The Beast by Shantea Gauthier Page A

way.
    “What is this?” Simon asked.
    "It came with the vial of b-." I stopped, staring at the pale scar on his cheek. "With that stuff."
    He gave it a more interested look. "I don't think that there's anything special about it. Other than that it looks like one of those stupid six dollar cookies from the mall. I don't smell anything strange. I hope you’re not thinking of eating it, though. I wouldn't trust anything they give you."
    I nodded and put it back in the box. "I wouldn’t. Thanks."
    "So you asked me here just to show me a cookie?" 
    "Can you blame me, considering where it came from?"
    "I guess not."
    "Thanks," I said again. Suddenly we were nervous teenagers seated on my bed, side by side. At least he had the foresight to bring a towel in. The bedding might be salvageable after this.
    I looked up at him, heartbeat swishing in my ears. I felt my skin prickle under his gaze.
    "I should go," he said. He didn’t move.
    "Yeah," I said, reaching for his hand.
    He kissed me. It was a long, deep, hot kiss. His tongue searched for mine and they met and parted, dancing in the space that wasn't his mouth or mine. He pulled me closer until I climbed onto his lap. My wet hair clung to my face in some places and reached upward in others. He tensed when my breasts brushed against him and when it seemed like he would break away I wrapped my fingers in his hair and pulled him close.
    I straddled him, still kissing him, reaching my fingers under his shirt to pull it off and only let our lips part to pull it off over his head. He grabbed me and turned so that my back was on the blanket and he started to peel the wet shirt from my body. I wiggled and writhed to help it off and locked my legs around his thighs. The shirt made a satisfying plop when it hit the floor, but I noticed that Simon's eyes were fixed on the bruises that were still visible across my ribs. He opened his mouth to say something. Like I was some kind of delicate flower that he didn’t want to crush. Like I didn’t know my own mind and body enough to know that I had to have him.
    "Shut up," I said. I pulled him down to kiss me. He didn’t need to feel sorry for me. He needed to feel what I felt, to share the desire that was burning in my face and in my fingertips all the way down into my soul. Every muscle ached for him, every nerve hummed in anticipation.
    I went for the button on his pants and in one quick motion had it undone and his zipper down. I pushed the waistband down with my feet, hands still exploring the muscular landscape of his back, his stomach, and his chest. My fingers twisted in the curls of hair and my back arched when his hand found its way between my legs. I was still wearing shorts and he was still wearing gloves, but I could feel his heat burning through the layers like they weren't there at all. He straightened and with one hand teased me through my clothes while the other hand pulled the triangles of the bikini top out of the way.
    He groped and grabbed at me with gloved hands. I wanted him touching me, not the gloves. I thought of pulling them off, but thinking of his glossy scarred hands touching me cooled my passion, just a little.
    As if he knew what I was thinking, he bent down and bit my neck, pulling me painfully back into the moment. I moaned.
    He kissed me all over, nipped at my nipples, teased me with his hands and his tongue and moved so slowly downward it was almost painful. His tongue played just under my waistband and I arched up against him. When he finally pulled my shorts down and stood to remove his pants, I kicked furiously to be free of my clothes. He was beautiful naked. I was embarrassed by him staring at me, but it didn't last long. I reached out and seized hold of him in one hand. He shuddered as though his legs might give way as I pulled him closer to me, on top of me, but he pushed himself back and turned away.
    "I should really go now," he said, looking at the curtained window. "It's getting