Page 27

27

Merry

Music crescendos in her head. The hot blast of noise launches to the rafters and then scatters into fragments, a culmination of sound streaking through her arms and limbs, as if she’s turned into a speaker.

Merry realizes. It’s not music but her. She’s moaning, then yelling.

Her body arcs so far back, her vertebrae are about to snap. She’s a bursting star, unraveling against the flexing plank of Anger’s tongue as it plies her slick folds.

A million light years later, the instruments fade. The eruption recedes, and Anger’s mouth slides to a halt against her cunt, his lips sketching her with one final lick. The rapture ebbs, her lungs in tatters and aftershocks racing along her calves.

At some point, Merry reenters her body. Her skin turns into gelatin, and she slumps with her fingers scarcely maintaining their hold on the overhead bars. Fatigued, she mumbles something that makes Anger chuckle, the sound a deep rumble against her sensitive pussy.

Clarity resumes. She’s upright in the cable car, floating over The Moonlit Carnival. Her legs have fallen askew around Anger’s head, with her calves slung over his chest, the drenched crease of her thighs exposed. Meanwhile, he’s on his back, palming her naked backside, his thumbs rubbing over her flesh.

He watches her, those eyes captivated. “How many debauched things I plan to do to you.”

Merry’s stomach hitches. “Only if I get to do things to you too. Pretty please.”

Anger lunges upright, and she releases the bars, her body sinking astride his. “You already have, Merry,” he swears in a husky timbre, banding his arms around her, grazing his mouth over hers. “You have done many things to me. And you can keep doing them for eternity, in whatever ways you want, for I’ll gladly submit every time.” But before she can take delight in that offer, he glances away with a frown. “I’m sorry. I do not… excel in speeches like these.”

Her fingers coast through Anger’s hair, urging him to face her. “You’re doing just fine to me.”

Anger wavers as though unsure whether to give himself false hope. But then he sighs in relief and gathers Merry tighter against his smooth chest, fitting them together. “Do you think I might learn how to be tender? How to be affectionate for your liking?”

“Anger.” A gentle whisper drifts from her lips. “You don’t need instruction. You only need to open your heart and trust what happens.”

“That is a risk. I might make the wrong choices, say the wrong things.”

“Yes, you might. And that will make it real.”

His dark pupils search her own. “And if I cannot open it to anyone but you? If I don’t want to?”

Merry shrugs through her happiness. “Then I’m not going to complain.”

Finally, a grin breaks through his face. A gruff chuckle escapes his lips, his torso rumbling as he snatches her mouth. Merry flings her arms around his shoulders and smiles into the kiss, tasting her climax on his tongue.

He flexes his tongue with Merry’s, their mouths clutching until she’s dizzy. Forcing himself backward, Anger brushes a lock of pink from her temple, then he rests his forehead against her own. Absently, her hands skim his sides and skate over the smooth dip in his back. His cock is still hard and pressed against her wet slit, his desire for her sending a delirious shiver through Merry.

The God of Anger has his arms around her. Stars, she loves the feeling of his body encasing her own, his inhalations syncing with her exhalations, his heat brimming through her flesh. She can’t believe this is happening.

Anger sweeps his lips across her jaw, then glides down the side of her throat. “Tell me how that felt.”

“Like you turned me into a star,” she moans, craning her head to offer him unfettered access. “It felt like you and me.”

“Us,” he echoes, mouthing the word against her pulse point. “I like being an us .”

She does too.

Hovering above the city, they trace one another’s bodies. It’s effortless and artless, old and new.

When Anger asks, Merry answers. Her previous intimacies were fleeting since none of the deities made a romantic impression beyond simple attraction. Still, her answer is enough to draw a low, possessive growl from Anger, who wraps her firmer against him. Naturally, Merry teases and chastises the god for this reaction, even while she secretly loves seeing him jealous.

When she asks him the same thing, Anger also answers. He’s been with goddesses before, which is hardly a surprise.

In the silence, Merry thinks back on the signs—the looks and exchanges she’s witnessed. “Wonder,” she guesses.

