Page 56 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

The moan she lets out is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard—a raw, uninhibited sound that vibrates through the rubble.

“There you go,” I murmur as I stretch her open. “I wonder how loud you’ll scream when I finally trade these fingers for my cock.”

Every muscle in my body is straining with the effort not to rip these stupid slacks open so I can fully feel the friction I’m currently wasting on my hand.

Her eyelids flutter, a beautiful, broken moan spilling from her throat as she hits the precipice.

And then she lets go.

She comes hard, her back arching as her pussy pulses around my fingers. She’s tight—so fucking tight—clamping down around me as a hot gush of her release floods over my hand, soaking into the fabric between us.

Her forehead falls heavily against my collarbone as she gasps for air. Slowly, I withdraw my hand and bring my fingers to my lips, tasting her—the salt, the grit of the site, and the absolute, exquisite surrender.

I’ve tasted the climaxes of thousands in Hell, but this mortal sweetness is a revelation.

“Delicious,” I whisper, my eyes locking onto hers as catches her breath. “Now... let's see if we can't find a way for me to taste the rest of you.”

I reach down between us, fumbling with the fastener of my slacks, intending to finally free myself and sink into her. But before I can make the trade, her still-trembling hands clamp over mine, pinning them to my stomach.

“No,” she whispers. “Wait.”

My fingers are still slick with her, my body screaming for the finish with a violence that makes my vision swim. “What? That felt good, didn’t it?”

“That isn't the point.” She pulls away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if she could scrub away the taste of me. “We’re in a construction site, and I’m a mess, and you look human, and the adrenaline, I⁠—”

She scrambles off my lap, her boots skidding in the gravel as she puts distance between us, tugging her clothes back into place.

What a spectacular fall from grace. If I were still in Hell, I’d have leveled the building for such an insult to my momentum.

“Of course,” I drawl, standing slowly. I adjust the set of my borrowed shoulders, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in the Corpse-Boy’s coat with practiced, arrogant precision, as if my heart isn't trying to kick its way through my ribs. “The little summoner has found her limits. How very predictable.”

The ache in my trousers remains a stubborn, punishing reminder of how close I was to fucking her into the gravel. I want to snap something—another tile, a window, or perhaps the neck of whatever idiot decided to give humans such a tiresome sense of self-respect.

“I’m tired,” she says quietly. The adrenaline and the pleasure have finally deserted her, leaving behind only the hollowed-out, grey exhaustion of a woman who remembers she’s supposed to be grieving.

“Naturally,” I say, offering a bored, razor-edged smile that doesn't reach my eyes. I turn away from her, scanning the hollowed-out ribs of the building one last time. “The catharsis has reached its expiration date. Come along, then. Let’s get you back to your hovel before you start weeping again.”

Chapter 21

Malachi

Mortal cocks are so strange.

It’s certainly not ‘velvet-wrapped steel’—honestly, whoever wrote that book needs a refresher on metallurgy. It’s more like a particularly stubborn, over-sensitive blood sausage. It’s fleshy and persistent and a startlingly human shade of beige that feels entirely too vulnerable.

It looked better when it was silver. Everything did. Now, it just looks… needy. Like a blind animal looking for a warm place to burrow.

Even if I could kick down her bedroom door and bury myself in her to finish what we started in the construction site, would she even like the look of it?

I snort, my fingers tightening on my waistband.

No, of course she would.

Even in this claustrophobic meat-suit, I’m an ethereal being compared to the dish-plate-faced mortals she’s used to. She’d probably weep with gratitude at the upgrade. If she were to let me get past the point of burying my fingers inside her before she panicked.

Eden is fast asleep or—more likely—weeping into her pillow over her ‘trauma’, and the House Beast isn't even here to keep me company

I look down at the bratwurst again.