Death is so tall, even sitting, that I have to rise to lift the black shirt over his head and off his arms. Once it’s free, I drop it among the growing pile of discarded items.
I glance down, at Thanatos, at his bare chest and glowing tattoos.
Do it, he’d told me. Kiss and touch and take.
I lower myself once more on his lap, feeling his eyes on me. My own attention moves to his torso.
If Death’s face is that of a tragic hero, his chest is that of a warrior. Thick bands of muscle curve around his frame, his torso tapering down to a narrow waist.
I reach out again, this time to trace one of his glowing tattoos. My finger tingles a little, as though there’s magic just in tracing the symbol’s shape.
Thanatos makes a pained noise at the contact.
“More, Lazarus,” he whispers.
I place both my hands on his skin, letting myself discover the shape of his shoulders and arms. I shiver a little. I’ve never been with someone who felt like this. He seems cut from stone.
I run a hand over his abdominal muscles, each one clearly defined. Soon, touching isn’t quite enough. I hadn’t been lying when I said I wanted to kiss his flesh.
I lean in. The moment my lips touch his skin, he groans.
He cups the back of my head, lightly holding me there against his skin. This close to him, he smells like the incense he burns from his torch, only now I have to wonder whether the smell came from the smoke itself, or whether it’s a more innate part of him.
My mouth trails over several of the glowing symbols.
I cannot believe I’m actually doing this.
I press another kiss to his flesh, this time, tonguing his skin just a little.
Death hisses out a breath. “Do not tell me we could’ve been doing this the whole time I chased you,” he says.
“We’ll never know,” I breathe against him.
He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “But I have you now,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. It sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself.
“You can touch me too,” I say. I mean, I know he already has been touching me, but there’s touching, and then there’s touching. I’m offering him the latter.
His eyes open, and he tips his head down to look at me. “Where?” he says, his voice scraped raw.
Ah, that’s right. He likes more literal answers.
I study those strange silver freckles in his irises. “Anywhere.”
He holds my stare for several seconds before his eyes drift down to the rest of me.
Thanatos moves his hand from my hair and trails his fingertips over my cheekbones then down to my jaw.
“How I’ve wanted to hear those words fall from your lips,” he admits, his voice desire-roughened.
Despite his words, he’s holding back. I can practically feel his body trembling with his restraint, and I imagine it’s because the places he wishes to touch are hidden.
I press my palm over his hand, which still cups my face. For a moment I lean into the touch. When I feel the cool brush of metal against my flesh I pull his hand away to inspect what it is.
On his finger he wears that strange ring, the one with the coin fixed to it bearing the face of Medusa.
I move his ring back and forth. “What’s the story behind this?” I ask. By now I’ve discovered that everything adorning the horseman has a deeper meaning.
“Charon’s obol,” Death says, distracted. When my brows furrow, he clarifies, “A coin of the dead.”
“Why would the dead need coins?” I ask.
“They don’t. It’s merely one of the gifts I’ve been given over the centuries.”
“Who gave it to you?” I ask, my voice carefully light.
It doesn’t work.
Thanatos arches a brow. “Why do you care, Lazarus? They have long since moved on.”
I stare levelly back at him. “Now you’re the one dancing with your words.”
Death gives me a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I can recall the shape of their soul, the person who gave me this coin holds no more meaning to me than anyone else … except for you.” His gaze is intense as he says this last part.
“I have known no one as intimately as I know you,” he continues. “No one. I cross paths with some individuals over and over again during their lives, but I cannot know the living. Not like this.”
Not as a living, breathing man.
The two of us stare at each other.
I don’t know who moves first, but our lips collide, the ring long forgotten. The kiss should feel like a lie. It should feel wrong, coerced—everything but what it does feel like.