Pestilence stares at my bare chest, and a part of me is dying to know what he’s thinking. Reaching out, he tentatively runs his hands over my breasts. Heat floods his expression. He may say he’s not a man, but he’s aroused all the same.
I lean in and press a kiss to his chest, right over one of the angelic markings. “What does this one mean?” I ask, my breath fanning over the foreign word.
He gives me an odd look. “‘Pestilence.’”
His name.
I move my attention down, where another band of golden markings dip beneath his waistline. I’ve caught a glimpse of the entire spread before, but I’ve never had a chance to really look at these lower characters. Even now, they’re hidden from sight.
My hand moves for his pants. Pestilence catches my wrist, his chest rising and falling with obvious want.
I think he knows this is different. Tonight is different. It’s one thing to kiss and admire—to even touch—but it’s another to pursue this.
He stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Then, coming to some decision, he rises to his feet.
I think this is where I get turned down.
Only, it never happens.
He reaches for his boots and pulls them off. Then the horseman’s hands go to his pants. He hesitates for only an instant before he unfastens them. The entire time his eyes are on me.
Pestilence steps out of the last of his clothes, leaving him as gloriously naked as the day he was born … er, created.
It’s physically difficult to look at the perfection of him in the firelight. It makes his skin glint like muted gold and his markings to glow all the brighter.
He stares at me with such intensity. “I didn’t tell you the full truth, Sara.”
I stare at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”
For a moment, all I hear is the crackle of the fire.
Looking as though he’s coming to some great decision, Pestilence draws in a breath.
“That day in the woods, the day I found you, I intended to kill you.”
A good dose of my desire dampens at his admission. Nothing like hearing your post-apocalyptic boyfriend once wanted to murder you to throw a wrench in the mood.
I sit back on my haunches. “What changed your mind?”
He kneels in front of me. “The light that filtered through the trees that night cast strange shadows on your tent, and one of them was this one.” He takes my hand and moves it low on his pelvis, right over one of the curving characters. It takes a helluva lot of effort to stare at the glowing word rather than let my eyes continue downward.
I stroke the skin softly. “What does it mean?”
“Mercy,” he breathes.
Something superstitious ripples down my spine, drawing out the gooseflesh.
“And so you didn’t kill me,” I say, my gaze finding his.
“And so I didn’t kill you,” he agrees, the fire glittering in his eyes.
All this time I’d been hating on God, when He (or She—let’s be gender equal here) was the very thing that stopped the horseman from killing me all those weeks ago.
And now, here we are.
His hands go to my jeans.
He hesitates, probably waiting for me to change my mind. And maybe after that admission I should change my mind.
But I don’t.
I lift my pelvis, angling my body to better help him remove my pants.
Pestilence does so, reverently looking at each patch of exposed skin as it’s unveiled. He traces a finger along the edge of my ill-fitting panties.
“I wished to be convinced of human depravity …” he says under his breath, “but instead, this.”
His fingers hook around the underwear, and then he’s pulling it off of me. And with that, the last of the clothes between us is gone.
Moving agonizingly slow, Pestilence drapes himself over my skin. I almost sigh at the sensation of his weight and warmth against me. My hands come around his back, gliding over the thick bands of his muscles. I pull him closer to me, feeling the press of his cock trapped between us.
Pestilence the Conqueror hasn’t tasted conquest at its most carnal. Not until now.
He hooks an arm around one of my legs and lifts it up indecently. He glances down between us, and even though I’m certain he simply intended to see how our anatomy lined up, his gaze catches at my core, and there it stays.
Whatever he sees causes his cock to jerk.
I reach between us, and wrap my hand around it, pulling a groan from him.
“Sara, this is … beyond words.”
And we haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.
I guide him to my opening. For several agonizing seconds, he stays there, immobile, soaking up the moment.
“Please,” I finally say. My hands move to the small of his back and urge him on.
“Please,” he repeats, letting out a pained laugh. “I should deny you, but I cannot.”
His breaths are coming faster, his blue eyes piercing me even as his cock begins to push its way in.
I release a breath at the sensation of him filling me up. He feels … sublime.
Pestilence has only partially sheathed himself when he pauses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
He releases a shuddering breath, then lifts his head once more to stare at my face as he enters me, his expression one of rapture. His gaze continues to brighten until he’s fully seated inside of me.
“This is suffering,” he says. “Exquisite suffering.”
God is he right. This is that place where pain and pleasure meet.
I reach for him. My fingers brush his crown, which somehow managed to stay on his head this entire time. Gently, I set it aside.
He tracks my every movement but doesn’t protest.
Can’t believe he’s inside me.
If he was breathtaking before, now, this close to me, he’s almost unbearable to look at—like trying to stare down the sun.
Slowly he pulls out of me, then thrusts forward. A groan slips out of him. “Cannot unknow this sensation … surely it will haunt me for all my days.”