Anger winces. “Once,” he confesses without preamble. “It was one night. We were broken over people we could not have and grew desperate.”

But maybe another word for it is lonely. Merry listens to his explanation with a pang—not for herself, but for them. It doesn’t hurt to think of Anger and Wonder having sex, but it does hurt to think of their mutual anguish.

“Even so, it did not work. And there have been others,” he says, peering at Merry. “But this… tonight. It’s never been like this with anyone.”

“Like what?” she whispers.

When he speaks across her lips, she gets a whiff of black pepper and bergamot. Enveloping her in his strong embrace, he confesses, “Like I’ve made a choice.”

***

When sunrise drizzles light into her sanctuary, Merry blinks. A solid wall rises and falls beneath her cheek, and she grins drowsily at the slumbering god. His large frame rests on his side, their bodies facing one another and entangled, with their fingers knotted between them, their fingerless gloves having been peeled off sometime after they returned to the observatory.

Her, bare under the dress. Him, bare from the waist up.

After sprawling Merry across the cable car floor and hooking her thighs over his shoulders, Anger had hunched into the gap of her legs. Then he’d sucked on her clit for a second bout, alternating between tugging on the bud of skin and thrusting his tongue into her cunt. His ravenous groans and the undulating pressure of his mouth had divested Merry of all thought, her shouts traveling across the park, so that she’d been sure every outcast in residence heard her coming onto the god’s mouth.

Arriving home, they hadn’t removed their clothes. Instead, they had stumbled across the deck to Anger’s bed while his mouth remained fastened to hers. Merry had tried to speak between kisses, but every word had turned into a moan each time his tongue speared past her lips.

It’s never been like this with anyone.

Merry beams into Anger’s shoulder. Oh, how she echoes that sentiment. He had known where to find her. He’d let loose his wings, found her hiding place, and prostrated himself. He introduced her to a new melody, then drove Merry to heights that ripped her vocal cords to pieces. From the heat of his tattoos to the lights flashing behind her eyelids, the charged effects had spread through her veins.

Afterward, they’d manifested back to the rooftop, where Anger had been ready to wipe her out again. Except Merry had slumped once they landed on his mattress. She’d been upset about her lagging endurance, even as he chuckled and nestled Merry against his chest.

Refreshed, she would scurry on top of him now, wake him up, and return the ecstatic fervor of last night. Only he looks peaceful. His eyelids flutter, and the brawn of his chest expands, the motions causing a ripple effect, grids of muscle contorting.

His mouth is a flat engraving across his countenance—an unbendable line. Sometimes she needs a crowbar to open that schism. Other times, it takes no effort to make him snap.

But presently, he’s serene. It’s unlike the previous times Merry witnessed him unconscious, with pinched eyebrows and a padlocked expression. This may be the fruit of their emotional labor.

This is a magical morning-after for lovers.

Then she frowns. No, this feels more vulnerable. It feels authentic.

Gingerly, she slides out of the bed and pads from the room, trickles of observatory light spilling down the steps. The interior levels are ideal for Merry’s kindreds when they visit as guests, the halls including numerous sitting rooms, guest rooms, and bathrooms.

She floats on cloud nine, drifting into her favorite bathing sanctuary. Two inlaid spaces separated by an arched doorway comprise the area. Merry bypasses the tub and enters the second room, where a shower stands beneath a mural of stars.

With a twist of the faucet, water rains and steams the room. Merry divests herself of the peacock blue dress, then steps inside and opens her arms to the onslaught, the downpour running across her skin. Beneath the deluge, she hums and does a little hip dance. Recalling what she and Anger had achieved together, a profusion of warmth flows through her blood, because now she knows what heat feels like, and she will never forget it.

Beads of water stray down her belly, trembling along the hollow of her breasts. She sighs—then gasps at the flash of hoop earrings and the broad expanse of olive skin looming beyond the glass.

Anger stands in the doorway.

Merry’s heart vaults into her throat. The god leans against the jamb, staring at her through the foggy partition. He has thrown on his shirt, but he’s barefooted and tousled, the cyclone of his hair undone.

