Page 72 of Reaper Said Mine

Her eyes brighten.

"Really?"

"You can ask me anything."

The journalist inside her immediately awakens. I can practically see the questions forming behind her eyes.

"Anything?"

"Anything."

She smiles.

The expression settles somewhere deep inside me.

The future does not feel like something I must carry alone. Whatever chaos waits beyond this room can wait until tomorrow.

Tonight she stays, and for reasons I am only beginning to understand, that feels like the most important victory of my life.

CHAPTER 11

URSA

Gnash’s private quarters do not look like the lair of a monster, which is both professionally inconvenient and personally dangerous. My legs still shiver with aftershocks as he lounges atop me, arms resting on my thighs, and face still inches from my still-spasming pussy.

“This is not what I expected,” I say. “I know I mentioned it before, but this does not scream ‘bloodthirsty warlord.’

His crimson eyes narrow with amusement. “You expected blood on the walls.”

“I expected a room designed to make visitors regret having nervous systems.”

“That is the interrogation chamber.”

I look at him sharply.

His mouth curves.

“Joke, Ursa.”

“You need to mark those better.”

“I have been told my humor lacks comforting softness.”

“By whom?”

“Skahar. Vakka. Three merchants. One captured assassin who complained while bleeding on my floor.”

“That sounds like a statistically meaningful sample.”

His smile deepens enough to show the points of his teeth, and the sight should make me step back. It does not. My pulse is still too fast from the spirited snu-snu.

“But you were saying,” he purrs, “about how you feel sex with a Reaper doesn’t meet your expectations?”

“I don’t know if I would put it that way--”

He disrobes, peeling away his garments to reveal obsidian-skinned perfection. If you look past the bone spurs and shark-like teeth, you can see that he’s a damn fine specimen of a man…er, alien. Michelangelo himself couldn’t have envisioned a more perfectly carved example of brawny yet lithe musculature.

Bet he couldn’t have envisioned those red eyes, either, or…good god, his cock has spurs on it! My apprehension is soon assuaged, however, when I realize these aren’t made of bone but some sort of soft cartilage. I can tell when he grips the throbbing, veined shaft in his gnarled hand and drags the crown across the top of my thighs.