Chapter Fifty
Millie
I like that I'm nervous. I like that there are small bubbles of panic amongst the excitement fizzing in my belly. I like that as time ticks down, the slow, clanging clock counting the minutes till fate greets me, there's something that can make me feel. That Jackson's kiss, his touch, has the power to keep me in the moment and to feel beyond that.
I'm scooped into his arms, my feet kicking wildly as he lifts me into the air. I laugh, throwing my head back and gazing at the city lights playing with the shadows on the ceiling. He drops me gently, lovingly, onto the bed before moving over me, his elbows on either side of my head. His smooth skin, the hard flesh of his shoulders and chest above me for my eyes to feast on.
I move first, lifting my head to find his lips, my fingers sliding through the raven silk of his hair. My lips part his, and our kisses grow hungry, tumbling one after the other and into the next. His touch is everywhere. His lips graze my jaw, his teeth drag against the tender flesh of my neck, and his fingers travel up my ribs as they seek my breasts. There's no part of my skin left untouched, caressed, explored. He takes his time, even though we have so little, and I savour every second, each stroke, each caress. He drags moans and cries from my lips with ease. Our limbs tangle, the cool sheets warm under our bodies.
He moves lower, his lips writing love letters down my body. His fingers trace the outline of my bra, tugging down the soft lace. I can't stop moving. My body seems to rise of its own volition to meet his touch. I have no control here. And I love it. His lips, and then his tongue, circle my nipple, and I cry out, my fingers clutching the silky sheets. He chuckles, and I feel that wicked sensation against my skin. He watches my responses with dark, seductive eyes.
Keeping up the pleasure, his lips tease me one breast, his fingers on the other. Heat grows in my belly, the ache between my thighs increasing at a delicious rate. I'm a whimpering wreck when he moves lower, his lips against my stomach. I raise my hips, and he tugs off my jeans and underwear in one swoop. He rises to look down at me, his hungry eyes travelling over my shimmering skin. My stomach is knotted in steel. I'm breathless, impatient, desperate for him to move. Gazing at him, my eyes travel down his body. At the hardness of his chest, his stomach, his hand gripping himself through his boxers. The moment lingers on, but I want this too much. I can't wait anymore.
“Jackson?” My voice is low and husky.
He shoots me his slickest, whitest grin. It's pure Jackson. And I'm so dazzled, I gasp when he finally moves. His hands hook under my thighs, parting me. And then his mouth is on me.
My cry splits the silence, the sounds of the city, of our bodies as they move together, all drowned out by the sound of my pleasure. It doesn't take long. The tension grows and rises within me. And all I know is him and his touch. His fingers still grip my thighs, hard enough to bruise, holding me down as I move against him. My body tenses and his tongue flattens against me. I feel myself rising higher and higher, the tension too much. My back arches and my fingers grip his hair, keeping him close as I shatter. Calling his name over and over again as I fracture, falling apart under his touch. His movements slow, staying with me as I tumble back to earth.
I'm still panting, limp and sated when he climbs off the bed, slipping his boxers down his hips as I watch him hungrily. Bubbles of excitement burst into my belly. Any nerves, any fear have faded away to nothing now. He slips back onto the bed and rises over me, his eyes glinting metallic in the moonlight. He positions himself between my thighs, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel him against my entrance, his hardness against my sensitive softness. He moves the hair from my face, running his fingers over my swollen lips.
He moves slowly, inching into me. I see the concentration on his face, the tension in his jaw. He's keeping steady for me, but I don't want him to hold back, not even for a moment. So I move my hips, and we both gasp as I take all of him inside me. My head snaps back. I cry out. I am full with him—it's too much and not enough all at once. The pain is sharp, and then it's gone. For a moment, he's still—watching me, waiting for me. Sweat shimmers on his forehead. When I can focus, when my body adjusts, I look up at him.
“I love you.” His voice is a coarse whisper, but I have no words.
I lift my head to press my lips against his, then sink back down.
“And I love you,” I gasp. “Now move. Please move.”
It hurts at first. But it fades as each thrust brings more pleasure. My hands grip his shoulders, nails carving themselves into his flesh. In the hazy silver light, he moves over me again and again, his lips barely leaving mine, the soft sounds of our moans breaking up the silence of the night.
He speeds as he draws closer. I feel his body tense. His movements lose rhythm, and I move my hips to match his. Hear his breaths speed and deep. I wrap my legs around him, drawing him closer, and a growl reverberates from the back of his throat.
“Come with me, OK?”
It's a command, and any doubts about obeying evaporate when his hand slips between us. I gasp as his fingers find me, find that part of me still so sensitive and find the tension building again. My moans grow to match his, my body tensing. He breaks only a moment before I do, and then, we're moaning together, gripping each other as we rise and fall—as our pants slow, as we shiver in each other's arms. He twists, his movements slow, so that I'm pressed against the warm skin of his chest, against his heart.
It was wonderful and perfect and flawed and all the things I wanted it to be.
And it will never happen again.
