Filthy Beast (Filthy Fairy Tales #1) Read online

  I stand in the glass enclosure of my shower, cold water assaulting me from every direction, even the ceiling. I fist my shaft, intending to rub out the desire, the absurd longing I feel for the woman walking around my guest room right now. I tug it hard, almost angrily, stopping just short of real pain. My breath speeds up as I jerk it roughly, up and down, twisting my palm over the head with each stroke. In my mind, I picture her face with her lips parted enough to slide the head of my cock between them. I imagine her breath coming in shallow little pants as she wraps her soft hand around me.

  I wonder if she knew how seductive she looked in her work photo. Probably not. She has a fresh, innocent quality to her. Nothing like my fucked-up self.

  In my fantasy, she’s here in the shower with me, her generous curves on display for me in all their naked glory. Her large breasts are full and heavy, just begging me to come all over them. I can’t help but wonder what color her nipples are. Probably a dark pink, like her plump lips. I moan as I throw my head back and my hand speeds up, imagining her mouth surrounding me in a tight, wet heat. She moans, loving it. Her hand dips down between her legs, playing with herself. It’s the thought of her getting off on sucking my dick that tips me over the edge. I come with a low groan, spraying the shower wall with my seed. My knees are shaky, and I put a hand out to steady myself. I don’t think I’ve come that hard in a long time, maybe ever. And all because of Olivia Evans. Maybe her presence will help, just not in the way she’s expecting.

  I clean up quickly before turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. I should feel refreshed, but my skin still feels flushed, too hot. I rummage through my medicine cabinet for my thermometer. Even two years after the crash, I have to be vigilant about maintaining my body temperature. As a burn victim, I’m more susceptible to fever and infection than most people. Victim. Now there’s a laughable idea. How can I be a victim when I got nothing, more or less, than what I deserved?

  I check the digital readout on the thermometer. It’s a little high, but nothing outside my normal range. I look down at my cock, which is still hard. Looks like my fevered state is entirely due to Ms. Olivia Evans. I sigh as I step back in front of the security monitors.

  A quick glance tells me Ms. Evans is still in her room, though she’s changed into her pajamas. I have a momentary twinge of regret that I didn’t get to see her undress. Followed by a mental head smack. Jesus, what is wrong with me, playing voyeur to an innocent young girl? Have I really become such a degenerate? But I can’t bring myself to turn off the monitor.

  She’s slowly unpacking her bags now, and I watch her, mesmerized by her graceful movements. I rub a hand over my face, scratching lightly at the ridged skin on my jaw. Why am I torturing myself like this? It doesn’t matter how much I want her. Even if she could get past my monstrous appearance, I’m a certified asshole. She’ll never be able to see past that. She’ll never see the man I am deep inside. If there even is a better man deep inside. Most days, I doubt it myself. And the more I watch her without her knowing, like some sick Peeping Tom, the more I’m certain there isn’t. I’m fucking irredeemable.

  5

  OLIVIA

  Curiosity gets the best of me as I stray down the hallway in front of my bedroom marked with several expensive looking paintings. Adele made it very clear that I was to stay clear of the west wing of the house, but she didn’t say that I couldn’t explore other parts of it.

  I pause as one of the paintings catch my attention. It’s the naked form of a woman spread across what appears to be a bed of flowers. At a closer glance, I realize her hands and feet are bound by vines and between each thread are smaller flowers. She almost looks like she’s part of the earth beneath her. The painting is something you’d expect to see in an art history class, but the subtle sexual undertones tell me that you won’t find it in some boring textbook. I shouldn’t be surprised to see something like this hanging in Declan’s house. The words in his novels conjure even more explicit images than these.

