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Gritting my teeth, I heave a sigh of resignation when it becomes evident that human penises are not controlled by will. No matter how much I wish for this state of arousal to go away, it simply does not.
Too few choices left, I fasten my robe closed and face Morgan before she discovers my predicament and uses it against me with those soft eyes and pleading lips.
I will not give in, I tell myself, forcibly trying to forget how her mouth felt against mine upon meeting her, or everything else about her that makes me throb.
“Passed the time?”
“Yes,” I grumble irritably. “I expected more. No one relevant died.”
She gives me a look of exasperation and rolls her eyes. “Not everything is about death, Grimm.”
I glance down at her, contemplating what to say next. I could tell her how wrong she is, but I do not wish to argue with this human. She is fickle. One minute she touches me, the next she withdraws—no doubt confused by how she thinks she can trap me with this human emotion called love. Didn’t I already tell her it was impossible for a reaper to fall for a human?
Morgan is not the only creature with this bizarre trait. All humans are fickle. Even George from the film sways in his convictions, one moment wishing for death, the next full of life. Humans only see the small things, believing their puny lives are important, and that there is something meaningful to the time they have here in this realm.
It is simply not true.
So I say nothing.
“Come on, it wasn’tthatbad.” She nudges my arm with the tip of her elbow, and I scowl.
To me it was. “The next film you make me watch better have a death in it. And a reaper, otherwise I am canceling all our dates.”
“Fine. No more movies.” She pouts, her lips puffed in the exact same way they were back in her shop before she kissed me.
Alarms go off in my mind and I back up, but a puddle of something sticky in the aisle catches me off guard, and for the first time in my existence I manage to do the one thing no other reaper has done before.
I fall.
Chapter Seven
Morgan
Grimm stumbles back, shocked and seemingly horrified. He’s about to fall and smash his head against something. Or impale himself on the scythe that I made him make invisible when we entered the theater.
Worried for his safety—because I have no idea what can or cannot hurt a Reaper—I rush to his aid like a schoolgirl crushing on a boy.
“Hold on, I got you!” I shout, surging forward and trying to latch onto the front of his obsidian black cloak as if he’s about to fall off a cliff.
Except somehow I miss.
Instead of gripping the front of the fabric or even the sides, I manage to snag the two measly strings bundling the entire piece together at the front of his neck.
The strings pull apart.
His cloak opens fully when the neat tie comes undone, and I gasp in surprise. Grimm’s body isfuckingglorious. He’s decked. Like the deck the halls with boughs of holly decked. Smooth pecs flex under my stare as he falls back, sternum and ribs almost visible through his strange, semi-translucent skin. I’m vaguely aware of the theater turning sideways as I’m yanked forward and forced to stumble down with him, his eight-pack abs luring me to my death,literally.
Death by abs.
Fine, I’ll concede.
Grimm smashes to the ground, his scythe clunking and grinding beneath him as expected. And before I can wince at what had to be the most uncomfortable, most painful landing ever, I fall too.
Straight onto his chest.
Air whooshes out of my lungs, and almost immediately two thick arms wrap around me while his buff abs cushion my landing.
Grimm grunts from the impact of me smashing right into him and holds me for a long moment that almost has me thinking that I somehow won him over already, but the feeling doesn’t last. He quickly releases me and reaches one of his bony hands beneath him. There’s an awful scraping sound and some awkward maneuvering as he pulls the scythe out from under him and chucks it three feet away.
