I hate it that since I first met him, I’ve wanted to do this. Even in my darkest moments, there was still the curiosity and the strange, perverse desire to feel him, my nemesis.
I continue to stroke his wing, transfixed. The black feathers are disarmingly soft. I’ve known that from past brush-ups with them, but it still surprises me.
I stare at the black feathers as I run my fingers over them. “These are … beautiful,” I say.
My eyes meet his. Something moves across his expression.
He’s right, I have been dancing around the truth of us.
Never looking away, Thanatos unbuckles one of his shoulder guards, and lets it fall to the ground. Then he removes the other, the armor landing with a heavy clank. His breastplate is next, then his vambraces. Though he appears calm, I can see his fingers working frenziedly to undo the fastenings.
My hands move to his chest. The moment my palms sink against his pecs, I feel him jerk. His gaze flashes to mine, and I see the need in his eyes.
Turning back to his arm guards, he rips the rest of it off, buckles snapping and leather tearing. He tosses it all aside.
My hands smooth down his torso to the edges of his shirt. Thanatos reaches for the black material, and I can already tell he intends to yank it off with just as much savagery as his armor.
“Wait,” I say, gripping his shirt tighter. “Let me do this.” My cheeks flush as I speak.
Death pauses, then releases the cloth, settling back in his seat, though his eyes are a little wary.
I pull up on the dark material. I expect it to catch against his wing roots, but the material slides easily by. I notice then the slits at the back of the shirt that make room for his wings; they slice down the shirt all the way to the bottom hem.
Death is so tall, even sitting, that I have to rise to lift the black shirt over his head and off his arms. Once it’s free, I drop it among the growing pile of discarded items.
I glance down, at Thanatos, at his bare chest and glowing tattoos.
Do it, he’d told me. Kiss and touch and take.
I lower myself once more on his lap, feeling his eyes on me. My own attention moves to his torso.
If Death’s face is that of a tragic hero, his chest is that of a warrior. Thick bands of muscle curve around his frame, his torso tapering down to a narrow waist.
I reach out again, this time to trace one of his glowing tattoos. My finger tingles a little, as though there’s magic just in tracing the symbol’s shape.
Thanatos makes a pained noise at the contact.
“More, Lazarus,” he whispers.
I place both my hands on his skin, letting myself discover the shape of his shoulders and arms. I shiver a little. I’ve never been with someone who felt like this. He seems cut from stone.
I run a hand over his abdominal muscles, each one clearly defined. Soon, touching isn’t quite enough. I hadn’t been lying when I said I wanted to kiss his flesh.
I lean in. The moment my lips touch his skin, he groans.
He cups the back of my head, lightly holding me there against his skin. This close to him, he smells like the incense he burns from his torch, only now I have to wonder whether the smell came from the smoke itself, or whether it’s a more innate part of him.
My mouth trails over several of the glowing symbols.
I cannot believe I’m actually doing this.
I press another kiss to his flesh, this time, tonguing his skin just a little.
Death hisses out a breath. “Do not tell me we could’ve been doing this the whole time I chased you,” he says.
“We’ll never know,” I breathe against him.
He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “But I have you now,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. It sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself.
“You can touch me too,” I say. I mean, I know he already has been touching me, but there’s touching, and then there’s touching. I’m offering him the latter.
His eyes open, and he tips his head down to look at me. “Where?” he says, his voice scraped raw.
Ah, that’s right. He likes more literal answers.
I study those strange silver freckles in his irises. “Anywhere.”
He holds my stare for several seconds before his eyes drift down to the rest of me.
Thanatos moves his hand from my hair and trails his fingertips over my cheekbones then down to my jaw.
“How I’ve wanted to hear those words fall from your lips,” he admits, his voice desire-roughened.
Despite his words, he’s holding back. I can practically feel his body trembling with his restraint, and I imagine it’s because the places he wishes to touch are hidden.
I press my palm over his hand, which still cups my face. For a moment I lean into the touch. When I feel the cool brush of metal against my flesh I pull his hand away to inspect what it is.
On his finger he wears that strange ring, the one with the coin fixed to it bearing the face of Medusa.
I move his ring back and forth. “What’s the story behind this?” I ask. By now I’ve discovered that everything adorning the horseman has a deeper meaning.
“Charon’s obol,” Death says, distracted. When my brows furrow, he clarifies, “A coin of the dead.”
“Why would the dead need coins?” I ask.
“They don’t. It’s merely one of the gifts I’ve been given over the centuries.”
“Who gave it to you?” I ask, my voice carefully light.
It doesn’t work.
Thanatos arches a brow. “Why do you care, Lazarus? They have long since moved on.”
I stare levelly back at him. “Now you’re the one dancing with your words.”
Death gives me a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I can recall the shape of their soul, the person who gave me this coin holds no more meaning to me than anyone else … except for you.” His gaze is intense as he says this last part.
“I have known no one as intimately as I know you,” he continues. “No one. I cross paths with some individuals over and over again during their lives, but I cannot know the living. Not like this.”
