Page 142 of Famine

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,muchmore 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 impossibletoleave.

“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 therewillbe fallout.

But shit, Iamcurious. 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.

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