I blink. “Scythe?”
“No.” He winds a strand of my hair around his finger. “Like you want me to leave my mark on you.”
“Why?”
“I want to own my past, not cower from it. Not while I breathe the same air as the woman who embraces her own history and what it’sforged her to be.” He leans closer, murmuring against my lips, “I want to show you my darkness, as you’ve shown me yours.”
Blinking away unshed tears, I climb atop him and straddle his lap. My legs sink onto the hide of dead criminals. I should be disgusted, but it only turns me on more. In his ear, I whisper, “Scythe.”
He shivers as his arms close around me, his mouth seeking mine. Each kiss is deeper, longer, hungrier than the last. I push my waistband below my hips and grab his cock, feeding his length through my seam.
His muscles lock. “Poppy—”
“Shh, relax.” Careful not to move too quickly, I roll my hips. Flames spark in my veins, and a whimper claws out of me. The feel of his flesh is fucking inebriating. “Just a taste.”
Brontë groans, an innocent man before a noose. He kisses me like he’s on death row and I’m his last meal. Palming my ass, he pulls me over him. My wet lips fold around his slick cock, and I swear I feel every pulsating vein.
We writhe, reduced to beasts consumed by lust. He tastes like cherry smoke and midnight sin. He feels like devilry and decadence and the darkest fantasy. He sounds like a demon uncaged.
“More,” I plead, shameless. “Scythe,more.”
“So fucking sexy when you beg.”
His teeth clamp around my neck, his hot tongue chasing my pulse.
Stars blotch my vision as pain entwines with pleasure. Euphoria torches my blood. My eyes roll as my head falls back. My pussy clenches his cock, suctioning greedily.
Galaxies burst behind my eyes.
“Bonne fille,” he growls around my nipple. “Such a good girl you are, coming all over me.”
“Time to return the favor.”
My knife scrapes his jugular, and he gasps as he explodes. I hum as he spills between us, coating my cunt in his spend. His groans are gravel, grinding my sanity to dust. I ride his throbbing length, mewling into his mouth as I come undone again.
Brontë breathes French curses against my chest as gravity drags us down from the stars. I dip my blade in our cum, catching his eye as I lick it clean.
“You taste like candy,mon roi.”
“Candy.” He chuckles, resting his brow on mine. “I’m dead and sitting in hell with Lucifer’s daughter.”
“Morgensterndoestranslate to Morningstar…”
A warm droplet drips from the corner of my delirious smile. He snags my chin, lapping the spill. I lick his tongue then bite his bottom lip, letting it snap back into place.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re fucking lucky I can’t retaliate without ripping those stitches.”
I wink. “Happy Valentine’s,mon ange.”
Brontë presses his cheek to mine, breathing me in. “Does this mean you like the book?”
“I just spent the last half hour showing you how much I like it.”
“Thank fuck. That thing took decades off my life.”
I giggle, kissing his scar. He gently switches our positions and cleans me up before tending to himself. He’s quiet as we dress, tossing me lighthearted grins when we catch each other staring. But I know how much it means to him what I think of his gift.
I don’t like it.