Page 73 of Grim
I do not stop. I lick her through the spasms, slower now, softer, catching every last tremble, every last quake of her release until she finally collapses back into the grass, spent and trembling.
I press my left hand into her femoral again while sliding my other fingers out of her pulsing pussy to ensure her heart rate is still at a safe level. When I note that it is, I pull back, breathless and aching.
Her thighs are still twitching. Her chest heaves. Her eyes are wide and glassy as she looks down at me.
“You …” Her voice is shaky. “That was …”
“I know,” I whisper, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, though I can still taste her, feel her.Crave her.
She looks wrecked. And beautiful.
I adjust slightly, trying to ease the pressure of my painfully hard cock, still untouched, still pulsing with the need I haven’t allowed myself to act on.
Her eyes drop to the movement, and for a beat, we just stare at each other—caught between restraint and ruin.
But I don’t move toward her. Not yet.
I need a moment and some distance to absorb the magnitude of what we just shared, of what we just started.
We have begun something terrifying, dangerous, and possibly forbidden. But nothing that anyone says or does now can undo the bond we created in this moment. There is no going back now. Only forward—together.
In the distance, from inside the house, I hear the faint sound of the grandfather clock beginning to strike the top of another hour.
That’sNotHowThatWorks
“Ican do this alone. Just stay here.” Kane’s voice is low, steady, the kind of voice one would use when trying to shut a door quietly instead of slamming it. But the door is being shut all the same.
His eyes won’t meet mine. They haven’t since the cemetery. Like if he doesn’t look at me, nothing actually happened. Or if he closes his eyes tight enough, he can pretend I wasn’t trembling beneath his touch, begging him for more. Well, he can pretend all he wants; I’m not spending my final days in an awkward silence with this man.
“No,” I say sweetly, grabbing my boots. “We make a great team.”
I follow him out of the house as he lets out an annoyed huff.
“We’re not a team. I work alone.”
“Oh, c’mon, Grim. Don’t make me do something rash.”
His eyes narrow as he continues to glare at the Tombstone Phone. “Like what?”
I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Well, since my days are numbered, I suppose I’ll just head on down to the local news station and share my thoughts on Death and Fate and Time. Maybe toss in a little exposé on reapers and portals.”
He doesn’t flinch, but I see the flicker in his jaw. A tic. A twitch. I’m counting that as a win.
“Hop on,” he mutters, and deciding it’s now or never, I leap onto his back, wrapping my legs and arms around him. “I wasn’t being literal,” he grunts.
I try not to read too much into his tension or the way it feels like he’s holding me like he never wants to let go. Maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part. It’s possible that he only did what he did out of pity. One last ride for the dying girl? I mean, he seemed to be enjoying it, but what if it was an act? When his phone chimed with news of a new case, Kane leapt at the opportunity to switch to work mode. I’ve never seen anyone so excited over a death before. I’m trying my best not to take offense to it. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it stung though.
“Hold on,” he mutters after placing his phone in his pants pocket before we take off.
We land hard. The sky is grey. We arrive in front of a small shotgun-style house, tucked into a quiet corner of town, overgrown ivy climbing the white siding and cracked concrete steps leading to a door with peeling paint. Kane holds my hand as we walk in.
“This should be an in and out,” Kane mutters. “Old man, natural causes, no partner, no next of kin.”
My steps falter at the coldness of his words. You would think he was talking about the weather.
“No one to miss him?” I say softly while looking around the dated living room.
The air inside is still. Faded wallpaper curls at the edges in every room. A threadbare recliner sits near a dusty bookshelf, stacked with yellow paperbacks. I see one on the coffee tray by the chair, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I walk to the worn book and nearly sob at the words written inside on the first page—in my handwriting.