Those eyes punch through mist and glass. They rake over her drenched form, the swells of her breasts, the imprint of her navel, the soaked hair covering her pussy, the taper of her legs. She isn’t a vixen. She’s tall but reedy, with knobby ankles and little in the way of hips. For this reason, she’s tempted to conceal herself, to retreat deeper into the opaque enclave of the shower.

Yet the rage god absorbs her nudity like a sponge—fully and with a deep-seated appetite. The magnitude of it reaches the intimate groove where his tongue had stroked through her. Her cunt dampens, and her clit throbs from his vehement gaze, the voluntary loss of control reflected there.

Oh, this is getting good. His molten reaction to her nakedness changes Merry’s mind. The shower hisses as she steps closer to the door, the better for him to see every inch of her.

Emboldened, she writes on the misty glass, Get in here .

His pupils fatten, and those irises blaze. With unearthly grace, Anger stalks to the shower and halts in front of her. A vaporous plate separates them, thin and smashable.

On the opposite side, he writes a counter offer. Get out here .

Defiantly, Merry sidles backward. She might be an outcast, but she pursues no one. Instead, she waits for him, though the intermission doesn’t last long.

The door whips open. It hits the frame, producing a crack like a fault line.

In seconds, Anger’s inside. He saunters toward her, water gushing, spraying everywhere. He’s fully clothed, and she’s fully naked, and it doesn’t matter. His expression is candid, his irises glittering, his tongue scraping across his teeth.

Retrieving a tube of shampoo from the recessed shelf, he murmurs, “Turn around.”

The pitch of his voice strikes Merry everywhere important. She turns, revealing her backside and drenched tresses, and the cliff of his body aligns with hers.

His hot breath coasts across her nape. “May I?”

“Yes,” she replies, tipsy on the sound of him.

Silky fluid pours over her skull, followed by his fingers lathering her roots. Merry’s head lolls onto his collarbones, her ass resting against the coarse, sodden jeans. Her lower spine fits into the lattice of his abdomen as he massages the locks of her hair. His grip tugs gently, his fingernails lightly scratching her scalp while suds build and glisten down her stomach.

Screens of condensation rise around them. Breath caressing her flesh, he kisses beneath her jaw. This close, she inhales the musky scent of ambition and feels the firm texture of arousal.

The latter is explicit from the hard length extending high against her buttocks and the quavering of his digits as he rinses her hair. Beneath the tide, their movements slow. Merry sways her ass, brushing the erection pushing through his pants, the motion wringing a hiss from Anger.

Burrowing his head, he sinks his teeth into the crook of her neck. Electricity volts up her skin. Merry gives a cry, her body bending into his, fingers shooting into his wet hair. Reaching behind, her hands climb through the roots and seize him, anchoring his face to her skin, requesting more of his mouth.

Rasping, Anger slings one arm around her waist and skates his canines along her neck. The other hand flattens on the tiles in front of them, rivulets pouring across his tattoos. His mouth clamps onto Merry’s pulse point, licking and then sucking tenderly.

Puffs of air rush from Merry’s chest. Her nipples pit, the discs aching for his touch. Sensing this, his free hand abandons her middle and ascends, circling and pinching one nipple before transferring to the other. His teasing ministrations coax moans from her lips, which disintegrate into the shower.

Groaning, Anger veers down and captures the noise with his mouth. His lips snatch hers, his tongue riding her own. Like this, he walks Merry forward, ushering her into the water, positioning her to where the nozzle spritzes the apex of her thighs.

Merry’s moan flies into Anger’s mouth. The sensation is divine, fluid hitting her clit, the liquid friction stimulating her the way his tongue had.

Releasing her mouth, he seethes, “Let it fuck you.”

Nodding, Merry rolls her hips against the spray, enhancing the flux. Her pussy chafes in the best way, the water hitting her at the perfect angle while Anger’s hot mouth grips the flesh of her ear. Wetness leaks from her body, and her core pounds with need, but the abrasion isn’t enough.

