Freeing the Beast: Taming the Beast, Book 1 Read online

  Becca squeezed the doorknob so hard her palm hurt.

  He didn’t move. Wait, one part of him did. His cock thickened and grew even longer, the crown firm, engorged with desire. The damn thing seemed to point at her.

  Like a zombie detecting fresh meat, she stepped closer, staring at his goods. Wanting them.

  “Becca?” Heather. Of all the times for her to show up.

  She leaned into the room until she saw Mr. Stud. “Oh…oh.”

  Wow was the word Becca would have used. He’d actually gotten harder, the prominent veins on his shaft bulging.

  Becca elbowed Heather out of the room. On a breathy gasp, the fairy stepped away.

  “Sorry,” Becca said to him. “I didn’t know…that is…I thought…”

  “I was someone else?”

  She nodded, then frowned. “Who are you?”

  He yanked the boxers up. The elastic waistband caught on his balls.

  Ooh. Poor baby.

  Sucking air through his clenched teeth, he hurried the underwear past his groin. Before he got it over his tight ass, he lost his footing. Trying to regain it, he turned.

  There was a heart, the perfect Cupid’s kind, at the top of his right cheek.

  Chapter Two

  Staggering this way and that, Eric Diletto yanked the underwear up and prayed the redhead would leave before he made a complete ass of him—

  The door finally swung shut. He twisted his torso, somehow righting himself, and pulled a muscle in his back.

  Shit. Bent over in pain, he heard her heels tap. As though she was stepping away from the room. Wasting no time, he jerked on his khakis and was still hopping on one foot when he noticed his boxers. Baggy. Green. Crumpled on the floor.

  He’d forgotten to take off the underwear she’d thrown at him. His head fell forward. He groaned.

  “You okay?” She rapped on the door.

  “Fine,” he hollered. “Just getting dressed.”

  Silence, then her heels tapping again. “Oh…okay.”

  She sounded disappointed, maybe torn as to whether to stay out there or come back in here and watch. Forgetting his pain and embarrassment, Eric planted his hands on his hips and thought back to how she’d looked when his junk was hanging free. Stunned, sure…but also aroused. Like she wanted to fall to her knees and lick him.

  A grin spread across his face.

  From the next room, something rammed into the wall.

  “Don’t do that,” a woman warned. Her gravelly voice sounded as if she’d been gargling with Drāno.

  A hiss from Hell answered her, followed by more pounding that shook the photos hanging in here. All depicting the French Quarter with weird symbols gracing the edges. Greek? Martian? Who knew?

  Despite the redhead’s allure, it was definitely time to get out of this looney bin.

  Eric shoved his feet into his loafers and pulled on his shirt, not bothering to button the damn thing. With his boxers dangling from his front pocket, he moved cautiously to the door and put his ear against it.

  Muted howls, shrieks and groans greeted him.

  Would he have to fight his way out? He knew some martial arts but wasn’t a whiz at it like Neo who’d spun like a human tornado in The Matrix. Hell, he wasn’t even a beast, which was why he’d come here in the first place.

  Nitwit.

  Still cursing himself, he edged the door open and peeked around it. The redhead was gone.

  Her fragrance lingered. Something deep, seductive, witchy—for lack of a better word—which brought to mind sultry nights, the rustling of black silk, the delight of female musk.

  He swallowed, then wrinkled his nose at another smell. The odor burnt matches make.

  Slipping into the hall, he closed the door carefully so it wouldn’t make any noise. Not that anyone would notice given the commotion going on in the other rooms. Bangs, snaps, growls and hisses coupled with female voices begging or cooing. Some of those women sounded older than Death. Others spoke lightly, musically.

  None of the normal voices was as nice as the redhead’s throaty purr. Her effect on Eric’s cock lingered. The damn thing was on the prowl, getting too thick, trying to crawl out of his snug boxers and go straight to…where? Her?

  Yeah, right.

