ass apart and stroked her sopping sex with his engorged member. She sighed, knowing what he was about to do. He was about to prove his authority over her; and if she didn’t know any better, she might be upset. But she did know better, and because of that she wasn’t upset. Not in the least. She couldn’t be.
She saw the vulnerability in his eyes when he painfully pinned her down and forcefully stripped her of her clothes; and he wasn’t being dominant, not really. She knew what this was. This wasn’t him being bad; this wasn’t him being cruel. It was him being scared; scared of being caught off guard; scared of being seen. It obviously meant a lot for him to be perceived as alpha here, and she was going to let him have it. One. Last. Time.
He plunged himself into her in one smooth motion, hitting her walls hard and forcefully, making her moan into the floor beneath her. “Very good, slave,” he iterated to her, as he began to squeeze and massage her ass. She knew he had to pretend; he had to keep the act going; and she was fine with it. She liked it, even. She only wished and hoped that one day he would give in to her. She could only pray that one day he’d show himself truly, without posing, without games. He would be Roland the man, not Roland the pretend master.
He found himself amused as her buttocks jiggled with each strike of his hand, and he dove even deeper into her, every stroke burying him to the hilt. Thrust after thrust. Time after time. Alex began mewing happily despite how rough it was, and even began playing with her own nipples, as she felt his hard member plunge into the depths of her soaking womanhood.
“No,” Roland said before immediately reaching around her body and ripping her hands away from her own breasts, forcing her to stop pleasing herself. She cranked her neck around to look at him, as much as she could. What the hell?
“What?” she asked, not sure why he was keeping her from pleasuring herself even more. She knew that he wanted to be in control, but he always liked when she seemed to take initiative and go with the flow of it all. At least, he always had before.
Roland shook his head and continued pounding into her core, ripping her walls with force. He was strong, pumping faster and harder into his slave with every single buck of his hips, ripping into the slave who now knew how much she actually loved him. Because even though his face showed signs of anger, signs of nothing more than primitive desire, she knew better. It was in his caveman demeanor that she felt a large amount of lust begin to pair with her affection like a fine wine.
She wanted more.
But the more she wanted wasn’t quite all raw sexuality either.
Though she found herself enjoying the feeling of his primitive nature as it took control of her, she also couldn’t help but feel a little sad. She hated that he felt the need to be on guard at all times, even to the point of driving himself roughly into her to falsely defend his relationship with her being none other than that of a slave-master contract. She hated that he felt like he had to hide again; she hated that he was so damaged. However, it only made her love him more. Roland Peters was damaged; he was scared; he was rough and guarded—but fucking hell, he was real.
For several minutes, the two fucked each other in a messy and noisy concerto of moans, muffled groans, and the wet sound of smacking flesh. Every buck of his hips was the continuation of Roland taking the anger and fear he felt towards Alex out on her puckered hole and even her swollen clit, as he pounded against it ferociously with every thrust. Despite the roughness, though, Alex—torn between her emotional and physical enjoyments—licked and nibbled on her bottom lips, obviously physically enjoying the perceived assault.
But she wasn’t the only one enjoying it. Something ravenous lurked within the deepest, darkest crevice of his heart, and his soul had awakened, as he asserted his dominance over the woman. One thing, though, that surprised him was that he had come to enjoy fondling and massaging a well-rounded ass over abusing one. More specifically, he enjoyed massaging and playing with Alex’s.
He’d never tell her, but it was the best he had ever seen, let alone played with. And what was even more, he loved that she enjoyed having it played with. However, he had to do something more; something she wouldn’t enjoy; something that wasn’t tender and gentle; something that didn’t come off as mutual.
And he knew immediately what that was. Hell, it was discovered the first night he had plunged his stiffened member into the deep abyss of her body. He knew what she didn’t like. He knew what it would take to punish her, and she was in no position to deny him. She was his slave after all. And because she was his slave, her opinions and desires did not matter. All that mattered was his opinion, his desire.
Roland smirked.
He continued to thrust into her, slowing to an agonizingly slow rhythm, whilst simultaneously spreading her gloriously rounded apple-shaped cheeks. She felt his strong hands run in between her ass cheeks, spreading them apart and felt his gaze bear into her forbidden hole, the hole he had violated what seemed like long ago before they knew each other, before she fell for him. His thrusts ceased, and she felt his gaze burn into her even stronger than before. He was eyeing her with determination, with a flaming malice that she couldn’t quite fathom, but understood nonetheless.
Was he really going to do the one thing she hated? The one thing he knew she hated? Was she really just his play thing? Was it really that important for her to believe that that he was willing to do something like this?
She squirmed beneath his grip, struggling to free herself and look him in the eye, to see his actual intentions. But he held tighter, his short fingernails digging into her flesh as far as they would go. She stopped moving, hoping the conscience she knew he possessed would soon kick in, hoping with everything she had that his feelings for her would kick in.
Ceasing her movements and cringing at the pain from his nails in her ass, she settled in and sighed. Once her body stilled, she felt one of his hands leave her and the sting of his nails pulling away from her flesh spread across her entire back end and up her spine. She looked behind her to see what he was doing and was terrified to see him as he licked his left index finger.
His eyes held their signature dark glint, once again, and she knew that she had lost him. Roland was gone and her master had arrived. The dark anti-hero that she had grown to both love and despise had found his way out once again.
He moved his now-wet index finger to her distressed and tight asshole and began to stroke it. Examining the puckered hole with a great amount of curiosity, as well as a fierce intensity, he pressed down against it, just a little, so that he could feel it open slightly and the tip of his finger go in. She elicited a startled yelp and turned her head as much as she could to look at him again.