Again, this god knows. With one palm still braced on the tiles, he frees her breast and coasts his knuckles down her form. Combing through the curls shrouding her folds, Anger makes a gritty noise upon discovering her distended clit. His fingers curve between Merry’s thighs, coaxing them apart and pitching two digits inside her.

“Oh!” Merry keens. “Oh, Fates.”

“Yes,” he grounds out, adding a third hard finger. “Melt for me.”

She parts her thighs farther, sucking his hand deeper. Pinned between Anger and shower, Merry falls into despair, the sensations overwhelming her from both sides. She swings her hips, grinding her cunt on his fingers, which pump in and out of her. At the same time, the water strikes her clit.

Merry whimpers, dashing her body back and forth between the spray and Anger’s hand. He nips her earlobe, then whispers harshly against her cheek, uttering encouragements.

His fingers slip through her, pushing higher, tapping a spot that reduces Merry to nothing but shouts. She’s going to come all over his hand, come until she loses her voice.

Anger hisses and jabs faster, plying her open. Merry bounds on his fingers, charging after the pleasure as it bursts through her. She stiffens against his frame and hollers, the muscles of her pussy fluttering, clenching his hand.

Anger presses his mouth into the edge of hers, both of them panting. His fingers remain wedged inside Merry until her moans recede, and she collapses into him, the orgasm tingling through her blood. With reluctance, Anger withdraws his fingers. While he brushes a thumb over her folds, arousal drips down his knuckles before the deluge washes it away.

Regaining her breath, Merry circles to face Anger. With rivulets falling around his face, he gazes at her like she’s the dawn itself.

The overhead nozzle rains down on them as she balances his jaw. “More.”

Anger vents for air. And then he’s on her.

Striding them two steps across the tiles, he staples her to the wall, shackles her wrists, and stamps them above her head. His growling mouth claims hers, their lips shoving together, kissing one another, kissing so much.

Merry’s head presses into the grout. Her nipples poke against his soaked shirt, and one of her legs hooks over his hips. Anger rumbles, folding his mouth over hers and smashing their lips together.

“Merry.” Tearing himself away, he mutters against her chin, “I cannot stop this.”

“Anger,” she says. “I’m going to pass out.”

“No. You fucking won’t.”

He descends, his lips dragging from the crook of her neck to the swell of a breast. On a groan, he draws the ruddy pellet between his teeth.

Merry yelps, her head flying back. She’s truly, certainly, inevitably going to pass out. And in the process, this rage god may crack a few tiles.

Luckily, he resists breaking anything, and she resists falling. Anger sucks on her like a starving god, laving at the tip, extracting moans from them both. Then he switches breasts, his lips budding, overwhelming her with short pulls of his mouth. The pleasure escalates quickly, like a broken dam, which may be the effect of immortal decadence or deity seclusion.

Or it might be another L word.

Anger lifts his head from her breast. His palms clamp beneath her thighs, hauling Merry off the floor, her back thudding into the tiled wall, ankles linking around his ass. Elevated and pinned around him, Merry cries out into the mist as Anger’s long cock bulges through his jeans, the rough material brushing her pussy in a deft sequence of pumps. He rows his hips into her, stroking her folds, urging them to pool on him. The pace disorients her, whittling every thought to pure, unadulterated pleasure.

With one panel of cloth separating them, Anger mimics the tempo and motions of fucking. His cock skids over Merry’s cleft, rubbing the stud of her clit. All the while, he surveys her expression, eats it up like a glutton.

The louder she moans, the more he accentuates his waist. And Stars, she’s going to come again, faster this time. Her bones shake, and her voice shakes, and her words shake.

“Oh! Oh, my god!” she yells into the mist.

Merry scrambles to get closer, grasping the roots of his hair, throwing her pussy against his covered cock. She lodges a fist in her mouth and bites. Hissing, Anger pulls away her hand and barrels in, shoving his hips between her thighs.

“Do not,” Anger hisses. “Do not contain yourself.”

So she doesn’t. Merry wails in tune to his waist, his cock, his thrusts. Her breasts jostle against his drenched shirt, and her slit gushes, and everything condenses to where his jeans skate against her naked cunt.

