Page 48 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter forty-eight

God

“Are you sure?” I ask, stroking his skin. Gods. He is exquisite, all of his emotions right on the surface, and after Woland’s infinite lies, Chors’ honesty soothes me so well.

“I’m sure.”

He pulls back, regaining some of his control. His pupils are wide, face flushed, and his desire is a palpable thing, like a force of nature bringing us close. When his eyes lower to my lips and his breath hitches, I slowly bring my hand up to trace his mouth.

“Would you like to kiss?” I ask, my heart pounding with the heady innocence of this encounter.

How is it possible he’s never done this? I don’t doubt him, and after all, Woland said Chors only watches, but still, it feels utterly too serendipitous that he wants me after centuries of abstinence. But Chors is a sexual creature and a voyeur. Maybe something happened that prevented him from willing to bare himself to another person.

Maybe I am someone he trusts.

He nods so sharply, my finger almost ends up in his nose. I giggle, and after a moment, he smiles back, breathless and exultant.

“Yes. I want to kiss you.”

I lay my hand on his nape, ever so gently, and he leans down, fast, ecstatic puffs of breath exploding against my lips. I part them and come closer until our bodies are flush, his erection trapped against my belly. He makes a needy sound in the back of his throat right as his lips press to mine.

He doesn’t move for a moment and neither do I. We breathe, faster and faster until our breaths are in sync, and I kiss him softly, just a gentle stroke of my lips over his. It’s so innocent. Like friends kissing.

And then, it’s not.

He moans, his hands suddenly on my body, pulling me closer. His lips move with mine, clumsily at first, and then he sucks my lower lip into his mouth, and it’s wetness, warmth, and a taste of moonlight, all in one.

He steals my breath, arms too tight around me, mouth folding into mine with low, frustrated sounds. I sense what he needs and lick into his mouth, tongue meeting tongue. He freezes.

And kisses me back.

It’s messy and perfect, our tongues gliding together in a stuttering dance that grows easier with every stroke, until I’m gathered to him, my toes barely grazing the sand on the bottom. He kisses raw moans into my mouth, pushing as deep as our bodies allow, teeth scraping tongues, lips suckled and stroked until I’m dizzy, and still, he hasn’t had enough.

He holds me as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away. It’s not possessive or arrogant. He just lets me know with every twitch of his desperate fingers how much he needs me here.

“Wait,” I choke out when it feels like I’ll fall apart. “Please.”

He stops, his tongue still in my mouth, his body pressed closer than I thought possible. With a low, questioning sound, he pulls back, but his cock stays pressed to my stomach, deliciously hard and pulsing, and his mouth barely lets go of mine.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice hoarse as if he screamed all this time instead of kissing me.

“I need a moment. To breathe.”

He hums, watching me closely, like I’m a puzzle to solve. “Could you not breathe when we kissed?”

I shake my head. “Not because… Ah. It was intense. Like you said.”

His smile is a slow, lustrous thing, like the dawn of the full moon over the horizon. “Good intense?” he asks to confirm, though from the happy glow in his eyes, I can tell he knows.

I nod. “Very good. Can we… Can we come out? I’d like to see you.”

His smile falls away, his jaw slackening with lust, eyes growing darker as his pupils swallow up even more of his irises. I run my hands up his back, tracing his muscles, so very distinct on his lean frame. He is a work of art, the tattoos covering his arms glowing silver. The water around us glitters with his beauty.

“You can look at me. But I’ll look, too,” he says, as if to warn me.

He captures my hand, almost commanding in his haste to get me out of the water. We splash to the shore, and he lets go, walking backward until he can see my whole body. He swallows, his throat bobbing. We watch each other, and his breath comes faster yet. He digs his fingers into the sides of his thighs, as if not knowing what to do with his hands yet needing to grip something.

I am overcome with a sudden urge to see him under me.

“Can you lie down?” I ask, choking on my own rapid breath. “Please. On your back.”

He obeys so fast, I huff out a small, overwhelmed laugh. We’re both wet, our bodies glistening, but it’s so warm in here, it’s not uncomfortable. I come over, dropping to my knees by his side. Chors looks up with wide, vulnerable eyes, so completely open, my heart aches.

“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, my fingers hovering right over his cheek, trailing the curve of it without touching. “I want to worship every inch of you.”

He takes a shuddering breath, nodding fast. His voice is raw. “Do. Please.”

And so I do. My hands descend on his face, learning its gorgeous shape. I run my fingers over his exquisite brows and gently coax him to close his eyes so I can touch his fluttering lashes. After my fingers, I use my mouth, kissing his eye, his cheek, the side of his nose.