  I sigh inwardly at the realization that it’s been a week since I’ve been here, and I’ve yet to see my client. This house is so massive that he could be anywhere. There have to be at least twenty different rooms on this floor, maybe more. Feeling a little defeated, I make my way downstairs, following the sound of voices to the kitchen. I find Adele arranging things on a tea tray and talking with a man I haven’t met before. At first, I think it’s my client and my heart races. But when I enter the room, he turns, and I realize that it can’t be him. The man in front of me is maybe sixty, his hair and bushy mustache more gray than black, and his face is lined with years of laughter. If his age hadn’t given him away, the smile in his eyes as he greets me confirms for me that he can’t be Declan Hart.

  “Welcome to the Beast’s lair,” he says, wiggling his thick eyebrows.

  Adele smacks him on the arm, but she’s smiling. “You hush, Louis.”

  He shrugs, turning back to the stove and stirring something in a frying pan. “It’s true. The man makes Mussolini look like a kitten.”

  “And yet we’re still here,” Adele says, looking thoughtful. “What does that really say about him? Or us, for that matter?”

  “Stockholm Syndrome,” Louis says, winking at me. “Make sure you don’t fall for it, too.”

  I take the opportunity to introduce myself, and he shakes my hand. “You hungry, Olivia?” he asks.

  I take a peek at the contents of the pan. Egg whites with spinach and mushrooms. I glance at the tray Adele is putting together. Half a grapefruit, tea, and orange juice. I wrinkle my nose. This is why Declan must look so good. “Isn’t there any fat in this house?”

  Don’t get me wrong. I eat healthy for the most part. I love fruit and veggies and seafood, and I’ve even been known to indulge in a smoothie for lunch now and then. But breakfast? Breakfast is my eat-whatever-I-want jam. Pancakes, French toast, biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs Benedict, bacon, and sausage. Mornings were made for delicious, hip-widening carbs and fats. There is no shame in my morning eats game.

  Louis grins as he plates the omelet. “My kind of woman.”

  Adele frowns slightly as she sets the plate on the tea tray. “Perhaps you and I can go to the market later,” she suggests. “We have only doctor-approved foods here.”

  My face falls, and Louis knocks his shoulder into mine. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. I’ll work something out for you this morning. It’s not every day I get to cook breakfast for such a beauty.”

  I smile at him as a blush spreads across my cheeks.

  “Louis isn’t usually here in the morning, but I thought it would be a good idea to have him come in the mornings now that you’re here.”

  “I love to cook,” Louis says with a wink. “Maybe one day Declan will actually eat my food without needing to reheat it.”

  Adele laughs, playfully tapping Louis on the shoulder.

  “Adele, when can Mr. Hart see me today?” I ask, turning to the housekeeper. I’m determined to see him today. I need to know what kind of shape the second part of his manuscript is in.

  She purses her lips. “I’ll ask, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you,” she says as she leaves the room.

  I follow her out into the hallway. “Why do you say that?” I ask. “Is he not okay with me staying here?”

  She shakes her head. “No, no, dearie. It’s fine that you’re here. It’s just that his writing process is a little...unusual.”

  I frown. “That’s okay. We can work around an odd schedule or—”

  But she shakes her head again. “He’s stubborn, dearie. I don’t think he’ll change his mind.”

  I straighten my shoulders, pulling myself up to my full height. I’m five-eight, so I practically tower over the tiny older woman in front of me. “Well, I’m stubborn, too. And I need to speak with him so we can get this novel back on track.”

  She frowns again. “Olivia, I think there’s something very important you should know.”

  My e
yes snap up at the concern in Adele’s tone. She rounds the corner pulling me to the other side of the room, just out of Louis’s earshot.

  “There’s something you should know if you plan to continue to stay here and help Declan finish his book.”

  I look at her with confusion.

  “What is it?” I ask, glancing down at her shaking hands.

  “Two years ago, Declan was in an accident.”

  “Accident? Is he okay? Why didn’t we hear about this?”

  “Declan’s a very private person. I’ll let him tell you the details of what happened. I do want you to know that he suffers from his disability. It’s affected everything, including his writing.”

