He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth is on mine—hard, claiming—and his tongue pushes past my lips. His fingers tighten in my hair and I moan into his mouth and he growls back.
The gun. I need to put down the gun.
I reach blindly for the bedside table and set it down with a clunk that's probably not great for the mechanism, but then my hands are free and they're fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.
He pushes me back onto the bed. The mattress gives beneath me and he follows me down, covering me, his weight pressing me into the silk. I can feel him hard against my thigh and I roll my hips up without thinking and he hisses through his teeth.
"We're about to kill my father." The words come out against his mouth. "And this is what we're doing first."
"Yes."
"That's fucked up."
"Extremely." He pulls back just enough to look at me. He just murdered someone in public a few hours ago and I want him so badly my hands are shaking. "You're even brighter now. You like that it's fucked up."
He's not wrong. He's not wrong and I can't even pretend otherwise because he can literally see the truth written on me.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I drag his mouth back to mine.
He strips me out of my remaining clothes. Then his mouth is on my collarbone, my throat, the hollow at the base of my neck where my pulse is racing.
"I'm going to leave marks." He says it against my skin, teeth scraping. "Everyone's going to see them tomorrow. Everyone's going to know."
"Good."
I mean it. I want his marks on my skin. I want everyone to see. I want to walk into that house tonight with bruises on my throat that say I belong to the god who just destroyed Faith and watch my father's face when he realizes what that means.
He laughs—low, pleased—and his hands find my breasts and I arch into the touch. His palms warm and rough and finally there after all this waiting.
I rake my nails down his back just to hear him groan. His skin is hot under my hands, the scars on his wrists silver in the low light, and he's still smiling that razor smile while I touch him.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're one to talk."
"I'm always staring at you." He's working his way down my body now, mouth trailing heat. "I was staring at you in that plaza while I had blood on my hands. I was staring at you while you told an entire crowd that Faith was dissolved. I wanted to bend you over Faiths dead leader and fuck you in front of all of them."
My brain shorts out. Loss of signal. Please stand by.
"That's—"
"Deranged? Yes." He settles between my thighs, shoulders spreading my legs wider, and looks up at me with those silver eyes. "I'm aware."
His eyes track over me. Slow. Hungry.
"You're still staring."
"I'm deciding where to start." His head angles to the side, reading me. "You want my mouth. You're practically vibrating with it."
"Stop reading me and do something about it."
"Bossy." He grins, sharp and delighted. "I like it."
His mouth lands on my inner thigh. Then higher. Then—not high enough. I'm already wet and he hasn't touched me there yet and I might actually die. What a way to go.