Not as a living, breathing man.
The two of us stare at each other.
I don’t know who moves first, but our lips collide, the ring long forgotten. The kiss should feel like a lie. It should feel wrong, coerced—everything but what it does feel like.
Like brushing up against heaven.
My lips move hungrily over his. I knew he was yearning for this, I didn’t expect the reverse to be true as well.
Thanatos falls into the kiss with all the intensity I’ve come to expect from him. But just when I feel like his passion is going to consume us both, his hands move up to my cheeks, cradling my face. He slows his movements, and the kiss goes from passionate to intimate.
“My kismet,” he murmurs against my lips, “my Lazarus.”
I pinch my eyes at the endearments, wanting to shut this part out—the part where he slips his way under my skin and sinks into my bones.
“How can I make you like me as I like you?” he says in between strokes of his lips.
I would laugh if I didn’t find the thought so alarming.
I pull away and lean my head against his. “It’s not that simple.”
Our kiss might’ve ended there, but the horseman isn’t done with me. He peppers light kisses along my jaw, then my neck. He moves his mouth to my shoulder, his lips dragging over the skin. His fingers grasp the thin strap of my dress, and he pulls it away, his mouth sliding over my flesh.
Aren’t you tired of fighting?
His long ago words taunt me. I am tired, and not just of this battle between earth and whatever lies beyond.
I’m tired of pushing back against this attraction to him. I’m tired of my head overruling my heart. I’m tired of everything being so damned complicated when it doesn’t have to be.
This is the apocalypse. All rules have gone out the window.
>
So I lean forward, pressing my lips to his ear. “Touch me,” I demand. Only now, as I lean back, it’s me who reaches for the straps of my dress.
I’m not wearing anything under the dress, so when I pull them down, I expose my breasts.
Thanatos sucks in a breath, entranced, and then he’s gathering me to him, lifting me a little so that my chest is closer to his face. He does touch me then—just not with his hands.
His bows his head, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh above one of my breasts. He draws his teeth over the skin, and I can’t help the goosebumps that break out along my flesh.
I thread my fingers through his wavy hair, enjoying the silken strands, which are nearly as soft as his wings.
And now Death’s hand does come up to my other breast. He squeezes it lightly, his thumb gliding over my nipple, causing me to gasp.
Thanatos groans, leaning his forehead against my chest.
“My God, kismet, you feel better than words can tell.”
I tilt his head up, my eyes meeting his.
This is where I fall.
My lips crash against his. This isn’t like our other kisses. Maybe the change is from the carnality I’ve awoken in Thanatos, or maybe it’s my own. Either way, I’m stripped free of my inhibitions.
I grind wantonly against him, drinking up the guttural sounds he makes.
Thanatos grabs my hips, keeping that pressure between us.
“Lazarus.”
I can’t tell if he’s saying my name as an admonishment or as a plea. I’m not sure he can either. But his hands are pinning me in place, and his eyes are hazy with desire.
I grind against him again, more to goad him than anything else.
“What … is this sensation you have wrought from me?” he says, pulling away a little. He still holds my hips prisoner.
I flash him a sly smile. “Come on, Thanatos, you must have some idea.”
He closes his eyes and tips his head back. I see him swallow.
“Merciful God.” He opens his eyes. “But this isn’t sex.”
“No,” I agree, “it’s not.”
I lean forward, my lips inches from his. “You know of what humans do together. Do you still want that—with me?”
There is a moment, a single moment, where I feel exposed. He could reject me now, I have given him the power to—
“Always,” he says, his face brilliantly alive. “I will always want that with you.”
I smile at him again, though this one is genuine. It’s hard not to feel genuine when the horseman is so unapologetically so.
His eyes flash at the sight of my grin and he leans forward, capturing my mouth again. “Your smiles ensnare me, kismet.”
I kiss him back, still smiling like an idiot against his mouth. Thanatos begins falling into it, but no, no, no, I don’t intend for us to stay here.
Breaking off the kiss, I begin to slide off of the horseman. He catches me, and I can’t help the soft laugh that slips from my throat.
“Trust me, Thanatos, for this, you’ll want me off your lap.”
“I doubt it,” he says, his eyes stormy.
My hands move to his pants.
“These need to come down,” I say.
For the first time, Death appears alarmed. It’s that single look that dispels some of my own tension for what I’m about to do.
“Don’t be shy,” I tease.
“I am not shy,” he says, a little affronted. “What I have is yours.”
He’s making a lot of pretty pledges to me. I don’t know if I should be moved or alarmed.
Thanatos stands, his expression both curious and challenging as he lowers his pants and whatever lies beneath them.
His cock springs free, already hard—and large. Very, very concerningly large. It’s also adorned in the same markings as the rest of him. Holy shit. His maker put markings on his penis … and the rest of him, by the looks of it. More glowing glyphs cover his abdomen and run down his thighs.
Before Death can begin to remove his greaves and his boots and take his pants fully off, I place a hand on his shoulder and press him back down into his chair. I kind of like the idea of his pants keeping him pinned in place.
