Page 114 of The Beast Who Broke Me
So I work my thumb in deeper, feeling the stretch of that tight knot, the way he clenches down on me. It’s too much, too tight, too good, and I feel my balls draw up, that hot tingling start at the base of my spine. I’m worried I’m gonna spill before he’s there, because there’s no way I’mnotgoing to let him shoot tonight.
Not after everything.
But just when I think I can’t hang on another second, his asshole clamps down on me like a goddamn vise. A hot splash lands on my thighs as I keep railing him, the smell of it sharp between us.
I pull my thumb out and grip his hips with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to make him yelp. My rhythm falters, and then I’m buried to the hilt, my cock pulsing as I empty myself into his belly, shaking with the force of it.
I’m still breathing hard when I pull out, watching as my cum leaks out of his red, fucked-out asshole. He collapses forward onto the bed, and for a minute I just look at him, at the marks on his neck and the red handprints on his hips, and that hole I fucked so good he came hands-free.
I marked him. I branded him as mine.
And it’s still not enough.
That’s the part I don’t understand. I’ve had every inch of him. My teeth, my hands, my cum—he’s covered in proof that he belongs to me. And there’s still something inside me that’s starving for him. Some hunger the sex doesn’t satisfy. I thought if I could just fuck him deep enough, make him come hard enough, the wanting would stop.
It never stops. And I don’t know what would make it stop. I don’t know what I want from him that I haven’t already taken.
Exhaustion finally sweeps over me, and I collapse over the top of him. He grunts at my weight, shoves with his shoulder. “You weigh as much as a car.”
“Bullshit.”
“A small car. A Fiat, maybe.”
I laugh. Into his neck. The sound surprises both of us.
I roll to the side and pull him with me, and he comes without resistance, fitting himself into the curve of my body with familiarity. His back against my chest. My arm across his waist. My nose in his hair.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
“I’m tired, Dami,” he says at last. Not sleepy-tired. Tired like a man who’s been carrying something too heavy for too long.
I wait.
“I can’t offer you forgiveness. I don’t have that yet.” He turns his head, just enough that I can see the edge of his jaw, the curve of his ear. “But I think maybe you feel the same. You carried around that vendetta for all those years. That’s not something you can just give up.”
I wish I could say he’s right, that I’m still trying to be loyal to my father. But the truth is, I think I gave up on justice for him a while ago. Maybe even the first night I took Caligula Clemenza home.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“I’m offering you a ceasefire.”
“A ceasefire?”
“We stop punishing each other. We deal with what’s coming. Together. And if we survive—” A pause. “We figure out the rest then.”
Together.
“I should call Strike Ferraro,” I say, because the practical thing is easier than the feeling thing. “Set up your meeting.”
“Yes.”
“But on my terms. I already told you that.”
“You did.”
I press my mouth to the back of his neck. “Ceasefire,” I say.
“Ceasefire.” He covers my hand with his, the one across his waist, and threads his fingers between mine. The “G” tattoo is against his palm, but he doesn’t pull away from it.
