Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,124
For all the sex I’ve had, I’m a stranger to this. Feeling valued, adored.
I can feel a thick knot of emotion in my throat, and my eyes begin to sting. I cover my eyes with a hand, but to my horror, it doesn’t stop a tear from slipping out. Another one follows it. Then another and another.
What is wrong with you?
Famine pauses. “Ana?” he asks, and I want to laugh at the uncertainty in his voice.
It takes an embarrassing amount of strength, but I drag my hands away from my eyes. I don’t know if he can see my tears in the darkness, but—
Famine’s brow wrinkles as he takes me in. “Are you crying?” I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of me.
“Yes,” I admit.
Famine frowns. “Do you want me to stop?” he says, clearly not understanding why I’m upset.
“God no.”
He stares at me longer. There’s very little softness to this man, and yet, right now, he’s being excruciatingly compassionate.
“I’m not human,” he says. “I don’t understand what you’re thinking. Explain your mind.”
I blow out a breath. “My clients—they never treated me like this.” Not even Martim.
Sex always felt like an exchange. I was a prostitute. I wasn’t getting paid to be adored. I was getting paid to slack someone’s lust.
Famine’s expression changes, becoming empathetic—so, so empathetic. I think, when it comes to pain and vulnerability, he sees me more clearly than anyone else ever has.
That warm, uncomfortable feeling blooms low in my belly. This time, I don’t fight it.
The horseman brushes back my hair, his eyes moving between mine.
“Tonight,” he says softly, “you’re going to forget all the ways you were mistreated. I’m going to make sure of it.”
Chapter 41
He doesn’t lead, but he doesn’t wait for me to lead either. Rather, every touch is met with another touch.
I stare at him in wonder as he removes my boots and the last of my dress before shucking off his own shoes and pants.
How Famine is acting right now goes against everything he’s led me to believe. He shouldn’t be sentimental—there’s no room for sentimentality in that dark heart of his—and yet he’s handling me like I’m precious to him.
Naked, he kneels at my feet. He takes one of my ankles and presses a kiss to it, running his lips over my skin.
Jesus, he’s going to drag this out. It’s probably not the best night to drag this out; the rain didn’t wash away all the mud and blood on my skin …
I reach for him, ready to speed things up.
Famine catches my hands and, twining his fingers between mine, he pins my arms above my head, draping himself over me. I can feel his hard cock pinned between us.
He kisses me softly. “No tricks,” he murmurs against my lips. He pulls away long enough for our eyes to meet.
After a moment, I nod.
At my response, he releases my hands. His mouth returns to kissing my skin, moving down from my lips to my chin to my clavicles, sternum, and breasts.
I close my eyes against his kisses, drinking them in. Each press of his lips is unspeakably tender. This is a side of him that I didn’t know existed—that I hadn’t imagined could exist—and it’s doing strange things to me.
I slide my palms over Famine’s shoulders, marveling at his smooth flesh. This body of his has seen and felt so much pain, and unlike me, he has nothing to show for it. No scars, no disfigurement, just an alarming amount of nightmarish memories.
I twine my legs around his, the pads of my feet skimming over the back of his calves, trying to feel every part of him at once. My heart feels too big for my chest.
He slides his hands over my skin, breaking off his kisses to just look at me. It’s the oddest thing in the world, seeing him marvel at my form like he’s discovering desire for the first time. His gaze moves to my eyes, and at his expression, I still.
I don’t simply exist, he once said, I hunger.
I see his desire now so clearly, but it’s not as simple as most of the lustful looks men have given me in the past. There’s a deeper element to it, and I remember something else he said to me.
Not everything is about sex, flower.
What else is going on behind those green eyes of his? Could it be … could he feel more for me?
I force away the thought before it can sink its claws in.