When I kiss his mouth, he grips the back of my head and holds me there, kissing me back with desperate need.

I let my fingers trail further down, stroking the wet skin of his throat, the dips and hollows of his collarbones, the hard ridge of his sternum. His breath hitches, and he moans into my mouth when I circle his nipple. It’s hard under my fingers, and I kiss down his jaw and throat, trailing a slow, hot path to that nipple.

When I close my mouth around it and suck, his body arches up with a helpless, needy sound. I almost purr with pleasure. To have this stunning god laid out for me like a feast is a blessing I never expected to be given, and I cherish it all the more for that.

“You taste like night and magic,” I tell him after swirling my tongue around his other nipple. Below, his cock leaks precum onto his stomach, and my mouth waters, but not yet, not yet. I want to worship him properly. He deserves it, and so much more.

“P-please,” he begs, his voice ragged, eyes desperate. “Touch me.”

I smile, kissing a path down his side, one kiss for each rib. His stomach is concave when he lies down, and I kiss up to the edge of his ribs and trail my tongue down the valley of him to his navel. I kiss it gently and look up, meeting his hazy eyes.

“Why do you have one? If you were born from the river?”

He shakes his head. “A-ask my father. I d-don’t remember.”

I smile and push Weles out of my mind. Chors’ cock jerks just inches away from my lips, and I kiss my way down to his hipbone, enjoying the way he groans with utter disappointment.

“Please! Do you not want to kiss it? Do you not like it?” he asks, his voice breaking.

I pause and look up. He pants, so distressed, I immediately cease my teasing.

“I’m leaving the best for last,” I say solemnly. “Would you like me to kiss your cock, my god?”

While Woland pulled terms of respect out of my throat with seductive threats and heady orgasms, I can’t help but give them to Chors. I’ll call him a god or even a master, because he is so clearly at my mercy.

“Yes,” he hisses in despair, his throat straining as he tips his head back.

I lean closer, running a single finger up the length of him. He is glorious. Swollen and hard, his cock looks as desperate as he is. Silvery precum winds down his length, and the glistening head is almost purple from the strain, the sensitive skin on the underside begging to be licked.

Instead, I bury my nose in the dark hair growing at his root. It’s damp, the slightest traces of his scent clinging there despite our bath. I breathe him in, the clean musk imprinting on my mind. Even if we only have this one time, I’ll remember everything: how he looks, how he sounds, how he smells.

And now, I’ll learn how he tastes, too.

His hard muscles play under his wet skin as he raises himself up on his elbows to watch. I look up and smile. His eyes are pinned to my mouth when I lower it slowly and lick up his shaft, letting my tongue follow a delicate vein pulsing under the thin sheath of his skin.

He throws his head back with an incoherent sound, and I go back to his root and lick again, following another path. He tastes like a man, musky but subtle, and I smile, peppering him with kisses when I remember what I promised.

It’s slow and teasing, his soft groans of agonizing pleasure egging me on. He’s up on his elbows again, watching me. Even so completely given over to lust, he is gorgeous. Hints of white, straight teeth peek from behind his swollen lips as his frantic breaths shudder out of him, and oh gods, I want to thank him on my knees for the gift of seeing him like this.

I hold his gaze and suck his cock into my mouth as deep as possible.

He moans. His stomach tenses. Cum splashes against the back of my throat, thick spurts of it, until I almost can’t keep up.

I suck him through his orgasm, watching his chest heaving with ecstasy, and a deep, smug satisfaction curls around my bones. I made the god of the moon come.

When it’s over, he lies back, a single sound of uncertainty pulling out of his throat. I lie next to him on my side, leaning on my elbow so I see his face. When he opens his eyes, he seems chagrined.

“I didn’t know it would happen so fast,” he says quietly.

“Do you want to be done?” I need to ask, even though I’m sure he will say no. “Because I am not done worshipping you, my god.”

“Jaga.”

I shiver, the single word from his mouth making me so utterly aware that he is here with me , that he chose me, and he knows it. I am not just some woman or a body to him. He knows me. And I can’t be sure, but it feels like it’s the first time he said my name.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to stop,” he says after a moment, his eyes roaming my face. “But you have his mark. Right there.”

His fingers trail my lower belly, where the crossing crescents of Woland’s brand gleam red. Chors smiles ruefully.

“I want to see what it feels like to be inside you, but I’m afraid he’ll somehow sense that and come here. He can’t hurt me, and I know he won’t truly hurt you, but… You’re his in the end. He’ll never rest until he gets you back.”

I turn my face away to hide my bitter expression. My voice is cool and controlled as I speak, even as hate flares in my belly, where moments ago, desire burned.

