Free War of the Magi: Azrael's Wrath (Book 2) by Joseph Robert Lewis

was better with her there. Her weight, her warmth, her breath all felt very real and very far away from the red visions in his mind, and by small degrees those visions faded. The faces dimmed. The cries fell silent.
    “It’s not your fault,” she whispered.
    Iyasu gasped as the tears streamed down all over again. His body shook, his throat ached, and this time he wasn’t even sure why. He wasn’t thinking about Darius, or Faris, or the dead, or the dying. He was just there, on a riverbank, holding Petra, and sobbing.
    She said nothing. She just lay there, holding him tightly.
    When he finally stopped, he was exhausted. His whole body was sore and he wanted to sleep for a year. But the pain felt smaller and farther away, and when he cleared his throat to speak, he found it didn’t ache anymore.
    “It is my fault,” he said calmly. “I chose him. Faris wouldn’t have even considered him if not for me.”
    “But you didn’t swing the sword or give the order, or any of that,” she said.
    “But I made him king.”
    “And Arrah made you a cleric.”
    He frowned.
    “And your parents gave you life.”
    He said nothing.
    “And God created the heavens and the earth.”
    “Stop.”
    “No.” She lifted her head to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t kill anyone. Whatever mistakes you made, you didn’t kill anyone. If you want to cast blame, at least cast it fairly.”
    He kissed her. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to, so he did. She moved up so her eyes were level with his and eased her body off to the side so they could lie more comfortably with their arms around each other, kissing gently and briefly, again and again.
    I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t. And I tried to stop it. I tried to save them. I’m trying to save them now. That’s all I can do. Try. She’s right.
    He kissed her harder and her tongue flickered into his mouth. It was soft and warm, and he instantly wanted more. He explored her lips over and over, lingering on the top, then the bottom, then both together, and thrilling at the sensation of her lips and tongue and teeth caressing and teasing and attacking his own.
    The kisses began to migrate from her lips to her cheeks and down her neck, making her scarves unravel to spill her long brown hair on the grass and on him. He brushed it away to kiss her more, venturing into new curves and corners of her neck and chest. She descended on him as well, biting and kissing his neck as her fingers gently clawed at the back of his head and down his spine.
    Clothing slipped up and down as hands massaged and pawed and raked and pulled at warm, smooth skin.
    When he slid inside her, the sensation made him stop and shudder. It felt so perfect, so natural, so wondrous, and yet so alien and bizarre.
    My body is inside her body.
    He looked at her as though for the first time admitting to himself what he was doing. She smiled and pulled him down on her to kiss him.
    They began to move, at first with aching slowness as every moment was filled with new feelings, new reactions in his blood and fingers and brain and muscles. But he learned quickly. He saw the widening of her eyes, the flush of color in her lips and cheeks, the quickening of her breath. He saw the way her fingers stretched wide in his grasp as he held her hands down. He saw the way her breasts shook as her back arched.
    It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
    And then he felt the change as he grew even harder, as the sensations came faster and louder, roaring through his blood, making his hips pound against hers as a sweet desperation burned through his flesh.
    His climax was half a minute of sweet white noise, shaking and thrusting and gasping, crushing himself against her to squeeze every last drop of ecstasy from his blood. And then it was over. He slumped down on her breasts, feeling the heat and sweat of her skin against his.
    She separated herself from him, prompting another small shock of pleasure in his spine, and then let him