Page 68 of Jailer to the Death God
But we almost died. And the thought of dying without having Arawn inside me, just once, seems suddenly unbearable. I have wanted him since I saw him naked in the bath. And why should I not have one thing that I want? Something to ease the soft, keening sorrow in my heart, the ache I feel over the death of those guards, the brave men who died defending me.
Arawn is naked now, the black waves of his hair tumbling around his glorious shoulders, his divine beauty almost painful to behold. His cock is the largest I’ve ever seen—light brown, straight, and thick, with that prominent vein along the side.
I raise my eyes to his face—and I’m surprised to see uncertainty in his gaze. He looks—worried.
Of course. He has never done this before.
The light inside me expands, illuminating my face in a smile. His expression softens a little, and his mouth curves in response.
Sweet virgin god. Terrible and deadly and beautiful and all mine.
“I want your true self,” I whisper.
He inhales, reverting to his satiny, jade-green skin. His hair shifts in color, too—still nearly black, but with hints of green. Devastating beauty, filling my sight, my mind.
We stand face to face, utterly bare to each other for the first time.
He likes this part. The moment before we touch. So I let it build, allow the heat to rise, let the pull between our bodies grow more keenly unbearable. The death god’s eyes are locked with mine, stormy with torturous lust.
I won’t break first—I won’t—butgodsI want him so badly. My inner thighs are slick, and not from the bath.
I have never been so wet or so ravenous for anyone.
“Little Queen.” The words grate between Arawn’s teeth, and a delicious tremor races between my legs. “Come to me.”
My body tenses to obey, drawn by the divine command in his voice. But I resist, too proud to yield before he does. My answer is a challenge. “How much do you want me?”
His tall form tenses, practically vibrates at the words. His fingers twitch as if he wants to seize me. But he is also proud. He’s the man who has been ignoring his erections, as if they were some unpleasant by-product of his incarnation. The thought makes me want to laugh, and I smile at him.
Green fire ignites in his eyes, and he pounces.
I’m caught up in a storm of hard, hot muscle, flung bodily onto the bed, mauled all over by fervent male fingers. He bites my shoulder, the curve of my waist—not hard, but enough to pinch—trails long wet licks up my skin. He plunges his face into my damp hair, inhaling my scent, while the tip of his cock paints my belly with his arousal.
I have never been the focus of so much passionate violence, and it wakes a visceral, animal ardor in me. I twist my fingers into his hair, bucking upward against his hard body. He groans, lowering his torso against my chest, and I rake my teeth along his neck, then pepper his mouth with kisses.
“How much do I need you?” he says raggedly, hoarsely. “I crave your sweet essence like a tree craves water. I hunger for you, for every soft curve of your flesh. I want to swallow you whole, feel you quiver in my belly and vibrate against my bones. I want to carve you open and crawl inside your very heart and savor the gentle strength of your nature forever.”
His words terrify and inflame me. They are the morbid, impassioned words of an eldritch soul as dreadful as time, unpredictable as lightning, equitable as darkness.
Does he know what he’s saying? The depth of emotion he’s expressing? He can’t, can he? He doesn’t understand love, not really—a person cannot know it until they feel it.
He’s sucking on my breast now, humming his delight against my skin. My clit buzzes with craven need; I’m going to writhe out of my skin if he doesn’t fuck me soon.
“Lie down,” I tell him. “On your back. Now.”
He growls, his voice vibrating through the nipple he’s sucking. I smack his cheek, and with a groan of resignation he rolls over. This bed is shorter than the one we shared in the royal suite, and his bare feet hang off the end. I find that ridiculously charming.
For a moment I gaze at the sinewy perfection of him, the godly masculine bulk draped across the sheets. His cock juts upward, and he glances at it before turning his head away, as if the sight of his physical need embarrasses him.
“Look at it.” I run both my hands up his thighs until my thumbs and forefingers meet, forming a circle around the base of his cock. His length bobs, a yearning twitch.
“Look what I do to you,” I croon. “See how hard you are. And this.” I stroke the tip, which is a paler, softer green. My finger comes away glistening. “Don’t fear it.” My fingertips graze the length of his shaft, and his head tilts back, a moan rolling from his chest.
Crawling forward on the bed, I swing astride him, raise myself high on my knees, and fit his tip to my opening. I move his cock head back and forth a little, through my wetness.
“Would you like me to be your first?” I whisper to him.
His eyes open, green and radiant. “Yes… my Queen.”
