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Holy shit. Death just spat on me.
He keeps running his cock back and forth, the sound so slick and so lewd. Then he pushes in slightly, testing me, perhaps wondering if I’ll object to this.
But I don’t. I try to make myself relax instead, curious as to what this will feel like, wanting him everywhere he can go.
“Oh, you’re trying to be a good girl now,” he says, keeping my wrists in place. “Hoping it will win you some favors?”
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he squeezes himself inside me.
Oh. My. God.
“Fuck, Hanna,” he says through a moan, his fingers squeezing my wrists together even harder. “And I thought you couldn’t get any tighter.”
His words trail off into a gasp. I can’t even breathe. Can’t even think. I feel so impossibly full and entwined with him that I’m not sure where he ends and I begin.
Before, Death was moving with precision, controlling every single movement. Now I feel the control melt away. His breath is thickening, his pace is picking up. The way he slams his hips into my ass, making the desk move, diving deeper inside me, the primal, guttural sounds coming from his lips, I know he’s getting closer to losing all control.
So am I. He keeps pounding me, in and out, faster, deeper, bringing me to the edge, wires inside me stretching and stretching and ready to snap, and yet I can’t come.
It’s pure torture.
But not for him.
I’m trapped where I am. I can’t move but I wish I could just to see the expression on his face, a look I’ll never get tired of. To see this mighty God of Death succumb to pure pleasure is my new religious experience, my body his altar.
He’s unraveling faster now. There’s pain where the desk cuts into my hips, from how my arms are yanked back behind me, and yet that pain is all worth it when I hear those quick little breaths and the slap of his balls as he drives into me, feel the sweat from his body dropping on my skin.
He sounds so wild and beautiful and raw.
When Death comes, he comes hard. His hips stutter against my body and a low, animalistic groan fills the air, a cry that reverberates in my bones. I feel him pump and spill into me, the once frantic thrusts now growing slow and lazy as he finishes.
He lets out a shaking exhale and lets go of my hands. My shoulders burn from arms being held back like that and I flop against the desk. He places a large, hot palm at my lower back, then carefully pulls himself out of me, his breathing heavy.
I hear him clear his throat, swallow. Maybe he’s speechless.
“Well,” I say, inhaling deeply, “I guess most wedding nights end with the groom not able to make the bride come.”
I pause. Wait.
“I can make you come with a single lick of my tongue, a touch of my fucking fingertip,” he rumbles at me, his defenses up. “I wasn’t letting you come, there’s a fucking difference.”
I’m glad he can’t see the knowing smile on my face. “Whatever you say.”
He lets out a growl of determination, just as I thought he would, and in seconds he buries his face behind me, mouth on my cunt.
I yelp at the assault, his tongue passing hard over my clit. He’s no liar. One lick and I’m coming in an instant.
“Oh my god!” I scream, my back arching sharply as the orgasm tears through me, my entire upper body lifting off the desk like I’ve been possessed. I’m seeing stars, my vision blurring, the world spinning, and I’m writhing and bucking beneath his relentless mouth, coming again and again and again. It’s like I’ve had a million orgasms stored inside and they’re all coming out at once.
My fingernails have dug circles into the desk by the time my body finally starts to still. I feel completely wiped, like I’m a clean slate now, like I’ve slipped back into the past, back into those nights with Death when I’d dream all day about him. About how he can make me feel this way.
And that’s when it hits me. I’ve been protesting and kicking against the idea of being his wife, of marrying him, of having to hole up in Shadow’s End as the Goddess of Death. I’ve been clinging to my past life, to a past version of myself. But, taking my father out of the picture, my love for him and the need to make sure he’s okay, I actually like being here with Death. Not at the bottom of the oubliette, not as the subject of his distrust and scorn. But as his queen.
It doesn’t make any sense and yet…I think it’s meant to be.
Or maybe that’s the orgasms talking.
