Dark Destiny (Principatus)

by Couper, Lexxie

  Dark, malevolent pleasure roared through him and he grinned, withdrawing his still-hard shaft from Amy’s sex. He dropped to his knees, capturing her cream-slicked pussy with his mouth. Amy’s pussy, not Death’s.

  But it is Death’s pussy you want. Death’s you deserve. You are more than a normal demon, Steven and as such should be with—

  He cut the thought dead and plunged his tongue into Amy’s slit, delving into her folds in deep, lapping strokes. Drinking her juices and his own dead, lifeless cum.

  Lost to the malevolent being within him.

  Tormented.

  Haunted.

  Exultant.

  The barely there contact of Fred’s kiss detonated an explosion of wicked activity in the pit of Patrick’s stomach. He pulled in a quick breath and her distinctly mysterious scent filled his being.

  It was enough. Enough to push him exactly where his body and his aching, tormented soul wanted him to be. He wrapped his arms around Fred’s back, buried his fingers in the long, thick curtain of her hair and yanked her against his chest, plunging his tongue past her parted lips into her wet, willing mouth.

  The kiss was just as wild, just as fierce as their previous, but so much more powerful. So much more right. Her lips fit his to perfection, her tongue equal in ferocity to his own. With feverish longing and unquestionable desire, he invaded her mouth, drank from its sweet secrets. A fire roared through his body and he dragged one hand down her back, cupping her arse with ungentle force to haul her even closer. Her hips pressed to his, the soft hood of her sex ground into his erection through the barrier of her leather trousers and a bolt of scalding tension shot straight into his balls.

  He yanked her harder still to his straining shaft, wanting to feel the base pain of brutal contact. Wanting the hungry ache in his cock to spread to the ravenous ache in his core. He tore at the back of her trousers, slamming his hand down past her waistband to cup the tight, firm curve of her right arse cheek. Skin to skin.

  Frenzied pleasure burned through him at the feel of his flesh on hers and he tore his mouth from her lips, staring down at her.

  Oh, Christ. What was he doing? He was out of his mind!

  No, you’re not. But you will be if you don’t make love to her right now.

  As if she sensed the dark turmoil threatening to undo him, she pressed her palms either side of his face and rolled her hips against his. “I know you are confused, Patrick.” Lifting one leg, she wrapped it around the back of his thigh until he could feel the heat of her desire. “But don’t be confused about this. About us.”

  The delicate musk of her juices slipped into his nose. He groaned, sucking her scent in as he grabbed her knee and yanked her leg higher up his thigh, spreading her sex wider.

  He stroked his shaft, thick and swollen and straining for release, against her heat. His head was giddy, his pulse pounding. If this is how he felt dry fucking her, how would he survive real penetration?

  “Is this how you plan to kill me, Death?” The question was a ragged growl as he continued to thrust into her leather-covered sex. “Through denied pleasure?”

  A pure white light shimmered in her eyes and she chuckled, tightening her leg muscle to force his hips closer to hers. “Denying you pleasure will never be part of my plan, Patrick Watkins.”

  Her answer set fire to Patrick’s senses. He sank his fingers into her butt cheeks and hauled her from the floor, crossing the room to the large sofa at its center in two strides. She hissed, her pussy rubbing the bulge behind his fly with each step he took, her eyes growing clouded with escalating pleasure.

  “By the Powers, Patrick,” she panted. “Who are you and how do you know exactly what I want you to do to me?”

  “I’m the man just about to claim you as his own,” he answered on a raw snarl, “And right at this point in time, I don’t give a flying fuck how I know.”

  He threw her onto the sofa, her arse hitting the cushioned seat, the backs of her knees slapping against the padded armrest. She scurried backward, stare locked on his face, breasts rising and falling in rapid succession.

  Patrick watched her move, watched her position herself for his invasion. His blood roared in his ears, hot, hungry blood that pounded through his body in building power. He reached for his fly, jerking it apart, not caring that the metal buttons tore from the denim. His cock sprang free of his jeans, the cool air of the room scalding its turgid length. Fred gasped and the soft hitching of her breath sent another surge of liquid pleasure into his groin.