He starts out slow, savoring each stroke of his hips like I do good chocolate. But like good chocolate, the savoring gives way to indulgence. His pace picks up, and soon he’s not gently stroking me, but fucking me in a frenzy, his hands finding my hips and pulling me closer, closer.
He stares at me like he’s never experienced anything so wonderul. “Sara, I am … I am in you. A part of you.”
I swallow thickly.
The idea that Pestilence can reach inside me and touch something deep and intimate—if only in the most physical sense—should bother me, but I am decidedly not bothered.
In fact, everything about this feels painfully right, as though this is where he’s always belonged.
I cup his cheek. “You are.”
I bite back a moan as his thick girth slides in and out of me, our bodies making slick sounds as they come together.
He leans his head against mine. “I’ve wanted to be this close to you,” he says. “Close enough to feel your heart beating against my skin.”
I press my hand to his chest, right over his own heart. Beneath my palm I feel it pounding away.
He closes his eyes at the sensation. When he opens them, they glint with so many emotions. “Never want to leave.”
I don’t want you to either.
I give him a soft smile. “You don’t have to yet.”
He marvels at me as I writhe beneath him. I clutch him tight, forcing each one of his strokes to go deeper as my core clenches around him.
Pestilence groans at the sensation, the deep sound heightening my pleasure.
I feel myself building, building …
“Oh my God,” I breathe. Meant to hold out longer. “Oh my God, oh my God.”
The horseman pauses, staring down at me with concern.
“Don’t—stop,” I plead.
He resumes with thrust after powerful thrust and�
��
Oh—my—God.
I cry out as my orgasm takes me suddenly. My back arches as it lashes through me, blinding me briefly.
Pestilence’s strokes deepen, until he’s slamming himself home. His eyebrows hike up, staring at me in glorious shock as he’s pulled towards his own climax.
I feel his cock thicken, and with a deep groan, he’s coming inside me. My body quakes at the sensation.
He stares down at me, entranced, as his strokes gradually slow. “That was …” He says a word that breathes along my skin, and it’s like God is in the room with us for a brief moment.
Angelic—whatever the word was, it was spoken in Angelic.
“What does that mean?” I ask, aware of how reluctant he’s been to share his native tongue with me.
Pestilence gives me a deep look. “Heavenly. That was heavenly.”
Chapter 39
Note to self: Pestilence doesn’t do casual sex.
Quick flings clearly aren’t a thing for him. Though, to be fair, sex in any of its forms really isn’t a thing for him. At least not until I fucking corrupted him. I can’t decide if that makes me feel particularly proud of myself, or a bit despicable.
I think, if I’m being truthful, I’m feeling a bit of both.
He’s not going to be chill about it either, I can already tell.
After we finished last night, he took me to bed. I don’t remember much except the warm press of his body behind mine, holding me close. He woke me up twice to his roving lips, and after a bit more exploration, he fit himself inside me and screwed me until I was calling out his name.
That wasn’t what was bad. I have no complaints at all about bumping uglies. It’s everything that’s happened since then.
Like bringing me breakfast in bed—breakfast that he most definitely lifted from someone else’s house because this homeowner didn’t have bacon and eggs. Also, I didn’t know Pestilence could cook.
He could’ve forced someone else to cook this breakfast for you.
I shut that thought down before I can imagine just what sort of scenario could’ve led to that outcome.
He’s also been pulling me aside all morning to steal quick kisses, or confess all those things he’d already admitted to me that night I was “asleep.”
Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice gestures, gestures that make my heart soar and fill my stomach with those idiotic butterflies, but last night was simply a bout of quick and dirty sex and nothing more.
Absolutely nothing more.
Long after we’ve left the bachelor-pad-turned-love-shack behind, after I’ve quoted Pestilence some Poe (Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?), I think the worst of his adoration has blown over.
Until he leads us to a church.
I stare, uncomprehending, at the building, with its severe spire and the marquee that states, God’s chosen can never truly die.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sara, you gave yourself to me, wholly and completely. I want to show you my commitment.”
I scrunch my features, his meaning not immediately coming to me. It takes several ridiculously long seconds to put it all together. But then—
He wants … he wants … to marry me? After last night?
Shit on a motherfucking stick. I mean, I know I’m a decent lay, but I’m not that good.
I glance over my shoulder at him. “Is this a pity proposal?”
He squints. “I don’t follow.”
I sigh, facing the church once more. It’s seriously doubtful that there even is an ordained minister inside to oversee the ceremony …
Why am I even thinking about this?
“I don’t want to marry you,” I say.
Several silent seconds tick by.
Finally, “Why ever not?” Pestilence sounds offended. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“Huh?” I’m completely confused. I turn back to him. “You know that people don’t just … ” Get married.
Except plenty of people do just get married—people who know each other less well than we do and for reasons that are far less solid than, I fucked you, you’re now mine.
It’s just that I, Sara Burns, need slightly more motivation before I marry a freaking horseman of the apocalypse.
