The relief in the epiphany—he wouldn’t change, he could only ever be this greedy, demanding Bastard—was such intense relief that I finally did give in to my emotions, shaking in his arms, clutching him until I caught my breath. But when I asked him what he wanted, and he groaned, “I want you to take over. I want you to wreck me,” I smiled, slowly climbing on top of him.
He was sweaty, hair dripping onto the pillow beneath him, and muscles bunched and coiled beneath smooth, tan skin. His eyes saw nothing in the room but me, flaring hotly at the anticipation of what I’d do. I looked him over: freshly fucked hair, blazing hazel eyes, lips so wrecked from my mouth and skin they were red and chafed. His pulse hammered in his neck, and I dragged one finger down the sweaty center of his chest, over the vulnerability of his solar plexus, down to his belly button, and then followed the trail of hair leading to his cock, still wet from me, still hard and perfect and practically pulsing for my touch.
“No,” I said, running my hands back up his torso, reveling in the feel of him. It really wasn’t fair. In a perfect world, Bennett Ryan would be a manwhore so that more women would get to appreciate this body.
But let’s be honest: Fuck that.
“‘No’?” He repeated, eyes narrowing.
“You wore me out,” I said, shrugging. “I’m tired.”
“Chloe. Put the fucking dick in your mouth.”
“You’d like that?”
His nostrils flared, hips arching up into me seeming without intention on his part. “Now, Chloe.”
“Say please.”
Sitting up beneath me abruptly, he growled, “Chloe, please choke on my dick.”
I burst out laughing, curling into him and sliding my hands into that mess of sweaty, amazing hair. Leaning forward, I covered his mouth with mine, sucking and wet, hungry for the taste of him, the feel of his sounds. I kissed him for making me laugh, for making me scream. I kissed him for being the only person who truly understood me, for being so impossibly like me in some ways it was a wonder we ever agreed on anything. I kissed him for being Bennett Ryan, my Beautiful Bastard.
Against my lips, I felt him smiling, heard the quiet vibration of his laugh, muffled by my mouth. “I love you,” he said.
Pulling back, I nodded, whispering, “Me, too. I love you a scary amount.”
“Then seriously, Mrs. Ryan,” he said. “Put my dick in your mouth.”
Acknowledgments
It’s surreal to be done writing the Beautiful series less than a year after we sold it to Gallery. We’re excited to move on to something new, but it’s bittersweet because we’ve really had the time of our lives writing these saucy books. We’re going to miss these crazy characters.
We want to begin by thanking everyone who has made the journey with us in these books—from Beautiful Bastard to Beautiful Beginning—we have had the most fun doing this with you. Thank you, truly, for buying and reading our books. We’re still writing with just as much silliness and passion as when we started this adventure. We sincerely hope you love what comes next.
Our agent, Holly Root, had a sixth sense about Gallery’s Adam Wilson; we think she just knew that he would be a perfect fit for these books, and for us. We’ve said it in every book, and we’ll say it again: thanks to both of you for being exactly who you are, because you’re exactly what we needed. Holly, you’re hands-on whenever we need you, and hands-off when you trust us to do our thing. Adam, you’ve made these books so much better and distracted us from your plethora of margin notes by making them hilarious (and spot-on). Look for the petal cupcakes heading your way. We like you. We like you