Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 35

His lips are soft like satin. I don’t remember that from the last time I kissed him.

And like the last time I kissed him, Famine doesn’t immediately react. I think he must be shocked. The only reason the kiss continues at all is because I’ve nearly drunk my weight in booze, and my self-confidence is at an all-time high.

But then the Reaper’s lips do begin to move, and suddenly he’s returning the kiss with a passion that I’m struggling to match. He reaches out, catching me by the waist. With a deft yank he pulls me onto his lap.

I rearrange myself so that I end up straddling him. The horseman holds me tight against his body, his hands moving to my hips. All the while his lips devour mine.

I’m shocked to feel that beneath me, he’s hard. I’d seen his heated looks and I’d read the interest in his body language, but this is actual proof that Famine feels desire—and for me of all people.

My hands slide to his cheeks, cradling his face. It’s frightening how in this moment I can just sideline every evil deed he’s done. All because at the very root of him, there’s something that calls to me. Maybe it’s that kernel of kindness I’ve glimpsed. Maybe it’s his awfulness or his vulnerability. Maybe it’s nothing at all, and I’ve simply deluded myself that we’re alike.

Famine’s palms skim up my sides, his fingers pressing into the flesh of my back. All while his mouth works mine. He parts my lips, and I have a moment of surprise that he actually knows how to kiss—and how to kiss well.

How many women has the horseman been with?

Famine pulls away, his breathing ragged.

Why? His eyes seem to ask. Why did you kiss me?

My pulse speeds up.

Why indeed?

Because I like making poor choices, and you look like the worst one yet.

Despite my very real, very powerful desire to do much, much more with the horseman, I begin to get off of Famine. I’m trying my hand at self-restraint.

He catches my hips. “Leaving so soon?”

Now that he has me in his grip, it’s impossible to leave.

“I was indulging in my own curiosity.”

And if I give into this, then lines will be crossed tonight that I really, truly shouldn’t cross.

“Kissing you again was …” Bewitching. Intriguing. Addicting, “a mistake,” I say, trying to convince myself of that very fact.

I can still taste Famine on my tongue, and my lips are raw from the kiss, and all of it is addling my mind.

“It was a mistake,” he agrees. “Let’s make another and another. We can regret them all tomorrow.”

My eyebrows lift.

Is he serious?

I study his wicked, beautiful face. It’s one thing for me to give in to a handsome man in a moment of weakness. It’s another for this deity to test drive his human impulses on me. And while I want him, I’m not sure I want whatever fallout might come from this.

And there will be fallout.

But shit, I am curious. Fatalistically so.

“Everything will go back to the way it was tomorrow?” I say.

Famine gives me a look like he knows he’s already won. “It must.”

I take in his face, and after only a moment’s hesitation, I lean in, and the Reaper’s mouth is back on mine as though it never left.

And I give myself over to the sensation of it.

Now that I’m not holding back and he’s not holding back, it’s like a spark striking kindling, catching and burning and growing. And the two of us are being consumed by it all. I’m moving against him, my body wanting more—used to having more. What I’m unused to is not being in control of my desire.

As if to make a point, I break off the kiss.

Famine all but groans. “You’re thinking entirely too much, little flower.”

I give him a playful shove, even as I take in his bright, heavily lidded eyes and swollen lips.

I smile a little at that. “Have I told you that I’m starting to find your abrasiveness endearing?”

Famine frowns, but his eyes soften. I take his hand, deliberately threading my fingers between his. I pause as I stare at our entwined hands. Only a day ago the hand I’m holding was gone. Now I marvel at the sight of his fingers, strong and whole. They’re even a little calloused, odd as that may sound.

“They’re really just as they were,” I say.

My fingers move up to his wrist, and Famine watches me idly, letting me continue to explore him.

A bronze vambrace covers his forearm, vines and florets hammered into the metal. I tug at it.

“Can you take this off?” I ask.

Wordlessly Famine does as I ask, unfastening the armor and tossing it aside. I push up his sleeve, my eyes catching on the glowing green glyphs that ring Famine’s wrists.

I trace the markings, my finger tingling a little, like simply the act of making the shapes holds some power.

This is a wonder. I get the oddest sensation, like the universe is coursing through him, and I just touched the very edge of it.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

He mocked me for overthinking a minute ago, but now he seems starved for my thoughts.