“Why do you want to marry me?” I ask.
This is not a conversation I ever imagined having.
“You gave yourself over to me, as I did you,” Pestilence says. “You are mine, mind, spirit, flesh.”
Ugh. Definitely working with an Old Testament God here. Pestilence probably expects two cows and four goats from my father too.
“So because I’m the first woman who ever spread her legs for you, you want to put a ring on my finger?” I say, just to make sure I’m understanding the situation correctly.
“Don’t talk about it like that.”
“You mean ‘spreading my legs’?” I’m still eyeing the church with no little distaste. “Why not?”
“It’s lewd, and what we did last night was not lewd.”
“The term you’re looking for is making love,” I say.
“Making love,” he echoes, sounding pleased.
“And Pestilence,” I continue, “sorry to burst your bubble, but what we did last night wasn’t lovemaking. That was fucking if I ever felt it.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. That was about as intimate as I ever get when it comes to sex, but he doesn’t need to know that.
When I look over my shoulder at the horseman, his expression has darkened with discontent.
He tilts his head as a thought comes to him. “Have you done it before?” he asks, scrutinizing me.
“Done what?” I respond, knowing damn well what he’s talking about.
“Lovemaking. Have you ever done it with another?”
“Errr … not lovemaking.” Per say.
“Fucking,” Pestilence amends, curling his lip a little as he says the word. “Have you?”
Why do I feel like I’m playing catch with a live grenade? Oh, I know, because we’re having the Exes Talk hours after I took Pestilence’s virginity.
Fuck my life.
Or not. Fucking is clearly getting me into a lot of trouble.
And I need to stop thinking about that word. Fucking. Gah.
“Yesss …” I say reluctantly.
His dark mood only worsens. “Of course you have. Why I expected any better of you is a testament to my cursed idealism.”
“Keep talking like that, Pestilence, and I will push you off this horse.”
He laughs. “You couldn’t dismount me if you tried, human.”
So we’re back to human.
“You’re being an asshole.”
“Is nothing sacred?” he bellows. “I was inside you. Inside you. I felt you move around me. I gave you my essence. And you’re treating it, all of it, as though we merely danced together.”
This is really not how I imagined this whole conversation playing out. I feel myself flushing.
He clears his throat. “You will not be with another,” he states.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I all but shout.
Dear God, stop with the word fucking, Sara.
“I will not share you like what we did was meaningless—even if you seem to think so.”
I want to throttle this man. “Who I have sex with is not your decision to make.”
“I will not share you!” he roars. “Even if that means chaining you to me, I will not!”
“And I will not marry your crazy ass!” I shout back at him. “Even if that means being hogtied and dragged behind your stupid horse for the rest of my life!”
His grip tightens. “Don’t tempt me, human.”
“And stop calling me human!” I add, heatedly. “I have a name!”
“One I only like to use when I’m overly-fond of you, which I’m not right now.”
“Big surprise, Captain Obvious. I’m not too fond of you either.”
He seethes
behind me.
“Fine,” he says after several seconds. “I will not marry you today. But this discussion isn’t over.”
“The hell it’s not!” I need to hit something.
We ride in silence after that. Thank fuck.
Ugh. Stop with that word.
Chapter 40
We’ve only traveled a kilometer or so past the church when I hear the gun blast.
I don’t have time to think about the fact that the horseman must’ve stopped riding ahead at night. I jolt just as the air stirs violently next to my left temple. In the next instant, Pestilence’s body whips back, his hold on me slackening even as his blood mists against my skin.
Someone shot my horseman. Oh God, someone shot him.
I swivel in the saddle. “Pestilence?”
His body sways, and I have to catch him to keep the horseman from sliding off his steed.
Pestilence’s head rocks forward, and I see the blood, the blood and—
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Where the left side of his face should be, now there’s only a mangled crater.
Going to sick myself …
His blood is dripping everywhere. So much blood.
People in gas masks begin circling us. Trixie rears up, pawing at the air. I scream when I feel the horseman slip through my clutches. He falls off the saddle behind me, hitting the ground with a dull, wet thump. At the sound, I nearly lose the breakfast Pestilence made for me.
I stare down at his prone, lifeless body, unable to rip my eyes away.
“It’s alright, he’s gone.”
“He can’t harm you anymore.”
The townspeople’s words are faint and distorted behind their masks. They’re coming closer, looking strange and sinister.
They hurt him.
Coming to the side of Trixie, they forcibly remove me from the horse. I lunge for Pestilence, only to have them pull me away.
My last words to the horseman were oaths shouted in anger.
I’m fighting to get back to his ruined body, but these people hold me back.
You’d think I’d be used to the sight of him like this, but no matter how much I reassure myself that he’ll be alright, my eyes tell me otherwise.
From the ground he groans.
Jesus. Even though half of his face is gone, he’s still aware. I let out a shriek. He’s aware.
Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1) Page 23