  He walked around the end of the sofa and stood before her, the distended head of his cock level with her parted lips. He watched the pink tip of her tongue flick out to wet them, her eyes staring with rapt interest at his jutting erection. A sizzling lick of hot knowledge tightened his gut. She would take his length into her mouth. Of that he had no doubt. She would take him into her mouth and bring him to screaming, exquisite release if he wanted her to. He saw her shift on the sofa to do just that, but before she could, he tangled his fists in her hair and tugged her head backward, forcing her to look up into his face.

  “No.” He shook his head, fighting to steady his shallow breaths.

  She frowned at him, a curious little puckering of her eyebrows that told him she was both excited and annoyed by his action. He chuckled, the sound very husky. Death was not used to being denied, it seemed. “That can come later,” he promised. “But I want to feel your sex sliding over my cock before I feel your mouth doing so.”

  He’d never spoken such brazen words before. His heart hammered.

  Fred stared at him for a still moment, lips parted, and then slowly, deliberately, raised herself onto her knees, bringing her face level with his.

  She pushed her hips forward, a small smile playing with the sides of her mouth. “Gladly.”

  Her murmur sent off a chain reaction in Patrick’s body. His cock jerked, ready to feel the tightness of her sex. His throat squeezed, the thought of the exquisite penetration already stealing his breath and his skin prickled with flushed desire. “Take off your pants.”

  The order rumbled from his chest, harsh and raw at once.

  Fred remained motionless, gazing at him. Silent.

  A wave of impatience rolled through Patrick and he opened his mouth to repeat the request…before a shimmer below her waist caught his eye and he watched the snug black leather pants she wore disappear.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening. Not just because of the way she’d removed her trousers—he’d seen her do it before—but because of the smooth, firm perfection of her thighs, belly and hips now exposed. He gazed at what she’d revealed to him, fresh hunger flooding his shaft with rigid heat. The same soft crescent was trimmed into the downy hair on her mons and, like it had before, it held him mesmerized.

  “Do you recognize it yet?”

  There was a low tinkle of mirth in Fred’s question and he lifted his stare from her sex to smile at her. “A scythe.”

  His answer pleased her. He could tell. Her pupils dilated a fraction and her breath caught in her throat.

  He leant forward, not sure why but wanting to catch that little hitching sound with his mouth. Her lips were soft under his and he smiled, dipping his tongue into her mouth in a quick exploration before pulling away from her slightly. Her moan of protest made him smile wider and he tightened his fist in her hair. Just in case she decided to take charge.

  He may be playing with Death, but it was his game, his rules. This time, at least.

  “Undress me.”

  Her pupils dilated again at his command, a pure white glow flaring in her eyes for a split second. Without a word, or hint of hesitation, she reached for the waistband of his jeans.

  As slowly as she’d raised herself to her knees, she hooked her fingers in his belt loops and pulled his jeans down over his hips. Cool air caressed his butt, his hips. The feel of denim sliding over his flushed skin sent a shiver through his body and his balls tightened, rising up closer to the root
of his shaft. He watched Fred’s face, not wanting to look elsewhere even as the desire to lower his gaze to her hands and watch her progress gnawed at his control.

  An unreadable expression on her face, she coaxed his jeans past his thighs until gravity claimed them and they slid to the floor, bunching at his feet. He shifted slightly, lifting one foot and then the other free, pushing the discarded item of clothing out of the way with a dismissive shove of his toes.

  Fred kneeled on the sofa, eyes on his, her hands hovering above his bare hips. The heat from her palms kissed his flesh despite the lack of skin-to-skin contact and Patrick swallowed, his pulse pounding. She waited for him to give her permission to do what he could see in her smoldering gaze she so desperately wanted to do—touch him. Take his cock in her hands. But she didn’t, and her control sent twisting ribbons of wet tension through Patrick’s body. Jesus, the building pressure in his loins was almost too much to bear now. What would it be like when her hands made contact with his hips?

  What would it be like when she held his cock?

  The thought sent another jolt of wet electricity through Patrick and he clenched his jaw. “Get rid of the shirt.”