“Well, I don’t want him, and you’re wrong. I am not that significant. Right now, I want you and I’m not afraid. The choice is yours.”

He cups my cheek, bringing my face around until I have to gaze into his eyes. I know how I must look, mutinous and angry, and he still smiles at me as if my hard edges don’t put him off. His thumb traces my cheek, and I exhale in surrender, mellowing under his touch.

“I want to be inside you,” he says softly. “Please.”

I smile in relief, and yet, unease makes me hesitate. I touch the brand like one would touch a hurting bruise, carefully but with an urge to press hard and explore the soreness. I’ve ignored it for a long time, too afraid of what it might mean.

“Does it tell him where I am?” I ask, my other hand covering the space between my collarbones. “If I use his blood to make it impossible?”

Chors shakes his head, sitting up with ease. “He shouldn’t. But it is a claim, and it seems he can’t keep it off you. I know right now he is entangled in things he refuses to accept, which helps you win. But once he rips through the tangles and understands himself, you’ll stand no chance. I thought it would be kind to tell you. As a friend.”

He takes my hand, playing idly with my fingers, and I look away. His words make me anxious, and I don’t think I can ignore them. Chors is innocent when it comes to some things, but he spends every night watching mortals, gods, and bieses. A pure, non-judgmental observer sees so much more than others.

And night is when we give in to our secrets. He knows the most hidden parts of our nature.

I could ask him a lot of things, but as he shifts to sit more comfortably, and his half-hard cock slides over his thigh, my unspent desire hums back to life. He seems engrossed, tracing each of my fingernails with great care before lifting my palm and fitting it against his.

His fingers are longer and more graceful, his palm bigger, but his skin is as warm as mine, a bit of sand trapped between our fingertips. He studies the differences with a gentle frown. Then, before I understand what he’s doing, he gets up and sits opposite me, pressing the sole of his foot to mine. I laugh and wiggle my toes, and he looks up with a small smile.

“Still trying to learn which part of me is so entrancing that the devil himself fell for me?” I ask with a grin.

He shakes his head. “No, I figured it out. I’m just trying to see how we fit. With some things, like pieces of wood in a stack, there is a way to fit everything almost perfectly if you try hard enough. People are tricky. One person can be a fit for many. And sometimes for none. I thought I was the latter, and I’m wondering if I am wrong.”

He bends his legs and shuffles closer, exploring our joined feet with his fingers. When his touch tickles, I laugh but stay put, letting him do it. He smiles, absorbed and mischievous, and I decide to ask him, even though the question makes my gut churn.

“And? What did you figure out? What’s my appeal?”

“Hm?”

He lifts his head, letting his foot fall away, his knees opening artlessly as he leans his elbows on them, his back curled. Dark hair falls into his face, and he brushes it away with a careless move of a graceful hand. My breath catches, because he keeps surprising me with his beauty. Even in a pose that should be anything but attractive, hunched over and sitting on the ground, he is stunning.

“It’s not just one thing, but many,” Chors says, gathering his thoughts. “But the most important is that you are exactly what he needs. Like I said, he lost himself, stuck in a rut of fighting the same enemy over and over and losing. You’re a new type of challenge, one that’s far more complex and rewarding. I think you’ll teach him how to win and when to surrender. If he’s smart enough to take the lessons.”

I smile grimly. Even though I don’t understand what he means exactly, I get the gist of it: I am but an instrument for Woland’s bettering, apparently. Not a person, but something he needs. Like I always knew.

“And what’s my appeal to you?” I ask, needy in my wounded vanity. “Or no, better not tell me.”

If he likens me to a tool, as well, I’ll be crushed. Better not to know, even if my heart is already heavy with the awareness that I am really nothing in the end. Just a mortal girl made significant by a prophecy. A victim of circumstance.

Chors studies me, his brows furrowed in confusion. “I thought it’s obvious,” he answers anyway, and I brace myself for his reason that’s bound to be unflattering.

“You’re the first woman I ever desired. It feels like I know you to the bone, with how much I watched you. Every night. Ever since he and you met, I watched, just as he did. All you did were mundane, mortal things, but I was riveted. In the mortal world, I looked in through your window and counted your breaths when you slept. I followed your paths when you walked at night. I just… know you. And you’re desirable to the core, body and soul. That’s your appeal.”

“Oh.”

The shields I raised to protect myself from humiliation melt under his words. I shiver, suddenly warm and wanted, feeling beautiful in a way I never felt before, not even with Woland. He wanted something from me from the start, but Chors… He just wants me.

“Well then.”

I stand up with a smile and extend a hand to help him up. “Let’s wash off the sand.”