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For you sick fucks on TikTok who taught me about the barbed shifter penis thing. Damn you.
I once read that sometimes our bodies adapt, creating shields where our minds can’t. Maybe mine did just that, forging armor to protect me from the world I grew up in. If that’s true, then I’ve made myself a soft place to land. Sometimes, I wonder if one day I’ll feel strong enough or safe enough to let the weight go.
Because you're too busy reading or peddling fantasy smut and ignoring the real world as much as possible.
The Beast of Boston could and likely does, have any woman he wants. Unless he’s got a super specific kink for heavyset introverts who love to read smut, I’m safe.
"Why me? Why marry me?" "Because you’re perfect."
I’ve already begun to view her as mine. My possession. My mate. All to get what I want. And I’ll have ruined a woman’s life to do it.
No. I will control myself. I’m not an animal who just takes anything he sees and wants. And witchtitting fuck, do I want her right now. This wasn’t the plan. Not to want her like this.
"You just are," I say finally, the words rasping out before I can stop them. "Perfect."
"How do you feel about romance books?" I ask finally, breaking the stalemate. Their lips quirk into an easy grin. "Who doesn’t love some good smut?"
So what if the knowledge that my wife is wandering the house under the same roof, mine to do as I please, threatens to make a bigger monster out of me?
If a woman insists on pretending everything is alright, the gentlemanly thing to do is let her continue the farce. And, of course, allow the hundred tiny pinpricks of guilt and annoyance to torment him over what he’s not even sure is wrong. "Isabelle," I growl. I'm no gentleman.
He’ll be fine. I bet brooding in his limousine is his favorite pastime right after yelling at his staff, menacing old ladies, and sucking lemons for fun.
His mishmash features of man and beast shouldn’t be sexy. Watching him work or read a book definitely shouldn’t be sexy. But damn it, it is.
book. I couldn't care less. All I can think of is more. I need more of her. I need all of her. I want to mark her, fuck her, make her forget her own name. I've pushed her back until she’s half perched on the edge of the desk.
"I believe, wife, you are misremembering. Though there was that time I lapped between your legs softly for nearly two hours, not allowing you to come until you begged me, your alpha," my lips slide up to one side in a smirk, "to fuck you, and bite you until you came."
"Now I want to know." My words come out as a rasp. "Do you have a strong desire to bite when you come? Wife?"
There is only one who can satisfy me, but I will never touch her. Never bed my own wife.
But Isabelle? She’s something else. Something I can’t define, can’t compartmentalize. She’s unyielding, unapologetic, and somehow, without even trying, she’s pushing past every wall I’ve built. But Isabelle isn’t just some woman.
I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve died with them. But here I am, trying to start over, trying to survive. And my salvation has a name. Isabelle.
Should I text her? Write a note? How does one properly invite their wife to bed? Dearest wife, fancy a shag tonight?
"Man needs to get laid." "Desperately."
"You said this isn’t working, so I’m leaving." "You will not be leaving me. Not ever."
She can’t. Isabelle is mine. Mine to take care of. Mine to keep.
"There. Now that you are calmer, use your big boy words and tell me what you mean."
I want her. I want to possess her, to claim her as my own, to run my hands over every inch of her soft, perfect skin. The beast in me surges, hungry and aching.
Oh. Fuck. Me. I’m in trouble.
My wife is about to learn exactly what it means to be hunted—and owned—by the Beast of Boston.
"Isabelle," he purrs through the wood. The way he says my name sends a shiver through me, causing my nipples to tighten in anticipation. "When I catch you, I’m going to eat you alive."
"Perfect place for a delicious thing like you to hide."
His voice is rough velvet, curling around me with dangerous intent.
"I take what I want, when I want it."
"Stay still," he growls, lifting his head just enough to shoot me a warning look. His lips glisten with my slickness, his sharp teeth peeking through as he smirks. "I'm eating here, wife. Don’t interrupt my meal."
"We bite," he continues, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve of my shoulder. "When we want something, when we need it, when we take it."
"Mine," he rasps into my shoulder. "You’re mine, Isabelle. Every inch of you. Always."
A surprise? Should I be afraid, or excited? Or maybe just very, very turned on.
Love isn’t real. Relationships are built simply on chemistry and necessity, and I can’t let myself forget that. Not for a second.
I want to fuck my husband.
"It makes perfect sense that the Realm of Roses would be populated with sexual vampires." She waggles her eyebrows over this month’s signature cocktail, the Sleeping Death. "If they do, I propose we all take a spring break vacation there," Gingie says, lifting her glass in solidarity. "For science," Rachel Anne agrees. "For research," Yannette adds.
"You’re acting like I’m going to run away. I have no intention of running away, Dominic."
"I’m trying to keep you safe." "Safe from what?" "From me."
"You don’t get to just disappear, Isabelle. I won’t lose you—"
Every instinct tells me I should walk away now, but I can’t. Not anymore.
"You are a pain in my ass, wife." Heat simmers beneath each syllable, my brutality taking over. "I should finger-fuck you until you’re right on the edge, right on the precipice of screaming my name and breaking your spine on the orgasm I’ve built up in you. And then I should leave you there. Hanging. Insane with want."
"More," she begs. Her nails dig into me, hips bucking against my hand. "Please, fuck. Ungh, Dominic, don’t stop."
"You think you can tell me what to do, wife?" I taunt. I withdraw my fingers, just enough to make her whimper. Then I thrust them back inside, harder, deeper, savoring the way her cries spike. "You don’t command me. I take what’s mine."
She looks almost regal. How dare she? She might as well have sauntered in here wearing nothing at all, announcing she’d like to be fucked for breakfast.
My wife wins yet again. Dammit.
"Monsters protect what’s theirs," I murmur, almost to myself. And Isabelle, for better or worse, is mine.
My insides inexplicably melted and then swelled up like a bubble until I felt my chest might burst. Probably heartburn, right?
I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want my husband. And that terrifies me.
