Page 167 of Famine
“Yes,” I say, and then my lips are back on his. Yes, I am going to ignore the fact that a man just tried to slit my throat. I fucking survived it, and now I’m floating on this adrenaline high and I need to feel the horseman against me.
At first, Famine doesn’t respond, and I know he’s thinking about the fact that I’m hurt and it’s dark and he can’t see how injured I am—oh, and that I’m a liar from time to time. The thing is, my mouthisa very, very good liar, and right now, it’s doing its best to convince the Reaper that I’m not that hurt.
He must buy it too, because eventually he returns the kiss—and damn does he return it. His arms come around me, and he cradles me like I’m breakable, but he kisses me like he wants to break me wide open and slip inside. His lips are hot on mine.
He leans forward, his chest meeting mine. Heat radiates off of him, and despite his menacing reputation, I’m struck that, to me, everything about him is comforting. His physical warmth, his touch, his desire.
We’re oil and water; we’re not supposed to mix, yet here we are.His hands are wild as they dig through my hair. I can still feel them trembling, even as they hold me in place.
I feel that craze inside him. My heart beats in time with it.
I reach for his pants, tugging at them.
He catches my wrist. “Ana—”
He’s still worried about my wound.
My eyes find his. “It’s just a little cut, Famine. It will be fine,” I whisper. “I want this. If you want it too, then let me unbutton your damn pants. Please.”
He stares down at me, debating, debating …
The horseman releases my wrist. I exhale, my heart beginning to pound.
As I begin undoing the horseman’s trousers, Famine’s hands skim down my body. There’s a gentleness to his touch that wasn’t there before, and I can’t decide whether he’s simply worried about my injury, or if it’s something else. Whatever it is, it causes me to pause. I want to savor this. I’ve so rarely gotten to savor intimacy.
Buttons descend the front of my ruined dress, and one by one the horseman undoes them, slowly peeling the garment away from my body.
As soon as he reveals my stomach, his hands go to my scars. He hesitates, then places soft kisses along them.
The Reaper doesn’t ask for my forgiveness again, but nonetheless I feel his apology in the brush of his lips. I feel something else too—something that seems an awful lot like adoration.
This is new, so new. I feel like so much more than my flesh is being exposed and seen. For all the sex I’ve had, I’m a stranger to this. Feeling valued,adored.
I can feel a thick knot of emotion in my throat, and my eyes begin to sting. I cover my eyes with a hand, but to my horror, it doesn’t stop a tear from slipping out. Another one follows it. Then another and another.
What is wrong with you?
Famine pauses. “Ana?” he asks, and I want to laugh at the uncertainty in his voice.
It takes an embarrassing amount of strength, but I drag my hands away from my eyes. I don’t know if he can see my tears in the darkness, but—
Famine’s brow wrinkles as he takes me in. “Are you crying?” I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of me.
“Yes,” I admit.
Famine frowns. “Do you want me to stop?” he says, clearly not understanding why I’m upset.
“God no.”
He stares at me longer. There’s very little softness to this man, and yet, right now, he’s being excruciatingly compassionate.
“I’m not human,” he says. “I don’t understand what you’re thinking. Explain your mind.”
I blow out a breath. “My clients—they never treated me like this.” Not even Martim.
Sex always felt like an exchange. I was a prostitute. I wasn’t getting paid to be adored. I was getting paid to slack someone’s lust.
Famine’s expression changes, becoming empathetic—so, so empathetic. I think, when it comes to pain and vulnerability, he sees me more clearly than anyone else ever has.