  That’s why he’s avoiding me? His accident could explain why he hasn’t finished his manuscript and because of his injuries, he’s too proud to say so.

  “Is he not able to write?” I ask.

  I cringe at the realization that my question isn’t the most tactful one.

  “Physically, yes. Mentally, well, he’s having a bit of trouble as you’ve noticed.”

  As much as I want to keep hearing about Declan, Adele excuses herself when she realizes it’s almost lunchtime. The tray with tea and mini sandwiches rattles slightly in her hands, and I notice that she’s straining to hold it up.

  “Why don’t I bring the tray up to him,” I say, taking it from her hands. “If he asks, you can tell him I insisted.”

  She shoots me a rueful smile, taking the tray back. “It’s best if I handle him. I know his moods better than you.”

  Adele turns to look at me from the top of the stairs. “Besides, he’s asked that you stay out of that part of the house.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that where he’s hiding all the dead bodies?” I joke.

  “No,” she says quietly as she ascends the stairs, “but it’s haunted all the same.”

  * * *

  It’s past midnight when I wake from my restless night of sleep. My brown hair is matted to my face, and I realize I’ve been sweating buckets, apparently. Dreams plagued my mind. Nightmares really. Nightmares of the day I lost my mother. I haven’t dreamt of her in so long, but my current situation must be why. I only ever seem to dream of her now when I’m stressed. I hate that my last memory of her is watching her gasp for breath in her hospital bed while the nurse fumbled to tell me in technical terms that she was dying. Those aren’t the kinds of memories you want to keep.

  After fighting for several minutes to fall back asleep, I give up with a heavy heart and dress to roam Declan’s mansion. Despite Adele’s warning about staying out of the west wing of the house, I find myself heading that way. If Declan Hart doesn’t want me on this side of the house, it must be because he lives on this side of the house.

  I tiptoe down the hall on bare feet, frowning as I go. I can see what Adele means when she says it’s haunted here. It’s darker than the rest of the house, for one. The windows—twins to the ones on the east side where my room is—are covered by heavy blackout blinds, and most of the lights are turned off. I fumble along in the gloom until I get to a door. I press my ear up to it. When I don’t hear anything on the other side, I open it cautiously.

  The room that greets me looks like a command center, with two computer monitors along one side of one long desk. There’s an open door on the other end of the room, and I get a glimpse of an enormous bed with dark, masculine linens. I must be in the master suite. It’s deserted. I can’t tell if I’m relieved not to be caught spying or disappointed that I didn’t run into my client. Although I’m not sure what I would say to him at this hour. I’m still dying to meet the great Declan Hart, but it feels like I’m chasing a ghost.

  I step closer to the desk, my eyes roaming the first screen. On one side there’s a camera showing me a live feed of every room, though some of the camera angles seem to be switched off. I freeze when I realize that the camera feed in my bedroom is front and center. The idea that Declan Hart has been watching me makes me feel hot and itchy, and I’m not sure whether I like the idea or not.

  Then again, I’m spying at the moment, so who am I to talk?

  My eyes flicker over to the second screen and to my surprise, a document sits open with the cursor blinking at the end of an unfinished sentence. I blink in disbelief at the realization that I’m looking at the second half of Declan’s manuscript. Excitement hits me as I plop down in a nearby chair and scroll up until I get to the beginning of the document. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but it doesn’t stop me from swallowing up every word on each page.

  She watches with anticipation as he drags his tongue over her lips slipping his tongue into her wet cunt.

  My cheeks burn in arousal. It’s good. Really good. I’d only make a few minor tweaks, change some of the phrasings to make it a little clearer. Right from the opening line, the second half of the story grips me. I’m so wrapped up in the two characters that when the story suddenly ends, I can’t hold back a groan of frustration. It isn’t finished. There’s at least ten more chapters worth of story to be told. And it was just getting incredibly good. The two characters were about to say those three little words. I Love You. Talk about a major cliffhanger. I have a love-hate relationship with cliffhangers. Declan seems to be the master of them. He’s always leaving me on the edge. In more ways than one.