  Ignoring his idiotic desire, Eric strode down the hall and stopped short of the front door, his blood turning to ice.

  The young woman who stood between him and freedom looked to be about fourteen and dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform. Plaid skirt, white blouse, saddle shoes. She crossed her arms over her flat chest and shook her head at him.

  A powerful blast of sulfur hit Eric. He made a face at the unpleasant stench.

  She scrunched her nose, either smelling what he had or mocking him. The ring in her nostril glinted.

  He forced a smile and risked another step toward her. “Excuse me. You’re in my way.”

  “You think?” She glowered. “You’re not leaving.”

  Eric debated whether he could take her. She was a little thing, but the smoke rising from the ends of her hair and shoulders could be a problem. She might mutate into something worse than whatever kept hitting the walls in this place. Even the pictures up here bounced slightly.

  He tried to reason. “I have another appointment. I’m expected.”

  His lie didn’t faze her in the least.

  “Seriously,” he insisted, squaring his shoulders, trying to look even bigger than he was and far crazier than her. “If I don’t show up—”

  “You can leave. We have no intention of keeping you here.”

  He turned at that husky, sexier-than-sin promise.

  The redhead leaned against the wall, her attention darting from his boxers—haphazardly crammed into his pocket—to what she could see of his naked chest. There, she lingered, running her maroon-polished nail over her belly button.

  Eric’s face went slack. He imagined licking that sweet depression, touching the silver butterfly dangling from it, then moving lower. To the pleasure beneath her harem pants. His cock twitched and grew another few inches, blood thickening it.

  She sighed, as he would have liked to, then murmured, “First, though, you and I have to talk.”

  The schoolgirl chuckled. A sound only the damned should hear.

  “In my office,” the redhead said. “Please.”

  Her murmur drew him closer, though he did stop several feet away. He was turned on, not nuts. “Why?”

  “I’ll explain in my office. I promise, you’ll be safe. No harm will come to you.” When he didn’t budge, she added, “You have my word. I’m Becca Salt. This is my place.”

  As if he hadn’t already guessed as much when she’d ordered him to strip then threw the stretchy boxers at him.

  She offered her hand. Her fingers were long, her skin plump with youth, looking softer than a baby’s butt.

  Eric wavered then took the plunge, slipping his palm over hers, hoping she wouldn’t strike him dead.

  She squeezed his hand tenderly. Lovingly.

  His legs bowed. Her touch generated more heat than a slug of good booze. The velvety softness of her hand encouraged him to caress her fingers. “Ms. Salt.”

  “Becca, please. And you are?”

  Uncertain as shit about all this, but honestly enjoying it. “Eric. Um, Diletto,” he finally added.

  If his family name sparked anything bad or good, he didn’t see it on her face. She regarded him openly. Honestly.

  Despite her weird makeup, she had amazing eyes, so blue the color didn’t seem real. Her pillowy lips were definitely kissable even with her strange lipstick, while her features were striking. Better than pretty. Interesting.

  The walls shook again.

  She gave him an edgy smile. “Let’s go to my office. It’s much quieter.”

&n
bsp; He trailed after her, looking over to see if the schoolgirl had followed.

  She remained in front of the door, teeth bared, keeping him from escape.

  “Here we go.” Becca gestured him inside.

  Her office contained more greenery than the reception area and faced the noisy street. It sounded as though a couple of guys were duking it out down there. Their ladies squealed or screeched at how they were doing. A whistle’s piercing shriek cut them off. Definitely not quieter in here, but at least the sounds were ordinary.

  Eric brushed past several ferns and other plants he couldn’t begin to identify, some of their scents rich and sensual. The others fresh, inviting, similar to newly mown grass.

  “Please have a seat.” Becca swung her hand to the needlepoint sofa that faced her antique desk.

