Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(73)

When I whine in protest, he sits back on his heels, dragging me along with him so I’m sitting on his thighs. He winds both arms around my waist, plastering my back to his chest, and bends his head to my ear.

“You gonna come for me?”

“Yes.”

He flexes his thighs, rolling his hips so he’s seated fully inside me as I pant and whimper. One big hand squeezes my breast.

“Give me your mouth.”

I turn my head and let it fall back against his shoulder. He kisses me deeply, his tongue probing and hot. He reaches down and slips his fingers into my wetness, lazily stroking my clit for a moment before sliding lower, to the place where we’re joined. With gentle, searching fingers, he explores my folds, stretched tight around his thick, rigid cock.

Delirious, I moan into his mouth. I’m so close to orgasm my entire body is shaking for release.

Then, suddenly, he slaps my pussy.

It isn’t hard, but it sends a shockwave of pleasure so strong through me that I cry out, arching like a cat.

He slaps me between my legs a second time, then a third.

I come, screaming.

As I convulse against him, he holds me tight with that one arm like a steel band around my ribcage and whispers words of praise into my ear.

When the violent contractions slow, I’m left limp and sweating, almost crying in relief. He kisses me again, tenderly this time, then disengages from me and pushes me onto my back.

He positions himself between my spread thighs, lowers his body so his chest is against mine, and looks into my eyes as he thrusts inside me.

“You love my cock, don’t you, baby?”

I nod, too overwhelmed with emotion and sensation to speak.

“I know you do.” His voice is so soft. He kisses my neck. Against my throat, he whispers, “It’s yours. That and everything else. It’s all yours—I’m—”

He breaks off with a groan, thrusting harder.

I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself he wasn’t about to say I’m yours but desperately wanting to believe it.

I might as well believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. Liam isn’t mine, I’m not his, and this strange fairytale of ours will soon end without a happily-ever-after.

The only real question now is how hard the fall will be.

And if it will break me.



An hour later, we’re still in bed. Face to face this time, his arms wrapped around me, our bodies pressed together, my toes resting on the tops of his big feet.

“Just out of curiosity, what size shoe do you wear?”

He lifts his brows. “If you’re wondering if I’ll try on a pair of your heels and strut around naked for you, the answer is no.”

I laugh weakly at the image his comment evokes. “You’re strange.”

“You’re stranger.”

We smile at each other. He rubs the tip of his nose against mine. The sweetness of that simple gesture sends a pang of despair through my heart, and I close my eyes.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m guessing like a size sixteen.”

“Wrong.”

I open my eyes and look at him. His smile is smug. “Bigger.” Then he examines my expression for a moment, his smile fading and his gaze turning intense. “What is it?”

Damn him and those sharp wolf’s eyes. “Just…life.”

He cups my face in his hand, his brows drawn together. He demands, “Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I swallow, looking down at his chin to hide my eyes. “I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

“Too late. I’m already thinking the worst.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

His voice hardens. “Tell. Me. Now.”

Shit. Me and my big mouth. In a small voice, I say, “Fine. Um…how may days do we have left?”

His whole body tenses. It seems as though he’s not even breathing. In a husky voice, he says, “Why? You want to leave early?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, working up the courage to tell him the truth. “I don’t want to leave at all.”

He’s perfectly still for a long, horrible moment. Still and silent, except for his breathing, which is shallow and fast.

I whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

He huffs out a breath, squeezing me closer to him. He says faintly, “Angry? Jesus, Tru.”

I take that to mean he’s not angry, but what he might be feeling, I don’t know. Except whatever it is, it’s making him breathe harder, his heart pound like a hammer, and his arms crush me like a vise.

After a few moments of silence, he seems to get control of himself. Or at least his voice sounds more normal when he says, “Three days.”

My heart turns over. My stomach fills with butterflies, then with a sourness that crawls up my throat, like I might have to vomit.

Three days. My god, it’s been weeks that I’ve been here. It seems like hardly any time at all.

When I lie there tense and silent for too long, Liam growls, “Goddammit, Tru, talk to me before I lose my fucking mind.”

My held breath bursts out of me, and I blurt, “I want to keep seeing each other.”

He makes a soft sound of pain and releases me, rolling onto his back to gaze up at the ceiling.