  “I admire your dedication to your job, dear,” a voice says in a gentle tone. “But this is not a good idea.”

  I spin around in the chair, my face burning with guilt and shame. Adele looks down at me with a knowing smile.

  “I’m sorry, I just—”

  She holds up her frail hands to silence me. “It’s all right, Olivia. I understand that you have a job to do. And I sympathize. I do. Which is why I won’t tell him about this.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully, and I bite my lip, wondering what she means by that. “But he’s earned the nickname Beast for a reason. We need to leave before he catches you in here,” she continues.

  I nod, grateful that she’ll keep this a secret. Adele leads me out of the west wing back to my own room.

  “So you read the new book?” Adele watches me keenly, as though waiting for my reaction.

  I nod. “What there is of it, anyway.”

  She frowns. “Well, what do you think of it?”

  I hedge, not sure I want to share all my thoughts with her. What if she lets something slip to her employer?

  “I have to admit the new story is...” I trail off, trying to think of the right word.

  “It’s...?” Her expression is keen like she’s dying to know what I think.

  My resolve softens. She obviously cares about his work. “It’s amazing,” I admit.

  She beams. “That’s wonderful! I hope Richard will like it, too.”

  Without thinking, the words come flying out of my mouth like word vomit.

  “Richard hardly has time to read manuscripts anymore. He’s always busy with other things....” I trail off.

  She narrows her eyes. “What? I was under the impression Richard is Declan’s editor.”

  I bite my lip. Shit. I don’t want to admit that I’ve been doing his work, but I guess I’m in too deep now.

  “Richard doesn’t actually edit his books.”

  Her brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean? Who does it then?”

  I take a deep breath. “Me.”

  Her eyes widen in shock. “But I thought you were the assistant?”

  “I am. But Richard is...” I pause, trying to think of a diplomatic way to put it. “Busy. Sometimes I help him out with editing duties.”

  She frowns. “How long has this been going on?”

  I shrug. “For a year and a half, or so...”

  Adele flashes me a smile that tells me some very suspicious wheels are turning in her mind. She almost looks gleeful at my confession, and it fills me with a sense of foreboding.

  “Oh, this is perfect. Just perfect.”

  I frown. “Why is it perfect?”


  I do Richard’s job for an assistant’s salary. Nothing about that is perfect to me.

  Her hands flutter, and she beams at me. “You both need each other. You’re both... Oh, this is just perfect,” she repeats.

  “Adele, you can’t tell him this.” As I stand, I realize just how tiny she is. Even with no shoes on, I tower over her. I don’t even think she clears five feet.

  She scowls. “Now, why wouldn’t you want credit for your work?”

  “I don’t need word getting around that my boss isn’t doing his job,” I say. “The company’s reputation will be ruined.” And they’d blackball me, I silently add. I’d be fired for sure if I spread rumors like that. I’d never be able to work in the publishing industry again. And I need this job. Not just for the money. It’s a part of who I am.

  She sighs. “Well, all right, dearie. I won’t tell. In the morning, I’ll speak with Declan about working with you. I know he’s not going to listen, but—”

  “You’ll try to get him to see me?” I say, finishing her sentence.

  She nods in agreement.

  “I have to ask—how did you get started at your job?”

  “I was offered a job at StoneHaven Publishing after an internship. I would have taken any job because I needed the money to help care for my father, but I was fortunate enough to find something I love doing.”

  Even if the pay isn’t that great.

  Adele looks at me with a sympathetic smile. I don’t often talk about my dad with anyone. It was hard enough losing my mother. Now I’m losing him, too. His early onset of Alzheimer’s came fast and ugly, quickly wiping out both his memory and his savings.

  “I’m assuming Richard hired you?” Adele asks, obviously sensing a need for a change of topics.