  As a financial analyst, Eric had been in enough homes of the breathlessly wealthy to know real when he saw it. The furniture’s design, ornate inlays and gold ornamentation put them at approximately the seventeenth century, possibly gifts from Louis XIV himself. Her Tiffany floor lamp was genuine too, not one of those knockoffs hawked on the Home Shopping Network.

  She’d decorated this room with care, but impersonally, no photos of family, a husband, boyfriends or pets. However it still had a homey, comfortable feel. He sank to the sofa’s stiff cushion.

  Becca closed the door and went behind her desk. For a long moment, she regarded the street scene, tourists and locals enjoying themselves or getting into trouble, going about their lives.

  Her intercom buzzed. She reached over and depressed a button. “No interruptions, please.”

  Whoever was on the other end whimpered, then said, “Sure. Sorry. Really, I am. Sorry, that—”

  “It’s okay, Heather. No interruptions, all right?”

  “Sure. Sorry. I—”

  Becca cut her off again and turned to him. “I want to apologize for what happened tonight. I honestly believed you were a client. We’d arranged a photo shoot for him. He was late. When you showed up, I thought…”

  Not bothering to finish, she tilted her head and stared at his chest.

  He still hadn’t buttoned his shirt. “You want me to finish dressing?”

  “Oh no.” Becca smiled dreamily. “Hell no.” She met his gaze, then blinked, as though realizing what she’d just said. Her cheeks turned the same shade as a ripe peach. “I mean, button your shirt or don’t button it. Either way, it doesn’t bother me.”

  Uh-huh. Eric smiled at her lie.

  Her blush deepened. She cleared her throat. “We have to talk.” She sank to her elaborate chair and rested her hands on the desk, fingers laced. The pose every boss affects right before firing the poor soul facing him.

  What in the world could she want to talk about?

  “Go on,” Eric coaxed when she didn’t continue.

  Becca sucked her bottom lip.

  Eric’s skin tingled as he thought about doing it for her. When her blush deepened, he was more than aroused. “Hey,” he murmured, empathizing with how uncertain she looked. “I’m easy to talk to. Really.”

  Becca moaned. A soft, female sound that was totally adorable and made him smile.

  She blurted, “We need to remove your memories of your time here. I promise, it won’t hurt at all.”

  Eric stood. Well actually, he’d shot to his feet, causing the sofa to bump over the brick floor and smack into the wall. Escape was etched all over his handsome face.

  Not that it mattered. Zoe was already in the doorway, blocking him, her hair and shoulders belching smoke like Mount St. Helen’s before it blew.

  Backing away from her, he frowned at Becca. “Is she about to catch fire?”

  “Everything’s perfectly all right.” Becca gave him a reassuring smile.

  His expression said she was insane. “Are you serious? You said you want to remove my memories, or have you forgotten that?”

  “Please sit.” She gestured him down.

  Staying well away from the sofa and Zoe, he buttoned his shirt and shoved the tails in his khakis.

  Such a shame. He had an outstanding chest, along with a lot of other great stuff. Becca studied his fly, the meaty treasure behind it. Hot. Hard. Undoubtedly scented with his musk.

  Her head swam.

  “I have to leave,” he said. “Now.”

  “In a minute, after we talk,” Becca said. “Zoe, please leave us alone.”

  “If you need me, holler.” She glared at Eric on her way out.

  He spoke to Becca. “You’re not taking anything from me. Got it?”

  Becca understood his aversion and tried to soothe. “We won’t hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re just going to slice out part of my brain.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Only your memories of being here. There’s no surgery involved. We’re not zoned for that. Constance will simply lay her hands on your head and—”

  “No.”

  Becca squeezed her fingers so hard her knuckles turned even whiter. “Please try to understand. You’ve seen things here that you really shouldn’t have.”

  “Says who? I came here for a makeover, all right?”

  Becca leaned forward. “You’re not mortal?”

  “If I were would I be in this nuthouse?”

  She waited until one of her client’s piercing howls quieted. “What are you exactly?”

  “I’m Eric,” he said. “Di-let-to.”

