His eyes gleam and glimmer when the Beast rouses.
It starts simply enough. A laugh here, a touch there. A slickly stuck heart that makes me giggle, makes his face light up in mock annoyance as I can’t hold back telling him he has a tiny pink shimmery heart on his knee.
The look pierces me.
Makes me sit up, suddenly still and watchful. The giggles are there, still, under the surface, but the eyes of the hunter watch me and make me wary.
He seizes my hand as I attempt to count coup on him again, yet another stealth heart “attack” upon his knee…and he squeezes.
With minimal effort.
As the Beast shines from his eyes in a gleam of pleasure as he makes me whimper faintly. Conscious that we sit in a Starbucks, and I cannot cry out, I stfu and swallow the pain, feeding on it.
Feeding on the Beast, feeding on me.
It’s a circle,
of pain and pleasure.
Fraught with tension…his eyes hold mine
at 32 I drop my gaze, submitting, and let the wince tighten my face.
Looking up, a glimmer of pain-tears in my eyes,
“going to be a good little girl?” He asks, his voice warm honey, pitched low.
He tightens his grip.
I suck in air, shiver, whimper, and murmur
“yes, oh yessir…
He releases my hand.
But not the control.