“Listen,” I start, turning my body to face him fully as the book sits on the podium, daunting with its presence. “I’m not religious, so I’m not afraid of reading this. I’ll do it, and you can continue to read other things; that way, you’re not involved. But I genuinely think this could have the information we need.”
Something in me is screaming; it’s telling me that I need to pick through these pages one at a time, and if I do, I’ll find what I am searching for.
“I don’t know…” Atlas mutters.
“Hey.” Just as my dad did this morning, I place my hand on the back of Atlas’s neck. His skin is hot, and he startles slightly, big eyes looking up at me. “I can do this. Let me handle it, alright?”
Atlas is quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then, with a small shudder, he nods once.
“Alright,” he agrees. “But if you start to read anything too demonic, promise you’ll stop. It’ll mean nothing good for us if we open the gates for something evenworseto enter our world.”
Now, if thisBlack Bookis a book of dark spells, then I’m not sure I believe it can harm us much. I don’t really believe in magic. But then again, I didn’t believe in demons before either.
“Promise,” I assure him.
He exhales a soft breath, his eyes lingering once again on the book before him.
After a moment, I realize my hand is still resting on the nape of his neck. Only I can’t bring myself to remove it. The feel of his skin, and how the tips of my fingers are resting so perfectly over his pulse, is riling me up and setting my own skin on fire.
I want to hold him tighter; I want to wrap my palm around his throat and squeeze, watching as his eyes roll back and his pulse flutters in my grip.
As if sensing my dirty thoughts, Atlas’s eyes flick back to meet my own, his lips parting slightly.
“You’re hot,” I tell him, much like the first time we ever touched.
“I know,” he whispers.
Atlas doesn’t push me away; he doesn’t step back or try to create space. Instead, as my hand slides from his nape and around to the front of his throat, just as I imagined doing moments prior, he leans into my touch, forcing his neck into my palm.
I tighten my grip, watching his skin pale under the weight of my fingers. A stuttered, soft breath leaves his lips, and I watch in fascination as his face begins to redden.
Hooded blue eyes stare up at me, as if he can’t find the will to look away. I’m gazing between where my hand lies, his parted lips, and that lustful gaze as if I’ll miss something vital by only taking in a single part of him.
Then, just as I’m loosening my grip to give him some room to breathe a little easier, his hand snaps up to grip my wrist, keeping me from leaving him. A small, desperate whine leaves his lips.
Motherfucker.
“You want me to hold you?” I murmur, digging my fingers deeper into his flesh.
Atlas gives me a small nod, another small, tortured puff of air leaving him.
“I can feel your pulse,” I add, and Atlas’s eyelids flutter shut, his body swaying into mine.
He likes that. He likes that I can feel his heart beating for me.
But now his face is starting to darken to a concerning color, and I don’t really feel like knocking the pretty man out, so I shift my grip until I’m holding his jaw, keeping him close to me.
“What do you want, sweet boy?” I ask him, and Atlas gifts me a small keening noise.
“I…” he begins, but pauses to keep gathering his breath. “I want to taste you.”
My eyes widen a comical amount.Tasteme?
Listen, I’m a pleaser. I get off heavily on making someone else feel good, so I quite enjoy tasting my partner and bringing them to release with just that. But it’s not often that my partner wants to do the same in return, and I’ve never had an issue with it. Not everyone likes it.
But now Atlas is in my grip, peering up at me with wide, watery eyes, asking to do just that.
Or did he mean a kiss? He could very well mean a kiss.