Chapter 17 Isabeau #2
The sight intoxicated me. My body no longer felt the need for rest, instead surging toward a new craving. I wanted to watch how he handled himself, to understand the mechanics of male pleasure in a way I’d never been allowed to observe before.
“Does that feel good?” I whispered, though I knew he couldn’t answer with words. “Touching yourself like that?”
He looked up briefly, those intelligent eyes meeting mine, before returning to his task with renewed vigor.
His tongue moved faster, circling and flicking against my sensitive flesh with precision that belied his bestial form.
His paw matched the pace, sliding along his impressive length with practiced ease.
The thought occurred to me suddenly. Could I please him this way? Could my hands bring him the same pleasure his paw was providing? The idea of wrapping my fingers around that hot, hard flesh made my insides clench with anticipation.
I reached down, my fingers tangling in the fur between his ears as his tongue delved deeper, tasting me intimately. The texture of it against my inner walls sent sparks of pleasure racing up my spine, each rough caress finding places within me I hadn’t known existed.
His musk filled my nostrils, heady and wild.
Not the stale sweat of unwashed men from the village, but something primal and clean.
The scent of forest and night air clung to his fur, reminding me of his dual nature.
My gentle giant who could tenderly lap at my core, yet powerful enough to defend the forest from whatever darkness threatened it.
Our gazes locked again as he continued, the intimacy of it more intense than any of our previous couplings.
This wasn’t just about claiming or mating.
This was Beast—my Beast—caring for my pleasure, my comfort, my needs.
The realization unraveled something deep inside me, some final reservation I hadn’t known I still held.
His tongue moved faster, my breathing quickened to match, and tension coiled tighter in my lower belly. The pressure built with each skillful lap, each careful probe. My hips began to move in counterpoint to his rhythm, seeking more, deeper, harder.
“Please,” I gasped, not entirely sure what I was asking for, only that I needed something more, something just beyond my reach.
Beast’s eyes never left mine as his movements intensified.
I could feel his own excitement mounting in the increased pace of his paw on his member, the quickening of his breath against my sensitive flesh.
He wanted this. He wanted to watch me fall apart under his touch, wanted to join me in that sweet surrender.
When it happened, it caught me by surprise. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped, pleasure crashing over me in waves that made my back arch and my thighs tremble. A sound I’d never made before tore from my throat, somewhere between a cry and a sob.
And then, something else entirely. A rush of liquid left my core, spraying Beast’s fur-covered face in a release I hadn’t known my body was capable of. Mortification flooded through me even as pleasure continued to pulse through my veins.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, trying to pull away. “I didn’t mean to—”
But Beast’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. His eyes closed in apparent bliss, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he licked his muzzle. Far from being upset, he seemed to savor my release, as if it were the sweetest nectar.
He rose to his knees then, towering over me like some pagan god of pleasure. His member jutted proudly from its nest of fur, the skin glistening with its own moisture. Beast’s paw moved with inhuman speed now, stroking himself with an urgency that made my breath catch.
I should have looked away. Should have felt shame at witnessing such a private act. Instead, I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, fascinated by the raw masculinity of it, the unabashed pursuit of pleasure.
His climax, when it came, was spectacular.
With a growl that seemed to shake the very walls, Beast’s seed shot forth in powerful spurts, landing on the floor beside the bed.
The sight of it—thick, white, copious—made my cheeks burn with heat even as my body responded with a sympathetic clench of desire.
What level of debauchery had I fallen to? The proper village girl was long gone, replaced by this creature who watched a beast pleasure himself with rapt attention. Who welcomed his tongue between her thighs. Who found beauty in the primal act of release.
Yet I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. There was honesty in Beast’s passion that I’d never found in human company. No pretense, no shame, no using another’s body while denying their personhood.
As his breathing steadied, Beast lowered himself to the bed beside me.
One massive arm pulled me against his fur-covered chest, enveloping me in warmth that had nothing to do with the dying fire in the hearth.
I nestled against him, my fingers stroking through the silken pelt that covered his torso.
