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“By using sex as a last resort.”
“First resort, last resort…who cares if we both come?” Lara grimaced as soon as the words left her mouth. Years of fawning over and researching the entity known universally as Death were cutting the wires from brain to mouth. Humiliatingly. If she didn’t mind her step, her nervous anticipation would drive him as far away as he could get.
“Is that all you want before you die? To orgasm?”
Biting her lip, Lara raked her gaze up and down his body, so delightfully packaged in that wonderfully fitted three-piece masterpiece. There was no hooded cloak and scythe for this beast—just silk, thread, and buttons. “Well, if an orgasm is la petite mort,” she murmured, referring to the French for the little death, or orgasm, “I’m thinking you might qualify as la incroyablement grand mort. Oui?”
The asshole smirked and rattled off an impressive stream of French she had absolutely no hope of keeping up with. While she fantasized about reenacting one of her dirtier Death daydreams and shimmying up him like a monkey climbed a tree, he reached out and slowly wound her braid around his wrist until her scalp began to burn.
“I’ll let you play your little game, Ms. Townsend. Three guesses, three attempts to get my true name right…” He gave her new leash a tug that made her hair follicles scream. “Every time you get it wrong, you lose whatever articles of clothing I choose.”
“I-I thought we were playing by my rules?” she asked, struggling not to whimper.
Shadows darkened his face—beneath his eyes and cheekbones—showing her the briefest glimpse of his nature. “I play by no one’s rules but my own,” he said slowly, blue eyes roiling with black. “When you lose, I’m going to fuck you to death. Slowly, painfully, so that you feel every inch of me. I’m not someone you can challenge blindly, thinking there won’t be any consequences.”
“I’m going to win,” Lara shot back grimly, hissing between her teeth. Thinking of being literally fucked to death by her almost lifelong love interest made her remarkably wet, but she had to remember the bigger dream, the higher goals.
Winning against him meant winning everything.
“Are you human?” he demanded.
“Aside from the thick dollop of magic running through my veins from before the Salem Witch trials, I’m pretty sure I’m as human as they come.” Her voice rose sharply as he snapped his fingers next to her ear, spinning her around to face a widening portal opening just out of arm’s reach.
“Magic doesn’t count, especially when it hibernates. Without power, you’re mortal. Mortals are my business, and I’ve never lost a client.”
“Immortality spells—”
He snorted derisively. “When was the last time you met an immortal human? Few beings have the power to escape me, Ms. Townsend, and witches are not included on that list.” A hint of sadness tainted his voice before it hardened. “There isn’t much I don’t destroy when it’s time. As delightful and intriguing as you are, it won’t save you.”
“But—”
“The timer starts now.”
Every single goddamn hair on her body stood to attention as her captor pushed her into the portal, bathing her in effervescent vibes. They hummed as one, vibrating until her skin became hypersensitive. His hold on her hair seemed to amplify the sensation through her head and neck, until she was quivering hard enough to make her internal organs shimmer.
Death guided her through the portal, literally two steps, but those two steps were more physically taxing than three hours of leg curls in the gym. Her body ached like an open wound, her muscles crying like babies. Between her legs, her pussy tried to convince her she was a wanton whore, throbbing insistently in morse code, waiting eagerly for a reply.
She dropped to her knees on a sheepskin rug, tension crackling around her as the portal shut, but he hauled to her feet by her hair. “Ah-ah. When I want you on your knees, you’ll know.” The pressure straining her braid, controlling her head, released as he carefully unwound it from his hand. “In front of the fire, Ms. Townsend. Might as well stay warm until it’s time.”
Things were not quite going as she planned, she realized with trepidation. At no point during her fantasies had she imagined being whisked away by Death, through one of his portals to…wherever the fuck here was. “What is this place?”
Strolling over to an overly-wide armchair, he spread his arms wide to encompass the room. “No man’s land. This is where time stops, life hangs in the balance on the other side, and forever is literal. Welcome to my home.”
As he sat, slumping slightly into the soft chair and resting his hands on the arms, Lara took a few moments to let herself adjust to crossing a divide that surpassed time and space. Her lungs and stomach were still vibrating, her eyes a little unfocused.
Death’s home was…a far cry from what she expected. She’d assumed he’d surround himself with grandeur, pomp and flash, but this was more like a one-story log cabin in Colorado. One huge room suitable for one enormous entity, with leather-bound books filling the rows of bookcases against the walls.
There were no pictures, no ornaments.
Just the bed—a monstrous piece of furniture—and his armchair, the fluffy black sheepskin beneath her knees and the soft dark carpet. Light and heat came from what appeared to be an unextinguishable fire in a marble hearth.
“Does that ever go out?” she wondered aloud.
“It will, one day, when the end of the world devours all life. Once that happens, my job is done, and I will no longer be needed in the grand scheme. The fire is part of me—it is the bulk of my humanity, my compassion, my soul.”
“You keep it hidden so you can be cold?”
“Detached,” he corrected, tapping his fingertips on the chair. “Reaping is not a job for someone with a heart or a conscience. Otherwise everyone who begged and pleaded would get an extension, and the system would break down. My legacy is pain, grief, and misery, Ms. Townsend. Three emotions which can warp a being if they don’t protect themselves.”