Water douses them, drowning out visibility other than each other. And Merry combusts for a second time, her walls contracting. She comes into the deluge, her limbs quaking in his arms while the rage god rivets on the sight.

The force of it lasts a while. Disintegrating at last, Merry rests against his torso. She wants to say something decadent and erotic, longs to yank off his clothes and ride that bare cock until they’re hoarse. She wants to make love and fuck like soulmates.

She also wants to sink to her knees, yearns to give Anger what he’s given her numerous times. But when her hand gropes his zipper, the god stalls. While anchoring her backside, he sets his free fingers atop her own, his intoxicated expression softening.

With conviction, he rests his face against hers, the torrent pouring around them. “You honor me with this offer. I want to claim you so fucking badly. But I will not take that privilege until I’ve earned it.”

Although still woozy, Merry falters. “I’ve forgiven you for leaving me on the motorcycle and after the kiss.” She tilts her head and speaks through the fog. “So why do you sound like you’re still atoning for something? Are you saying you made me come five times now—while also denying your own release—as a way to apologize?”

Anger clasps her cheeks. “I made you come because your pleasure is my pleasure.”

“But there’s more.”

“Yes. And I will tell you first.”

Minutes later, Anger towels Merry off and carries her to his bed. Being with him has exhausted her, and she goes limp in his arms, sensing that she’ll need energy reserves for whatever confessions come next. They haven’t gotten much sleep. Besides, if Anger has something vital to impart, he’s not the only one.

It’s time she told him the truth. She doesn’t want lies between them, and this legend is at the top of her deception list.

Anger tucks her in, then departs for a moment. He returns shirtless, only a dry pair of low-slung pants clinging to his body. Merry admires the contours of his physique while blocks of cement heave her eyelids down. Snuggling deeper into blankets, she bats at the air, reaching for him.

With a fond laugh, Anger lifts the quilt, preparing to join her. Except the material stalls, his movements halting.

Arrested in place, Anger slants his head and listens to something. Or someone. Whoever they are, the messenger must be calling out to him.

Animosity twists Anger’s features. Merry knows that hostile glower. It’s not a call from Wonder, Envy, or Sorrow.

Unable to conceal his ire, Anger meets her gaze. The instant it does, his countenance softens, and he bends to kiss the ledge of her shoulder. “You have no idea how much I despise saying this, but I’ll be back soon. Then I will beg your audience.”

“Nooooooo,” she whines. “Sleepy sleep.”

“Lazy goddess,” he jokes despite the mood shift.

Merry watches him drape a shirt over his whipcord chest, his movements combative. Something about that pricks her gut with apprehension.

“Where are you going?” she mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

Letting the shirt drop over his waist, Anger wavers. The delay in response produces a tight, discomforting sensation, because he’s withholding something.

He retraces his steps to Merry, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “I’m going to see a dead man.”

“Malice.” Merry tenses, shooting upright. “Why?”

“Supposedly, the demon god has a proposition for me. One that I’m about to refuse. Right before I kill the piece of shit for interrupting us, among other reasons.”

“You’ve met with him before.”

“I have. And I’ll tell you everything when I return.” Anger lowers himself to her side, his expression protective. “Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you.”

It’s the truth. And it’s time for her to reciprocate.

Merry takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll do the same.”

When he returns, they’ll abandon whatever secrets they’re both keeping.

Anger grabs her face and crushes his mouth to hers. The kiss is brief but powerful, lingering after he vanishes around the corner, likely to retrieve his bow and quiver.

Malice. That vile sleuth of a god.

Earlier, Merry had fretted about Anger conferring with him regarding The Court’s attack. But now, she worries about shrewd Malice playing detective and weeding out the legend. At least, before she has the chance to reveal her original plan to Anger.

Is that the reason Malice has called out to Anger?

It would require extreme talent even from the demon, former Archive patron or not. But again, it’s Malice. Like Wonder, he finds out all kinds of impossible things.

Dread chews through Merry’s insides. Whipping back the quilts, she hustles out of bed and rushes to her pastel wardrobe. For this, she’ll need the perfect spy dress.