He smelled of forest and musk and sex, a combination that should have repelled me but instead felt like home.
This time of night, when passion was spent and silence settled between us, was when he showed himself most gentle.
More tender than any human man had ever been with me, more attentive to my comfort and well-being.
I buried my face in his fur, inhaling deeply. “Thank you,” I whispered, knowing he understood even if he couldn’t respond in kind.
His only answer was to pull me closer, one paw stroking my hair with surprising delicacy. The rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear grew slower, steadier as sleep began to claim him. But before I joined him in slumber, I found myself wondering again about those amber eyes we shared.
What did they mean? What connection did they signify? And would understanding that connection be the key to saving Papa, to breaking Beast’s curse, to making sense of this strange new world I’d found myself thrust into?
Questions without answers swirled in my mind as consciousness began to fade.
But unlike previous nights, fear no longer accompanied them.
Instead, I felt only curiosity and a strange, burgeoning hope.
Whatever mysteries awaited me, I wouldn’t face them alone.
I had Beast. Not just as protector or mate, but as partner in this bewildering journey. A partnership like my parents shared.
As sleep finally claimed me, cradled against his massive form, I made a silent promise. I would solve the puzzle of the roses. I would save my father. And somehow, I would free the man trapped within this bestial form. The man whose eyes mirrored my own.
The garden behind our cottage bloomed with impossible vibrancy, the way places only do in dreams or distant memories. I knew I was dreaming the moment I saw Mama’s hands moving among her herbs, those familiar fingers that had wiped my tears and mixed her remedies with equal tenderness.
Dead hands don’t pluck leaves. Dead women don’t hum lullabies. But there she was, her auburn hair so like mine, caught in the afternoon light. Her amber eyes focused on the bundles of herbs she was tying with practiced efficiency.
My heart squeezed painfully in my chest. How many years had it been?
Four? No, closer to five since fever had taken her, leaving Papa and me alone to navigate a world suddenly tilted off its axis.
I’d been fourteen then, old enough to understand death’s finality but too young to be without a mother’s guidance.
She looked up, and I gasped. Dream or not, the sight of her face—whole, healthy, alive—stole my breath.
Those high cheekbones that men in the village used to stare at.
That full mouth that could curve into either stern disapproval or secret mischief depending on who was watching.
The tiny scar above her left eyebrow from when she’d fallen from a tree as a girl.
“There you are, little bell,” she said, using Papa’s nickname for me as if it had always been hers too. “Hand me that twine, would you? Master Girard will be here soon.”
My body moved without conscious thought, smaller than I remembered being, hands reaching for the ball of twine on her workbench. I was a child again in this dream, perhaps ten or eleven. Before womanhood had complicated everything. Before men began looking at me the way they once looked at her.
“Is he sick?” I asked, my voice higher than I was used to hearing it.
Mama shook her head, tying off another bundle of what I now recognized as feverfew and yarrow. “No, but half the village is. There’s a fever spreading through the poorest quarters. Master Girard is helping me distribute this tonic.”
The name struck a chord in my memory. Master Girard, the town’s apothecary. A stern man with kind eyes who’d once given me a honey stick when I’d accompanied Mama to his shop. Part of me missed him. He was one of few who let me study herbs after Mama passed.
The garden gate creaked, announcing a visitor.
Mama straightened, wiping her hands on her apron as Master Girard’s stooped figure appeared around the corner of our cottage.
He looked exactly as I last saw. Thin as a rail, with a shock of white hair and spectacles perched precariously on his beaked nose.
“Madame Dubois,” he greeted, removing his hat. “I came as soon as I could.”
Mama smiled warmly. “You’re right on time, Henri.” She gestured to the table where dozens of small glass vials sat filled with amber liquid. “The tonic is ready. Three drops in water, morning and night. It won’t cure the fever entirely, but it should reduce it enough to prevent the worst outcomes.”
Master Girard approached the table, examining one of the vials with professional curiosity. “Remarkable clarity. Your skill grows with each batch.” He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “About payment—”