Page 193 of Famine

His fingers are back on my clit, and somehow his heavy, punishing strokes deepen.

Once again my orgasm begins to build, coiling up inside of me—

He removes his hand.

“Say it.”

I’m not proud of it, but I think a sob slips out.

“Stop toying with me,” I say.

“Flower, youinventedthis game. Now, say it.” He’s still moving lightly in and out of me, but he’s withholding his powerful thrusts—the ones that will make me come.

“You are the devil.”

“Nope,” Famine responds smoothly. “He’s nicer than me.”

The horseman’s hand moves back to my clit, and it begins all over again. I’ve been having so much fun baiting the Reaper that I didn’t realizehehad been baitingme.

I exhale, then arch against him.

“You’re not a great lover—” I begin.

Already, I can feel Famine reacting, ready to torment me some more.

“—you’re the best lover I’ve ever had.”

It’s easy to admit because it’s the truth. Everything about the sex we have is entangled—our limbs, our wills, our very personalities.

I feel his breath at my back. Finally, he kisses the juncture between my shoulder and neck.

“Thank you, flower,” he says. “You’re not half bad yourself.”

The fuck?

But then his adept fingers find my clit and he’s driving into me and touching me and touching me and it’s impossible to fight—

I cry out as my orgasm goes off, lashing through me. Famine continues to stroke my clit, stretching my climax out. But as he does so, I feel his body tighten. And then, with a groan, he empties himself into me, pistoning in and out until he’s spent.

Famine finally withdraws, and then all of that intensity transforms into something that is gentle. His palms glide over my arms and he kisses my shoulders and my scarred back.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against me.

I flip over and touch his cheek, my thumb rubbing against his skin. He turns his head to kiss my palm.

I can’t believe I get this man. Or deity. Not even sure at this point what he is.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Famine says, staring down at me.

I swallow, looking back up at him. “This is too good to be true.You’retoo good to be true.”

He laughs at that. “Too good to be true? You wound me, flower. I haven’t built a reputation of violence and destruction to be so easily complimented.”

After a moment, he asks, “Are you still scared of this bed?”

I furrow my brows. He remembers my hesitation?

“I was never scared,” I admit.

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