“Well I guess if I had to choose . . . I’d marry Swamp Thing, screw the Hulk, and still kill Aquaman.”
–Overheard at Comic-Con
Beast must sense my simmering perusal because he turns, eyes sliding to my toes and back up, a motion as effective as a caress. His eyes are bright and his mouth tips up at the corners.
He holds out his arm and I immediately move into his side. With his free hand, he flips the sandwich frying in the pan, exposing a perfectly toasted, golden surface.
“Grilled cheese.” I point at the other simmering pot. “And tomato soup? Smells delicious.” On the counter, he’s spread a variety of cheeses and artisan bread. Of course. I’d bet money the soup is homemade. He releases me after a quick squeeze and moves away to grab something from the fridge. I pick up a nearby spoon and stir the soup.
A few seconds later, he’s behind me, not touching, but his broad expanse emits enough heat to span my entire back.
His fingers play at the hem of his stolen shirt, knuckles brushing against the backs of my thighs.
Air hisses between his teeth the moment he realizes I’ve got nothing on underneath. He’s motionless behind me, not moving, just breathing. I help him out a little, tugging the shirt up and exposing my bottom to the air.
He moves, fingers tracing my skin, nuzzling at the back of my neck, lips sucking and nipping at the corner where my neck meets my shoulder. I gasp and arch into him.
“Beast. Touch me.”
That’s all the encouragement he needs. His fingers slide between my legs from behind. I’m turned on already, his fingers slipping against me with ease.
There’s a humming rumble in his chest, reverberating through my back and into my whole body. I press against him, his hard length a rod against my spine. His breath whooshes in my ear. His fingers play me like an instrument, one hand sliding up under the shirt to pluck at my nipples while his other explores between my legs.
Within minutes I’m shuddering against him, hands up behind me and locked around his neck while he tortures me into sweet oblivion.
When I finally come back down to earth, I turn into him. My arms circle around his waist, holding on but boneless. One of his hands strokes my back while the other cups my bottom.
I speak into his chest. “I didn’t know I could orgasm so many times in a twenty-four-hour period.”
I lean back to catch his expression. It’s a new smile, not like his lopsided grin or sheepish tipped corner, this smile is wide and satisfied, all male satisfaction. His cock is a hard, needy length between us.
“It’s my turn.”
His brows lift.
“Feel free to keep cooking so it doesn’t burn.” I glance behind me at the food. “I’m starving. But I think I’ll go for an appetizer.”
I kneel in front of him.
He lets out a big breath and before I can pull down his shorts, he reaches down, scooping me into his arms bridal style.
“What about the food?”
His eyes flick from me to the food, in the direction of the bedroom and then back to me.
“I’m hungry, big man. And we need energy if we’re going to keep this up.”
His eyes brighten further, one brow quirking.
“You’re going to be insatiable, aren’t you?”
He nods.
“I can’t say I have a problem with it.”
Walking quickly, he carries me to his room and literally tosses me on the bed. Then he holds up a finger and disappears for a few minutes, coming back with a tray laden with food.
“Food and Beast. It really doesn’t get any better than this.”
We eat and fool around and spend time exploring, experimenting, teaching the other how to best bring pleasure. Learning things about him and myself that I didn’t know before. Then we snuggle, entwined like vines. My favorite position is lying on his chest, listening to the slow and steady beat of his heart while caressing the ridges of his body.
His lamp is on, sitting on his desk in the corner. It’s a muted light, a soft glow adding to the quiet comfort. Our own little world.
“George. Does anyone else know your real name? I mean, besides Jude and Grace.”
He shakes his head.
“Did you sign up for school using your real name?”
He smiles. Shakes his head again.
“Why do you go by Beast and not George?”
He takes a breath, watching me, and then comes to some sort of internal decision. He starts to sign more, but then holds up a finger and grabs his phone from the bedside table.
It’s a nickname Jude gave me. We met him at the library in Valdosta. Grace would use the computers and Jude was there a lot, too. He said I would glower so hard, he could hear it. Like I was growling. It became a bit of a joke. My real name has bad memories so it stuck.
I pat his chest. “Beast definitely fits. But you also registered under Beast. How the heck did you pull that off?”
Jude signed me up for school when we came here looking for Grace.
I tilt my head. “Annabel mentioned something about Grace running away and coming here. It must have been terrible for you. I bet you were so worried.”
He nods.
“You have been through a lot together.”
He nods again. I’m glad we’re here. Having a stable home, and Granny, helped mellow Grace out a lot.
I turn, scooting to face him more fully. “Why does your real name have bad memories?”
He’s unmoving for long enough that I’m not sure he’s going to answer. But there’s no tension in him, he’s relaxed as he rubs a hand up and down my arm. Then he starts typing.
Grace is my half sister. Same mother, different dads. My dad died when I was little.
“Beast. I’m sorry.” My arms tighten reflexively around him, as if I can reach inside to the boy he was.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head and keeps typing. A few years later, Mom started dating Grace’s dad and they had Grace. Grace’s dad took off when Mom was pregnant. I don’t even know if he knows she exists. Our mom had some problems with drugs.
