Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,111

and down, up and down.

He lets out a moan that is sexy as hell.

Famine was right of course. He should be worried. I’m going to make him reconsider sex. Wholly and completely.

He’s going to be mine once I’m finished with him.

I use every trick I have on him, from swirling my tongue around the sensitive head of his cock, to cupping his balls, to even pressing a finger into his ass—the last one of which causes him to jerk against me.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he swears, “what sort of witchcraft is this?”

It’s my turn to ignore him, doubling down on my efforts, my mouth and hand working him.

In response he groans, his muscles clenching. His hands find their way into my hair, and he grips me like he’s holding on.

With my free hand, I cup his balls again.

His hips buck, and his cock twitches in my mouth. “Dear Lord—you need to stop.”

Um, ignore.

“Ana—” His voice roughens, his cock continuing to twitch against me.

Ignore.

“If you want things to progress … Jesus … stop …”

He showed me zero mercy. I’ll return the favor. I continue to glide my mouth over him, my hand pumping the base of his shaft.

“Fuck, flower—” Famine’s grip tightens in my hair, and then he’s thrusting against me as he begins to orgasm.

I taste him then, his cum filling my mouth for a moment before slipping down my throat. Over and over he pistons against me, and I wring him dry, working him until he’s gently prying me away.

“Have mercy,” he says, his hazy eyes meeting mine. His cheeks are flushed and he looks thoroughly fucked.

Beneath me, his muscles now relax.

I flash him a very wicked, very proud smile. He actually begged me for mercy. I definitely want to hear those words again.

And I want to make him feel good all over again, just for the sake of seeing his pleasure.

I push aside that particular thought.

He hauls me up to him, then breathes in my ear, “Ho-ly shit.”

“And to think you could’ve been having this the entire time,” I say tartly.

There’s a long pause, then Famine lets out a surprised laugh. “Little flower, you are, perhaps, even more devious than I am.”

His eyes spark with delight. He runs his hand over my back, seeming to enjoy the feel of my skin. But then his touch stops. It moves down a little, then up.

I stiffen against him, aware of what he’s now noticing for the first time.

“Ana.”

My gaze meets his.

“What are these?” Famine asks, running his fingers over the lines that crisscross my back.

He’s seen me naked plenty of times, yet he’s never gotten a good look at my back.

“Scars.”

“Scars,” he repeats calmly. Too calmly. “From what?”

I’ve had this conversation more times than I’d like. Most men, bless their hearts, give an honest attempt at pillow talk, even when they’re paying for my services. So they ask questions.

“The horse whip my aunt was particularly fond of.”

“This is what your aunt did to you?” he says, aghast.

I nod.

He moves me a little so that he can peer at the scars. Whatever he sees makes him sit up further.

I begin to move myself, but he holds me in place, inspecting my back.

“There are dozens of welts,” he says, horrified.

I didn’t think he had it in him to be disturbed by something like this. He inflicts worse on people all the time.

“I’m aware.” I remember all too clearly the sharp, lacerating burn as my skin split open, and the stiff, lingering pain that lasted for days and days afterwards as the injuries healed.

“Why would she hit you?” he says. Famine doesn’t usually show his anger, but I hear it in his voice now.

I lift a shoulder. “It varied. Sometimes it was because I’d forget to do my chores. Sometimes it was because I was too slow—or too lazy. Sometimes I’d say something she didn’t like, and sometimes it was just a look I’d give her.”

“A look,” Famine repeats. He’s staring at me like he can’t fathom it. “And you still lived with her?”

“I was a child,” I say a little defensively. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Anywhere else would’ve been better.”

I give him a disparaging look. “Spoken like a man who has never been powerless.”

“I have been powerless.”

My breath catches. Of course. I don’t know how I forgot.

He traces my scars some more. “And you wonder why I despise your kind.”

My throat works. What he’s saying is terrible, but I don’t feel his hatred; right now I feel his empathy. If there was