“Kismet, please tell me—”
My hands fall on each of Death’s inner thighs, and his words cut off, like a life drawn short.
My bravery has washed away; my heart is pounding a mile a minute. I am no seductress, and I feel my confident façade crumbling away.
I kneel.
One last breath before I cross that line I drew for myself a year ago.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I take his straining cock into my hand.
The action causes Thanatos to hiss in a breath.
“You can always tell me to stop,” I say, heat burning just beneath my skin.
My core throbs, and my nipples have tightened despite the fact that Death’s the one being touched. I’m turned on and embarrassed of the fact, and somehow that only seems to heighten it all.
I hold Death’s gaze. His cheeks are flushed, he still looks alarmed, but he also looks frenzied for more.
And he doesn’t say stop.
I give his shaft a pump.
He bucks helplessly against me.
“Lazarus,” he pants. “What are you—?”
“Relax,” I say soothingly. “This is the fun part.”
And then I lean forward and take him into my mouth.
Chapter 42
Sugar Land, Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
Thanatos nearly comes up off the seat. He looks thunderstruck.
That won’t do.
Gently I put a hand against his chest and push him back down.
“Lazarus,” he breathes, his voice pained. His chest is rising and falling fast. He looks frantic and bewildered, like he had no idea a human body could feel like this.
Has he never gotten himself off?
I pause, my mouth slipping from his cock.
“You can always tell me to stop,” I remind him.
“Never,” he says with all the conviction of a true believer.
The corner of my mouth curves up, then I take him back into my mouth. He groans, one of his hands making a fist on the armrest.
I can’t fit all of him into my mouth, so I fist the base of his shaft, pumping in time to the slide of my lips—up, down, up, down.
I take him as deep as I can. There’s not much finesse to what I do. To be honest, it’s all I can do to ignore my gag reflex and the dull ache in my jaw. Despite the discomfort, my pussy throbs for the horseman.
I glance up at him as his cock glides between my lips. Thanatos’s breathing has grown heavy and ragged. One of his hands is still fisted; the other one moves as though to touch me, but he draws it back, instead gripping the armrest for dear life.
I grab that hand of his and bring it to my hair.
You can still touch me, I want to tell him. My breasts, my face—anywhere. For now, it is yours.
Death’s fingers delve into my locks, his other hand moving to my head as well.
He stares down at me with wonder.
“What is—” He cuts off as another stroke of my mouth leaves him breathless. “What is this?”
I grin around his cock, and the sight causes a shudder to roll through him.
“The sight of you kneeling—between my legs—kismet,” he says roughly. “It is … erotic.” He says that last word as though discovering it for the first time.
I don’t respond, not when I’ve found a rhythm. I pick up my pace, and Thanatos is now matching me stroke for stroke. His fingers have tightened in my hair.
His movements grow frantic, his face pinched in what looks like agony as he stares down at me, his hands fisted in my hair.
“Lazarus, something is—” He swears. “Lazarus!” he bellows.
Hot jets of cum coat my mouth as he finds his release. I swallow it down, even as Thanatos keeps coming and c
oming, his body jerking with every thrust.
I can hear his harsh breaths as his thrusts slow. The man sounds like he met his maker. Almost reluctantly his hands slip from my hair.
My mouth slides down the length of his shaft once more, and then I release him, sitting back on my haunches, my breasts still exposed.
Death, normally so rigid and poised, is sprawled out in his seat, his chest rising and falling. He looks completely undone. He stares at me like I’m a specter.
I discreetly wipe the corner of my mouth, licking off a final bead of cum, and I push myself to my feet.
I hope I still look confident because on the inside, I am quaking.
I just went down on Death himself. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the crazy laugh that wants to bubble out of me.
I pull my dress back up, slipping my arms through the straps. Turning from the horseman, I grab a loaf of bread and the open bottle of wine. Then, casting him one last, heavy-lidded look, I retreat.
For once, I’m not fleeing the horseman. A conqueror doesn’t flee from their conquests, they do as they please. And right now, I please wine and bread and a bed where I can deal with this sharp throb between my legs.
“Lazarus!” Thanatos calls out to me, a hint of some new emotion in his voice.
“Goodnight,” I say over my shoulder.
Tonight was only the first real taste of what I have to offer. I plan to make this slow and excruciating. By the end of it, I intend to have the horseman wrapped around my finger—body, mind, and spirit.
For humanity, nothing else will do.
Chapter 43
Sugar Land, Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I’m not surprised to find the horseman pacing the next morning in the house’s living room. Death strides up and down a line of windows that overlook the backyard. Right now his back is to me, his wings opening and closing with agitation.
Around us, skeletal servants move through the rooms, carrying crates and other odds and ends.
“Good morning,” I say.
As soon as he hears me, Death goes preternaturally still—even his wings pause.
At last, he turns. His eyes first meet mine, then they slide down to my mouth—the same mouth that was wrapped around him last night. One of Death’s hands fist and I see his throat bob.
Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4) Page 23