Page 33 of The Beast & His Beauty

“I want to make tea,” I say quietly. “I’d like to make it myself.”

The tray floats into the room a few minutes later and the tea things spread themselves out on the table next to my reading chair in the bedroom. There is enough room for the kettle and the pot, along with two cups. The first time I asked for this, the house brought me tea. I did not know what to do with the magic then. I don’t know if this counts as doing magic.

What I know is that when I touch the kettle, the water inside begins to heat. It’s not an instant process and it takes a few minutes before it whistles. By then I have prepared the leaves. I take the kettle and pour the water over them. I breathe deeply, clearing my head while the leaves steep, and then I touch the pot.

It pours a perfectly portioned cup of tea into one of the cups, then settles back on the table.

I add milk and sugar to the tea, then lift the cup from the table, imagining as I do that the cup and its matching saucer could talk.

If they could, I would talk to them.

I would talk to anyone or anything who would listen and converse at this point.

Emotions fill my chest again, but this time it’s a sorrowful loneliness. I’m so lonely that I would talk to a teacup. All the fine things in the world can’t replace a person who listens to you and tells you their ideas.

I laugh a little, though it sounds almost like crying. Have I gone mad? Is this what it’s like to go mad? My loneliness twists at my heart, getting deeper as I sip at the tea. It is hot, but not so hot it burns my lips. The perfect temperature.

Can I complain about loneliness when I am lonely in such luxury?

I try not to think about it, returning to the peace of my book.

I have managed to sink into the story when there are footsteps at my bed chamber door.

It’s him. My body heats instantly. I know it is. The moment he walks through the door, the room fills with his masculine presence.

I do not turn my head toward the door, but I put a finger in my book and close it, my breath coming faster. As I decide what to say, the silence isn’t comfortable. It’s not entirely uncomfortable either.

“How are you this morning?” I ask the beast, bracing myself to hear only silence. Maybe he will not want to tell me.

“I am well,” he answers, a slight tension in his voice, but no outright unhappiness that I can hear. I want to ask him, are you happy? I want to say is this what you were hoping for when you took me? But the words refuse to leave my throat.

I open the book, make a mental note of the page number, and set it aside on the table.

“Will you ever let me see you?” I keep my voice soft, but my chest aches. I don’t want to challenge him. I simply want to know.

This time, there is much more tension in the room and the silence before he speaks is longer.

“Do you have your blindfold with you?”

“Yes,” I say, exhaling.

“Put it on.”

I get it out of my pocket and tie it around my eyes with shaking fingers. Then I sit up straight and fold my hands in my lap. He has not said to get up, so I don’t.

The beast’s footsteps get closer. I listen intently for each one, my heart beating harder as he crosses the room to me. Then his large hands—they feel so human and strong—are on my face, tilting my head.

His mouth crashes against mine as if he spent all night thinking of this and couldn’t wait another second. Was this the tension I heard in his voice? The kiss feels needy. The beast wanted someone, and the person he wanted was me.

The lust and headiness is as unexpected as it is divine.

I open my mouth and let him kiss me even deeper as he slips a hand under the hem of my dress and finds my warmth between my legs, pushing aside my underthings to stroke me, and I cannot resist the sounds of pleasure that slip from my lips. My core heats and desire spreads over every inch of my skin with a vengeance.

The beast kisses me until I’m dizzy with the sensation, and then he pulls me upright and turns me around, guiding me back to my knees onto the chair. Both his hands move to my hips, and he tugs down my underthings, pulling them all the way off over my ankles, and then he braces my hands on the tall back of the chair. I feel small in it, almost like prey caught by a predator, and then the beast kisses the side of my neck and lets out a low sound.

I love this. I love what he does to me.

“Yes.” I breathe, not knowing what I’m answering. I fall into his presence even faster than I would fall into a story. He is hard behind me, and there is the sound of cloth as he undoes his trousers and takes himself out.