Page 38 of Obsession

He beats me there, having already turned on the shower and stripped. “Uh-uh. We don’t have time for your ‘loofah skills’ this morning. I’m not going to get on Death’s bad side by keeping him waiting,” I warn Damion, trying my hardest to keep my eyes on his. Not that his eyes aren’t amazing—they are—it’s just if mine venture any farther south, we’re guaranteed to be late.

“I promise to keep my hands to myself. Unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be able to make that same promise,” he says smugly.

I step in the shower, and he joins me. Smiling at him, I slide to my knees, the warm spray hitting my back. “You sure you want me to make that same promise?” I ask, taking his now very interested cock into my hands. So maybe we can keep Death waiting just a few minutes.

Dipping my head lower, I suck his balls into my mouth; Damion’s head thunks against the back of the shower as he groans something incoherent. Smiling as I release his balls from my mouth, I begin pumping his cock with my hands. He wasn’t lying when we were bound together; it is a double-fisted job.

“I wouldn’t want you to make a promise you couldn’t keep,” he says in a guttural tone, fisting my wet hair.

Looking up at this seduction demon at my complete mercy, I’m instantly wet between my legs, and I’m not sure what that says about me. I flick my tongue against the glistening tip of his cock and am rewarded with another moan from Damion. Opening my mouth as wide as it will go, I slowly take him in, inch by inch. You finally played your cards right, I tease him.

Best hand I’ve ever been dealt, he agrees, and my heart swoons while my core clinches.

Gently scraping my teeth against his length as I release him, he grips my hair tighter. “But I thought you promised to keep your hands to yourself.” Giving my head a little shake, I point out he didn’t keep his word.

He floats over my loofah to where it’s now hovering on my clit. He moves it back and forth so quickly it feels like it’s vibrating with his power. Not using my hands.

Moaning, I decide we’ll debate semantics later. I take him back in my mouth so deep he’s hitting the back of my throat; luckily for him, I don’t have a strong gag reflex, but a tear wells up in the corner of my eye due to the size of him. Mmmm, that’s my wanton witch, he coaxes. Take me all the way down your throat, he commands, thrusting in deeper. Just like that.

I keep sucking him, harder, deeper, but it’s becoming difficult to stay focused with my orgasm building. He takes over most of the work, thrusting his cock into my mouth so I can chase my own pleasure. Writhing from the constant stimulation of the vibrating loofah, I moan against his cock. Please, I beg. I’m so close.

There’s that magic word. Say it again.

Please, Damion, I beg, too lost in my impending orgasm to play games at the moment. He uses his power, turning my entire body into one big quivering mess of nerves. My cheeks flush. My body heats. My nipples are teased by Damion’s phantom touch. My core contracts wildly. Too much. Too much sensation.

The tidal wave of my orgasm hits and feels like it goes on and on forever. I vaguely register him crying out, as jets of warmth shoot deep down my throat.

Swallowing everything he gives me, I release him from my mouth, and he helps me stand. He gently presses our lips together for a short and sweet kiss, his eyes glazed over with satisfaction.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, as my legs are still a bit wobbly, I hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Worth the risk of pissing Death off. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Meh,” I answer.

He laughs in my mind. Liar.

Grabbing a bar of soap, he washes his body as I frantically give my hair a quick wash. Switching positions so Damion can have the spray, I eye my razor, debating on whether there’s time. “You know how handy I am with a razor. Just let me know if you need help with any delicate areas,” he says with a devilish smile, eyeing his sigil tattooed on an intimate part of my body.

“Out of here.” I give him a playful shove, grabbing my razor.

Walking downstairs a few minutes later, I open the shop. Two minutes past nine. Surely the Angel of Death won’t get his wings in a twist over two teeny-tiny minutes.

Not a moment too soon, as the Angel of Death darkens my door. That’s probably too dramatic of a statement. Let me rephrase. In walks an upbeat, jovial-looking fellow with long ash-blond hair that hits mid-shoulder, and eyes the color of dazzling emeralds. He appears to be in his early thirties with a lean frame. I’d describe his angular face as being more interesting as opposed to handsome. But good Goddess, I would never tell him that. He’s decked out in a seersucker suit with a pink bow tie and a straw hat.

“Hello, welcome to Memphis Magic. I’m sorry if we kept you waiting—”

“Aubry, what’s the secret code word?” he cuts me off as he removes his hat.

I look over to Damion for help, who’s now standing beside me. Zazel didn’t say anything about a secret code word. “Abracadabra?” I try. Damion just shakes his head.

The Angel of Death smiles. “Nah, darlin’, I’m just pulling your leg. I’m Azrael.” We shake hands and he asks, “How am I doing on the accent? When in Rome, I always say.”

“Needs work,” I give him honest feedback. “You need to drawl out the vowels more and slow down your cadence.”

“Thank ye kindly. I’ll work on that,” he says in overly exaggerated slow motion. “And you must be Damion,” he purrs, eyeing my boyfriend up and down.

The two shake hands, and Damion takes control, seeing this train’s already off the tracks and we haven’t even left the station. “Azrael, tell us about your scythe and the last time you saw it.”

“Well, as I’m sure my reputation precedes me, you know I’m the Angel of Death. I’ve just gotta have my scythe.”

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