Beauty: A Hate Story, the End by Gebhard Mary Catherine

Author:Gebhard, Mary Catherine [Gebhard, Mary Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Crime, Contemporary, Suspense, Adult, Mystery
ISBN: 9780692950487
Amazon: 0692950486
Goodreads: 36796089
Publisher: Trendlettrs
Published: 2017-09-21T07:00:00+00:00

Anteros focused hard as he stitched me up. Back at the docks, he’d been aroused in a painfully obvious way; now he just treated me like a patient. It was annoying. Frustrating. I tried to capture his gaze and when that didn’t work I moved, released a sigh. He pushed his hand against my chest and said, “Stay still.”

I released another frustrated breath and stopped moving—for the moment.

He’d numbed my arm so I hardly felt the stitching, and that combined with the drugs had me feeling floaty. The slight pricking from the needle was actually invigorating. He was halfway done when he turned to get something from the box. I didn’t know what and I didn’t care. I was a little high and a lot horny. I sat up so the blanket fell and exposed me. When he turned back his hand froze with the needle, gaze devouring me.

When his eyes met mine they were fire burning over coals. I could smell the smoke, the charcoal. His jaw was clenched so hard I was sure he was hurting himself. I hoped he would tear the rest of the blanket away, but he just put the needle back into my arm.

I was mesmerized by every movement: the needle going through my skin, in and out, in and out, reminding me of sex, of him. Each prick further sensitized an already oversensitive body. I wasn’t sure if I was getting higher or if the feeling of euphoria was simply us.

When he was finished, he gently ran the pad of his finger along the fresh stitches. The contact hurt, but the pain meds were working so I just felt alive. Awakened. I reached for him but he moved away. I whimpered in protest.

“You need to rest.” His voice was hoarse, eyes locked with mine. He might not have been touching me anymore, but I saw through him. He was barely restraining himself. I stood up and ripped the blanket completely off.

“I need to heal,” I emphasized. With a groan low in his throat, Anteros pulled me to him, ran his nose along my neck like he’d done earlier. I felt the rumblings in his chest, the barely restrained need as he held me, grip so tight my flesh whitened and my stitches tugged.

“I can’t take you gently.” He ran his nose down my neck to the hollow of my collarbone where the bones connected, fibers of his beard teasing my flesh. I sighed, head falling back. Everything about him was coiled tight—his muscles, his rough, grating voice vibrating against my bones.

“Did I ask you to?” My voice was barely a whisper. Abruptly he stopped and pushed me, making me stumble to the couch. I braced my landing on my elbows.

“Go to sleep,” he said before turning to leave. What. The. Fuck?

“Where are you going?” I asked to his back, scrambling to get up. He didn’t stop walking, about to disappear under the stuffed deer head that delineated the start of the dark corridor he’d walked down earlier.

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