  He’d pronounced his last name very slowly, as though it should mean something to her.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t always go by Eric,” he muttered. “I changed my first name when I was twelve. Got tired of having to fight, you know?”

  Maybe. She’d had her own scuffles when anyone dared call her fat. Gently, she said, “Tell me your real first name. Please.”

  He sagged to the sofa as though his bones had turned to dust. “You’ll laugh.”

  “Never.” Becca came around her desk, but stopped when he leaned away from her, clearly needing distance between them. “I don’t make fun,” she pledged. “I don’t bully. I had enough of that when I was a kid to know how much it hurts.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “The other kids made fun of your hair?”

  “No.” She curled her upper lip. “There’s something wrong with my hair?”

  He held up his hands in appeasement. “Not at all. I really like the color and the way you wear it.” He gestured to his own head to demonstrate her bob and bangs. “It’s great.”

  Sure. And Santa Claus was a card-carrying Communist. “The other kids made fun of my weight.” There, she’d said it. No need to pretend there wasn’t a four-ton elephant in the room.

  “Really?” He took her in, loitering on her ample cleavage, the curve of her belly, the flare of her hips before shaking his head. “I think women today are too skinny.”

  Becca smiled, seeing he meant it. “What’s your real first name?”

  He groaned and lay on the sofa, arm draped over his eyes, as though he was a patient and she was his shrink.

  “Come on,” Becca said. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what the problem is. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Wanna bet? My real first name is Eros.”

  With lightning speed, the pieces fell together for Becca. His last name was Diletto. Italian for pleasure. She recalled the tat on his ass. Holy moly. He was an honest-to-fuck Greek god. “You come from the line of Psyche and—”

  “Cupid,” he growled. “Otherwise known as Eros or, as the boys in middle school used to say, ‘we’re-gonna-pound-your-pussy-ass-into-the-ground’. Yeah, that’s my family tree.”

  Becca gave him a moment to calm down. When his huffs had quieted somewhat, she said, “I’m confused. Given how you feel, why’d you get a heart tatt
ooed on your ass?”

  “It’s not a tat,” he muttered. “It’s a birthmark. I went to several laser specialists. They worked on it dozens of times. It keeps coming back.” He bunched his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have seen it.”

  “Sorry.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m still confused,” she admitted, then explained. “From Crud to Stud helps clients to suppress the beast. You don’t have one. You’re a perfect gentleman. Normal to the outside world.” Except for his birthmark, which Becca wasn’t crazy enough to mention. Hell, that would be cruel. “What in the world could you want to change?”

  “Ever hear the term ‘nice guys finish last’?”

  She frowned, not getting it. Then she did. “You’re losing out on the babes because you’re too nice?” Impossible. He was gorgeous, kind, funny, hung—

  “Women say they want a nice guy, but they don’t really.”

  Becca crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “When was the last time you were a woman?”

  “Never. I don’t have to be. I’ve dated hundreds to know how they operate.”

  Okay, now he was bragging…maybe. “Hundreds?”

  “If I’d told you the truth, that it was thousands, you wouldn’t have believed me.”

  A prick of jealousy hurt her gut. She shook it off with a laugh. “Thousands? And they all dumped you?”

  “Not right away.” Misery crossed his face.

  Damn. Becca felt like a shit for causing him any pain. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so…”

  “Bitchy?”

  “Sure, we’ll go with that.” She pushed her bangs off her forehead.

  “I really do like your hair color,” he said, regarding it. Admiring it.

  Warmth poured through Becca so quickly, she started to sweat again. The last time she’d felt this flustered was in tenth grade when the football captain had accidentally shoved her into a locker and blurted, “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

  It wasn’t his apology, but the way he’d said it. As though he’d actually considered her a human being. Not an inanimate object.

  Eric seemed unable to focus on anything except her. Not even the weird sounds pouring from the other rooms distracted him. Was his attention real or simply part of his innate genetic charm?