After, I lie in his arms, and then, maybe for the first time, there is no numbness, no weary acceptance. I had risen so high for a moment that there's nowhere else for me to go but down. I crash and crash hard. I allow myself to grieve for my loss. For the art I won’t create, the places I won't see, the people I'll never meet. Jackson holds me, his skin warm and damp, the scent of sex clinging to our bodies, his fingers running through my hair. He listens as I weep, as I talk about life I'll never lead, and though he does nothing but offer me solace, I feel my hair grow wet from his tears.
Somehow, the conversation shifts. The sadness fades as we talk about our short time together. We laugh about my first night at Worship and about our last when our friendship became something else. We talk until we're laughing, and somehow, the horror that's coming fades against the warmth and power of us. Eventually, we fall silent. I know the hours have passed, and our time is nearly over.
“How long do we have?” I whisper.
“Half an hour.” His reply comes a long time later.
I hear the cry escape my lips before I can stop it. Fear threatens to overwhelm me, but I push it away. Fear will not stop what's coming. I focus on him, the feel of his skin on mine, and the echoes of what we've done moving across my body. Finally, my heart slows enough to talk.
“What happens? How does it …” I swallow, unable to utter the words.
His breathing is broken, and when he speaks, his voice cracks, though I hear the focus.
“Death changed the circumstances of your death. So … you can pass away here.”
I pull myself away to sit up. Jackson moves to sit next to me. He switches on a bedside lamp, the cool light flooding the room. I quickly miss the shadows, the subtle glow of moonshine.
“Can we stay here?” I ask, glancing around Jackson's bedroom. The thought hits me hard. I will never leave this room. Icy fingers seem to grip my lungs, my heart.
“Of course.”
Strangely, practical thoughts pull me from my fog of fear. Jackson watches me as I climb out of bed and dress.
“I'm guessing I won't care much soon enough, but I really don't want to be found naked.”
The joke is weak, but Jackson smiles sadly. His hair is messed up, his lips bruised. He looks delicious, and I give myself a second to enjoy the view. A small smirk, a tiny curl, forms on Jackson's lips. He leans back a little. My boy is preening for me, and I love it. I love him for it.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Nightingale.”
I giggle and throw him his shirt.
“Then stop distracting me.”
Our words are light. There's so much unsaid in his eyes, but right now, I feel everything he doesn't say. I don't want to leave this world, but I'm glad I'll be going with him by my side.
We dress quickly, and I lie down on the bed as Jackson slips on the ring, his father's ring. He stares down at it, his face an unreadable mask. The seconds tick by and I try not to count, try to let them pass without holding on too tightly. They'll pass through my fingers like liquid either way. We lie on the bed, on top of the covers, his fingers entwined with mine.
“You don't have to do this. There are other reapers. Someone else could do it.”
He twists his body to look at me and I do the same, his face inches from mine.
“No. I need to do this. I've reaped thousands of souls, maybe more, and I think … I think you're the reason why. So I would be ready to be what you needed.”
I swallow; the pain in his voice cuts through me, and I want to stay then more acutely than I ever have before. I don't want to leave him alone.
“What will you do now?” I whisper. He falls silent. “Jackson?”
He sighs and sits up. Slowly, I join him.
“Death has a punishment for me. I'll take it, whatever it is, and after that … I have the work.”
“Just the work?”
He turns to me and smiles, his eyes red, his skin paler than I've ever seen it. His fingers reach for my face, softly brushing my cheekbone.
“We're out of time, beautiful.”
I close my eyes, just letting myself feel his touch. When I feel his thumb brush away a tear, I open them. The sun is rising. I see the warm light, the peaches and pinks peering through the blinds, the light chasing me towards my fate.
I nod and lie back down, Jackson beside me. In the quiet of the early morning, the rest of the world sleeping safely, knowing they have at least one more day, I take his hand in mine.
“Don't let me go?”
“Never.”
Jackson's close, so close. His warm body, one hand holding mine and the other slowly, with a choked cry breaking through his lips, reaches across my body and lifts my other hand. He places it over my ribs, ripping his hand away like it's on fire.
“When … when I next touch you, touch you here, on your pulse, your heart will stop.” His voice breaks, and I see the pain and strength as he tries desperately to keep himself steady for me. “In a moment, you'll be released from your body. But I'll be right here, OK?”
I nod. He talks more about what will happen, but I struggle to take it in. I'm too focused on his face. The way the morning rays seek out his features, the shadows marking his face. The light reflects in the wetness in his eyes. With an arm that shakes, he reaches over, his other hand gripping mine tightly.
“Wait,” I whisper, turning my face to his.
“Millie, we'll have time after …” His voice quivers.
I don't care; this is my body, and I'll say goodbye my way. I sit up sharply, pressing my lips against his, kissing him hard. I wrap my arms around his neck. Our kiss is desperate and clumsy and salty with our tears. I feel the sands of time flowing through the hourglass—I feel the presence of death. I keep hold of Jackson, our kiss lingering. It hurts to drag my arms from his neck. He pulls his lips away, leaning his forehead against mine, sharing my final breath.
“I'll see you in a second, OK?”
“I love you, Jackson.”
“I love you too.”
Laying back down, I finally close my eyes, knowing I can't fight it anymore. Now is the time. My heart throbs violently as it battles against taking its last beat. I feel the air chill and then his fingers on my wrist, on my pulse, and the world drops away.