“So many things,” I say.

“Enumerate them.”

“I think these look like shackles,” I say, turning his wrist back and forth as I stare at the markings, “but they’re beautiful and they remind me that you’re not human in the least, and I like that about you.” Quieter, I add, “To be honest, I like far too much about you.”

The alcohol has loosened my lips.

Famine stares at me with an unreadable expression. After a tension-filled second, he leans forward and grabs the back of my neck, pulling my lips back to his.

If I thought before we were a spark to kindling, it’s nothing compared to the raw intensity of us now. The Reaper’s fingers are tangling in my hair, catching on all sorts of knots as he angles me closer. I release his arm, my hands moving to either side of his face.

If he’s the universe, I feel like I’m entering it with this kiss.

He groans against me, and it’s the sexiest damn sound I’ve ever heard, mostly because I know how much it costs him, giving in to this strange human side of his.

His tongue sweeps against mine, and I can taste the alcohol on him.

This is a bad, bad idea.

I kiss him harder, uncaring. That light, airy feeling is back, like I might float away if he lets me go.

The truth is, bad idea or not, this feels right. Famine has seen my ugly, angry side, and I’ve seen his soft, vulnerable one. I’ve fought him, cursed his name, I’ve even tried to kill him. This seems like the last option left to us.

His hands move back to my waist, lingering there only for a moment before moving lower.

He grabs my hips and stands, lifting me in the process. The chair behind him knocks over, and my thigh bumps against the table, and hardly any of it registers as my arms wrap around his neck.

Famine carries me away from the table, and I think he might be taking me back to his room. At the thought, my core clenches.

But before we leave the room, the horseman pushes me up against a wall, pinning me in place. Famine catches my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

“Tonight, I want none of your pretty human tricks,” he warns.

I exhale, leaning back against the wall. The way he’s looking at me, I feel flayed wide open.

“You like my little tricks,” I say, breathless, a smile tugging at my lips.

He squeezes my jaw a little tighter. “I’m not one of your weak-willed clients. I don’t want your posturing. I want the raw, angry woman who tried to kill me. The same woman who saved me.”

My throat works. “I … don’t have a lot of experience being genuine,” I admit. I lost my virginity at The Painted Angel. I’ve only ever done this professionally.

“And I don’t have a lot of experience being human,” Famine says, “but right now both of us are going to fucking try.”

I don’t even have a moment to look shocked before the Reaper’s lips crash against mine once more, his mouth somehow both angry and hungry.

And then, like the tide, I’m dragged under.

Everywhere he touches, my skin feels alive. His leg comes between my thighs, pressing against my core as he kisses me. At the sensation, I gasp into his mouth.

I realize being genuine isn’t so hard after all. Not when you throb for the person devouring you.

My hands are in his hair, his silky, fine hair, and I’m lost in him.

At some point, he moves us away from the wall and carries me out of the dining room, past the thick knot of plants that have overtaken the estate’s main room. The Reaper kicks open the door to the courtyard, and then we’re outside.

The warm night air brushes against my skin. All around us, I can hear nocturnal creatures calling to one another, unaware that there’s an apocalypse going on in their midst.

I know I should wait to disrobe the horseman until we reach his room, but—maybe it’s the alcohol or the sexual tension, or fuck, maybe it’s simply the fact that this man actually knows how to work his lips—I don’t know, I’m simply impatient.

I reach for Famine’s armor, my hands meeting the hard metal of his breastplate. He lets my body slip through his hands so that he can grab the low-cut collar of my filmy dress—

Riiiip. He tears it clean down the middle, exposing me almost completely.

I guess I’m not the only one impatient.

I give the Reaper and his armor a hopeless look. “Well, that’s just not fair.”

A low laugh slips out of him, and it pulls a shiver from me.

With deft fingers he unfastens his armor, shucking it off piece by piece. Once he’s down to his shirt and pants, my lips are back on his, my bare flesh pressed against the black fabric still covering him.

I pull at it while I kiss him, and together the two of us hurriedly remove the last of his clothing.

Famine pulls me in close, and I revel in the feel of his naked skin against mine. He’s so much taller than me that he has to lift me up to better kiss me. My hands go to his shoulders, then slide to his biceps—

“Wait, wait,” I say, breaking off the kiss. “Put me down.”

The Reaper’s eyes are hazy, but he does as I say. Rather than staying in his arms, I back away from him.