  Fred’s blue eyes glinted white. “Whose?”

  “Both.”

  His blunt reply brought a tiny smile to her lips. She lifted her chin a fraction and the black tank top covering her torso vanished, leaving her naked. Gloriously, wonderfully naked. Her breasts but an inch away from his chest. Her nipples all but brushing the material of his shirt.

  Head giddy, mouth dry, Patrick leant towards her, wanting to feel those puckered, pink tips against his, but stopped when Fred shook her head and held up her hand between them.

  She placed her palm on his chest, directly above his heart, before sliding it—very slowly—over his own rock-hard nipple, down his ribcage and under the hemline of the loose shirt he wore.

  Her fingertips touched his skin first, and a soft gasp burst from Patrick at the featherlight contact. His body stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. He stayed still, frozen with expectation, burning with anticipation as, with barely a change in position, Fred pressed her palm completely against his stomach, just below his navel.

  The bulging dome of his cockhead nudged the underside of her wrist, smearing the tiny bead of pre-come on its tip over the velvety softness of her skin and he swallowed again. Would she move her hand down? Or up?

  With an ever-so-small grin, she slid her hand upward, inching his shirt further up his torso until his entire stomach was exposed.

  Patrick’s cock pulsed, denied attention but stimulated beyond comprehension all the same. Wordlessly, he stared into her face, his heartbeat kicking up a notch when she placed her other hand beside her first and, with a deliberately languid pace, slid his shirt up over his chest, over his head and off his shoulders.

  They faced each other. Naked. Almost touching. Their bodies so close Patrick was sure he could feel Fred’s heartbeat vibrating through his chest, down into the pit of his stomach and lower. He reveled in the sensation, a connection beyond the physical. With each thump his erection grew longer, thicker, his own heartbeat harder, faster. An image of Fred flashed through his mind—her long legs wrapped around his hips, her belly pressed to his, her nails digging into his shoulders, her cunt squeezing his thrusting cock—and he knew immediately it was the future he saw. Five minutes, five hours, five years in the future he didn’t know. God willing, all three.

  He pulled in a deep breath, taking her unique fragrance into his soul. Spices, musk and secret power. Jesus, he was addicted already.

  The thought drove him to act.

  He buried his hands in her hair once more, crushed her mouth with his and jerked her to his body with a force he knew was neither gentle or chaste.

  Her breasts flattened against his chest, her mons ground against his cock. She snaked her arms around his back, pulling herself harder into his savage embrace. Her tongue lashed his, a battle of passion and lust where neither was the defeated. Dragging his lips from the invasion, he journeyed her jawline and neck with his teeth, nipping at her flesh in tiny bites that drew a low whimper with each one. He liked the sound. It spoke clearly of the desire and pleasure he met upon her body.

  Continuing his exploration, he tasted her collarbone, the little dip at the base of her neck before charting the curve of her shoulder, his fists still knotted in her hair, holding her captive. She tasted so good. Like a hidden mystery on a warm summer night.

  “By the Powers, Patrick.” Her throaty murmur tickled his lips and he lifted his head to gaze into her face. “This isn’t…” She didn’t finish, instead she closed her eyes and rolled her hips against his.

  The heat of her sex melted into his erection, incinerating the brief flare of doubt her words caused. He jerked forward, thrusting his cock to her mons. She was all softness and hardness and musky heat and he wanted to be buried in her more than he wanted to draw breath.

  If he didn’t do so soon, he would come all over her belly. Of that he had no doubt.

  As if she knew his very predicament, Fred moved slightly on the sofa, shifting her weight so as to spread her legs without breaking contact—even a hair’s width—with his groin. The change in position allowed his cock, so hard and swollen it felt like steel, to ram against the wet lips of her pussy, her juices painting his stretched flesh instantly.

  He growled, arching his back to shove forward, parting her folds with the rim of his distended cockhead. He stroked back and forth, gripping her hair, staring into her eyes. Fucking her but not. Torturing the tiny button of her clit with each pass, rolling his cock over and along it with each stab until he felt her muscles coil and her pussy weep.

