Page 179 of Dead Vengeance

My chest hits the table, he sinks two fingers deep in my ass and five in my hair, which I keep a little longer now, possibly mostly for this purpose.

Morning sex with Liam. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t slightly set this up. But I still protest, over and between my myriad expletives from the pleasure he’s driving into me, “You know, I hear beds are a whole thing.”

“Overrated!” he snarls, then he drives the point home, both figuratively and literally.

Great, throbbing exhalations rack out of the pair of us, as though we’d waited years for this, when it’s been maybe twelve hours. But table sex! Breakfast sex! Liam being all commanding and hot first thing in the morning sex!

Of course, like the sweetheart he is, that show lasts all of a few minutes before kisses land on my shoulder, my neck, my cheek. His hands are exploring my body, coating me with avocado oil. And he’s telling me, now and for the billionth time, “I love you, Archer. I love you so, so much.”

I lean back for a kiss on his lips. “I love you too, Liam. Always. Forever.”

His fist tightens in my hair, and he holds me there, kissing me, wrecking me, enjoying me.

It’s incredible to me that even this sort of unrestrained, spur-of-the-moment sex should be so charged with love and passion. But it always is. Every moment of my life with Liam is, from the biggest things to the smallest things.

We’ve investigated an abundance of wrongdoings together. Put right so many wrongs of the past that I’m beginning to lose count. I’ve certainly lost track of the cash we’ve pulled in, be it ancient coin, antiques, or god knows what else. And all through it, every step of the way, we make each other stronger, happier, richer in all the ways that matter.

And fuck, he’s hot. And so damn good in bed. Or at the table. Or anywhere but the pentagram…

“My one perfect love,” he whispers, wrapping his hand around my dick. He lets out the same broken, ravaged cry I do. Sex magic continues to be the standard by which all other physical sensations will be judged, and thank goodness we’re as solid as we are, because this…

Well, it’s magic.

Liam works us into a delicious frenzy. The same try-to-hold-on, cannot-hold-on, oh-god-my-beautiful-solid-timber-floors-need-cleaning-again-but-fuck-it rapture.

It’s worth it. Worth it as he rips my head back, smothers my cries with kisses. Worth it when his forehead hits my shoulder, when his thumb clenches over my slit, and when he shouts my name, slamming into me one last time, forcing both our orgasms at exactly the same magical moment.

“Fuck, Archer,” he rasps, voice all sexy and hoarse. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” The next kiss is soft and lingering while he lets his hands wander down and down, wrapping around the curves of my ass. “And have I ever mentioned…” He pulls back ever so slowly, both of us insanely sensitive after his thorough use. “Fuck, you look good full of my cum.”

I should protest—should stop him. But I’m wilfully powerless. He digs his fingers into my ass, enjoying the view, then slams into me, once, twice, thrice, spilling hot cum all down my legs, all over the floor, then slapping a wet, cum-coated hand down on my ass. “That’s better.”

I tilt my head to enjoy the sensation of his teeth on my neck. “Is it really?” I laugh out.

He ignores the question, turning me, pulling me against him for a fresh flurry of kisses, his body moving against mine with so much passion you’d never imagine he’d just finished. “You’d better get out of this apron fast. Because if I catch you in it again, you’re definitely going to be late for lunch.”

I don’t doubt him. Being a necromancer has done things to Liam. Hot, sexy things. If I thought he was voracious before… It’s been the gift that keeps on giving.

By the time I’m done showering, Liam has tidied everything. The place is spotless, and he’s busy prepping potatoes and chatting away with Edgar, feeding him all the choice pieces of the feast we spend the next few hours preparing. It’s perfect bliss until Liam has to slip away to get himself ready.

By the time the oven bell warns that it’s time for the penultimate glaze of the ham, the door knocker throws its heavy beat through the living room.

Liam dashes down the stairs, fresh from his shower, ripping the door open. “Mum!” he exclaims. “Dad!”

My parents giggle like school children. They love when he calls them that. They’ve made no secret of their approval of him, and he plays it up relentlessly.

“Hello, Mum.” I drop a kiss on her cheek and lean in for a cuddle.

Dad pecks a kiss on my cheek. “It’s been too long.”

“It’s only been a month,” I chuckle out.

“Too long,” he reiterates. He’s wary of all the time I spent scared of travelling to see them, locking myself away here at the farm. When I was scared of what I’d find out there, or what they’d have to deal with here. But everything’s easier since Liam. He’s every inch the family man, and he makes sure I see as much of them as I can.

Liam takes their coats like a perfect houseboy, pouring out champagne, showing off the canapes I baked (sans apron, just in case), while I rush back to the kitchen for the basting.

“Archer!” comes the appalling shock in my ear.

I fumble the basting brush, leaving a splatter all across the bench. “Simon, must you just pop into reality without warning?” I snap at him. “And where is—”