His gaze narrows, and some of the desire clouding it now vanishes.

“What is it now?” he asks.

“I want to look at you,” I say.

“You want to look at me,” he repeats tonelessly.

My gaze sweeps over him, from that beautiful, wicked face that I’ve all but memorized to the less familiar parts of his body. His shoulders are pleasingly wide, and then there’s those glowing tattoos that ring his neck and upper chest like some sort of thick necklace. The pale light of them illuminates the plants around us.

My gaze moves lower, over a muscled torso that God just gave him because for whatever reason Famine has to go around looking like a babe while he kills us all. His torso tapers off to a slim waist and—

This is a well-endowed man.

“Well?” he says. “Is your primitive human brain satisfied?” he says.

I flash him a wolfish smile, approaching him once more. “You’re really pretty,” I say.

“Pretty?” he says derisively.

I walk into his arms. “It’s a compliment.”

He grimaces at that.

The horseman scoops me up and carries me forward. But rather than taking me to his rooms, a few steps later the Reaper sets me down on the moist earth. He spreads my legs so that he can kneel between them, his gaze moving over my own body.

Without giving me any sort of indication, Famine leans forward and presses a kiss to my lower abdomen. From there, his lips skim up my belly. His mouth pauses at the scars on my stomach, the ones his men gave me.

“Forgive me,” he says, so softly I almost miss it.

I swallow. I hadn’t thought the horseman would regret any action of his.

My eyes find his. “It’s in the past.”

He sits up a little, placing a hand on my scars even as he searches my face. “I think you are remarkably brave,” he says, “and your compassion is uncommon and admirable. I owe you my life twice over, and that is no little thing.

“And, for what it’s worth,” he adds, “you’re also pretty. Excessively so.”

I feel my face heat from all the praise. “Why are you telling me this?”

His eyes are steady on mine. “Because you are human and I imagine you like compliments far more than I do. And for whatever insufferable reason I want to give you many.”

My heart begins to pound loudly.

“Now,” he says, a sly smile curving along his lips as he drapes himself over me, “enough of this.”

He punctuates the thought by recapturing my lips. His mouth is demanding and everything about the kiss feels intimate.

I wrap my legs around him. He’s hard and ready, but rather than jumping right to sex, he begins to move down my body, placing kisses as he goes.

His hands move to my breasts, his thumbs running over my nipples.

I gasp out a sound as Famine moves lower and lower—past my belly button, past my pelvis …

He stops kissing me long enough to spread my legs wide open. I think he’s just looking and admiring me the same way that I was admiring him earlier, but then he leans in to my pussy—

Fuck, wait.

I catch him by the hair. “You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t do that,” I say, my voice breathless.

Oh God, I need to tell him about the grittier parts of having sex with a former prostitute. This could be a deal breaker.

“Why not.” It’s not even a question. My words have clearly not even begun to persuade him. He begins to dip down again.

“Wait!” I rush out, stopping him once more.

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly shy?” He looks vastly amused at that thought.

Amused and impatient.

For a man who has zero respect for sex, he’s sure eager to have some.

I swallow.

Oh God, how am I supposed to address this? Most of my clients just know.

“I’ve been with a lot of people,” I say.

He just raises his eyebrows, like he doesn’t see the relevancy. “And?”

I lick my lips, my heart thundering.

“I don’t know … what sort of … diseases I might have.”

I’ve had bouts of various ailments. Nothing that has stuck around, but sometimes with these things, vanished doesn’t necessarily mean gone.

Famine’s fingers drum against my skin, and my heart is in my throat.

“So, you’re worried that I’ll catch something from you?” he says, scrutinizing me.

My pride lay in shambles on the floor, but I nod, feeling very, very young and inadequate. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

Famine’s fingers dig in. “That is oddly … touching of you to worry about me, but for the love of your vengeful God, can I please kiss your pussy now?” Even as he speaks, he leans back in and I have to catch him again by the hair.

He sighs, even as he tilts his face to me. “What now?”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I ask—because I’m not sure that he does.

“I cannot catch diseases,” the Reaper says. “Now, will you unhand me?”

He can’t catch diseases.

He can’t catch diseases.

I release his hair.

Famine rests his forearms on my inner thighs. “Thank you,” he says.

And then he leans in and gives me a very different kind of kiss.