  The delicate aroma of her pleasure filled his breath. She sank her nails into his shoulders, eyes beyond blue now, shining with an iridescent white glow that would have made him nervous before but now only made him burn.

  Raking one hand down her back, he cupped her arse, squeezed one firm butt cheek with fierce strength before jerking her harder to him. The sudden change granted him exactly what he wanted. Her legs spread wider, her damp folds wider still. He felt her sex suck greedily at his cock and then, with one brutal, savage thrust, he was there—her tight muscles enveloping him, embracing him. Surrounding him.

  Fred threw back her head, spine bowing, nails puncturing his flesh. A cry as raw and primitive as any Patrick could imagine burst from her throat, shattering the very air around them.

  She bucked into him, took him deeper, deeper, her stomach and breasts and nipples sliding over his sweat-slicked skin, her arms holding him to her with such strength he could feel the tremble in her muscles.

  “Oh, claim me, Patrick! Claim me!”

  Pestilence watched his fingers glide through the kitten’s silky white fur, the creature’s soft purr vibrating through its tiny body into his lap. Eyes closed, claws sheathed, it was a picture of pure contentment. He smiled, moving his fingers to its head to gently scratch it behind its ears.

  The thing had caught his eye in Famine’s bedroom earlier that day, its young body quivering with excitement as it stalked its siblings, its blue eyes wide with determination and purpose. He’d taken it right from under the Third Horseman’s pointed, turned-up nose, tucking it under his arm as she’d stared at herself in the mirror, complaining of the excessive weight she’d supposedly put on around her skin-and-bone hips.

  Sitting on his throne now, Pestilence considered the kitten’s fine bone structure under its downy white fur. How fragile. How extremely breakable. And yet, its teeth were already needle-point sharp and capable of piercing skin with just the slightest pressure from its jaws. His smile grew wider and he stroked the kitten’s back. Deceptive. Misleading. Just like him.

  He raised his head, fixing the bloodsucker standing before him with a level look. “Tell me more.”

  The vampire shuffled his designer-boot-clad feet on the marble floor, cocking one eyebrow in a smug show of confidence. Pestile
nce wanted to curl his lip at the demon’s conceit. He’d seen the vampire’s ilk before—human-world miscreants thinking they were the Powers’ gift to the demon race because Hollywood dedicated so much time to their pathetic existence. Still, this vampire was, it had to be said, finally proving to be useful.

  “The human female is ripe,” the bloodsucker answered. “Desperate for what I can give her. After tonight she will give me anything I ask.”

  Pestilence leaned forward on his throne, earning himself a sudden acupuncture session from the disturbed kitten’s claws. “Hush,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to the white fluff ball for a second and scratching its chin. “Go back to sleep.”

  He returned his attention to the cocky vampire, narrowing his eyes. “And what exactly are you going to ask for?”

  “The key you seek.”

  “Pray tell?” Pestilence murmured, stroking the kitten with languid calm while studying the vampire with an unwavering gaze, “what key is that?”

  The vampire grinned, an entirely hideous expression in Pestilence’s opinion. “The key to Patrick Watkins’ demise.”

  Cold hope rushed through Pestilence’s body but he kept his face indifferent, his body relaxed and loose. After all this time, could it be true? Could the bloodsucker really deliver what he promised?

  “Do not think to fool me, Raziel,” he warned with an offhanded tone, adjusting the sleeping kitten on his lap. For something so small, it was quite heavy. “Or you will find yourself drowning in cockroaches with a very sick taste in your mouth.”

  The vampire visibly blanched, his already pale skin bleaching paler at the veiled threat. “I’m not trying to fool you, sire,” he gushed, fidgeting on the spot. “The female will deliver exactly what I ask and I will deliver him to you.”

  Pestilence studied the bloodsucker, letting his lips curl into a small smile. Raziel had been his eyes and ears in the human-dwelling demon world for over two decades, with the sole purpose of finding a weakness to the lifeguard’s seemingly impenetrable protection. He raised his eyebrows, daring to dream it was all coming to fruition. “As asked?” he said. “As promised?”