I almost ask him to stop, wanting to shield him from his own past, but he keeps going.
Mom wasn’t always, he stops for a second, head turning to the wall, thinking, present. Even if she was physically there, she always seemed unaware, of me or anything else. I learned how to find my own food because she would often forget to eat herself. I had issues with stuttering. Mom got better when she was pregnant with Grace. Less volatile, more aware. But then after Grace was born, things got bad again. Eventually, we were taken from her and sent to live with our uncle, Mom’s brother.
He lifts his hand to rub his chin.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me everything. I know it must be hard.” Even this, the least of details, is hard to envision. I can’t imagine what an upbringing like that would do to a child, let alone this sweet giant of a man who even now rubs a hand over my back, soothing me, when he’s the one sharing his difficult past.
He shakes his head and returns to thumbing over the phone.
It was fine at first. Our uncle wasn’t a bad guy. He was a mechanic. But then he hurt his back and was laid off. And then everything changed. He changed.
I don’t think he minded raising us at first. But after he lost his job, money got tight. I needed new shoes every month. Grace liked to take things apart to see how they worked, the toaster, clocks, computers, the microwave. He couldn’t afford to replace things and we were too young to understand. We were a lot to deal with. And he hadn’t wanted kids. We weren’t his. I think he resented us. I know at some point he started dealing drugs to get money. Things sort of got better for a time. Then they got worse when he started using.
He puts the phone down, his hand running down my back and pulling me tighter against him, like he needs to remember where he is and it’s not back there. He’s not a child dependent on adults he can never trust, with a sister he’s trying to defend.
“How old were you during all this?”
Nine when Mom died. Grace was four. When we left our uncle, I was thirteen and Grace was eight.
That makes sense since Grace is fourteen and Beast is nineteen. They’ve only been in Blue Falls for a little over a year, which means it’s been them against the world for five years.
When he started using and things got real bad, I was maybe ten or eleven. He used to yell at us a lot to shut up while he was doing his deals or having parties in the garage. It was important we keep quiet, stay away, not catch the attention of his friends. In some ways, I think it was to protect us. If we misbehaved, he would withhold food, even water sometimes. Stopped letting us go to school. I used to sneak into neighbors’ houses to get food for us.
My chest constricts at the thought of Grace and Beast as children, forced into taking care of their most basic needs at a time when they should have had no worries beyond school and making friends.
It was hard for Grace. She was curious about everything, a chatterbox. I was never a big talker because of the stuttering. But I had to take care of Grace. I tried to turn it into a game, who could go the longest without talking. Once during one of his parties we were watching a movie in our room and when I went to use the bathroom, she snuck out. I had to go after her, get her back before anyone saw. But I got caught. He locked me in a closet for three days as punishment.
My body tenses and flashes with cold. “Beast.” My voice is thick with emotion. “You don’t have to keep going.”
But he just shakes his head and continues.
After that he told me, if I messed up again, he would do the same to Grace, or worse. That’s when the anxiety was nearly uncontrollable. I had even more trouble speaking. Even when he wasn’t around, I would remember what he said and my throat would fill to the point I couldn’t talk around it. And then I went so long without talking, at some point it was too late to go back.
A tear slips out of my eye and lands on his chest. “I’m so sorry. Is your uncle dead? Tell me he’s dead. If he’s not, can we kill him?”
He shakes his head, his hand rubbing my arm. Consoling me.
He went to prison a few years after we left. I knew I had to be stronger, so I started doing whatever I could, running, push-ups. I was growing like crazy at the time. By the time I turned thirteen I was over six feet tall. We made a plan and left. You know Grace is smart. We took care of each other. She got us money using computers. And then we found Jude. Or he found us.
“You found each other.” I sit up and face him, climbing on top of him to cup his giant face in my palms, his stubble scratching my palms. “Thank you for sharing your past with me.”
His hands move between us.
Not scared yet? he signs.
I shake my head. “You saved Grace, and you saved yourself. You are not defined by your trauma. You are defined by your resilience. You are the best person I know.”
His arms go around me, crushing me to his chest, and I hang on tight. After a while, he grabs his phone again, holding it in front of me to read.
You are not the sum of your experiences either.
“I hardly think my shitty breakup can compare to what you’ve been through in your life.”
He’s motionless for a spell, and I know him well enough to know he’s considering his words. You care about people, too. You aren’t the sidekick, you’re the main character.
I laugh. “You’re saying I need to be the hero in my own story.”
You already are.
“Thank you. I had already kinda figured that out, but I like the way you put it better. You have a way with words.”
And then he smiles. A heartbreaking, happy grin that crinkles his eyes.
My breath catches in my throat.
I’m pretty sure my heart is gone. Toast. Donezo. And despite the inevitable pain looming on the horizon, loving him will be the most exquisite self-destructive decision I’ve made yet.