Both his hands come to hold her head in place, slamming so far down her throat I can feel her choking, her neck spasming with the intrusion. Hallis’s body convulses and he comes violently, jerking in her mouth until he pulls out with elation that causes his body to sag.

  Lilah has no choice but to swallow every drop as she gulps in air and goes limp in my hold. I clasp her to me, my arms and wings encasing us. I finally drive up into her, her body humming with the need to come, even with the exhaustion pouring from her. My fingers pinch her very swollen clit, and she sobs out a moan. I continue to thrust up into her tight, hot cunt while pinching and rolling her clit between my fingers. Her arms have wrapped around my neck and she can’t help but bounce back on my cock. Our movements are erratic and Hallis is erect again, stroking himself with a fast, punishing rhythm.

  I slap her pussy and she screams out my name, her walls clamping down on me in a death grip. My wings snap open behind me as my whole body goes rigid. Hallis shoots a load of cum across her tits, painting her in it, and I release into her for a third time with her name on my lips.

  Lilah

  My eyes flutter open, head heavy from being fucked into a near coma, I slowly stretch out my sated limbs and find Than perched on the side of the bed, gazing at me. His wings had already retreated into the shadows around him.

  In an unusual show of tenderness, he skims the back of his hand almost lovingly down the side of my face before gripping my chin.

  “You are mine, Lilah,” the authority in that statement leaves no room for my denial, and I can only smile up at him. The grip on my chin tightens. “You will no longer refuse me what’s mine.”

  I try to nod my head in agreement—because he’s right, there’s no more denying him anything after this—but his fingers dig into my jaw and he leans down to claim my mouth with pure ownership.

  I feel a cool sensation settle against me, enveloping me just as Than pulls away. His eyes linger behind me, conveying his possession of me and something more I can’t quite interpret.

  Standing, he strides to the door with all the swagger afforded to a God. One last glance back at me before he leaves, one filled with a salacious promise that has my toes curling in anticipation.

  The feather light touches up and down my body, rolling over my curves, leave me equally heated and chilled. The memory of Hallis’s chilled cum coating my throat after he face fucked me with unbound carnality has desire stirring in me again.

  “What he fails to acknowledge,” Hallis whispers, his cold hardness pressing against me. My eyes fall closed, and I feel my thighs part with a chilly grip. I inhale sharply when I feel that hardness slip into me from behind, “is that it’s you who owns us.”

  About the Author

  Rebel Moxie is a loud pseudonym for someone who doesn't enjoy a lot of attention. Rebel may shy away from social media, but you are welcome to follow them anyway on Instagram: @rebelmoxie.

  MY DEAL WITH THE DEMON MARQUIS

  LEONA WILDE

  A pact forged out of revenge. Can love break the chains that bind them?

  After my grandmother's murder, I was consumed by one thought: gaining enough power to resurrect her from the grave. Desperation drove me to do the unspeakable, forging a pact with Aamon, the seventh spirit of the Ars Goetia. I might be truly inept with magic, but somehow I manage to shackle this monstrous man to me and I to him.

  The Marquis is a creature of immense power, reveling in the control he has over me, using my body for mana. With each discovery, I feel myself slipping further under his spell. My soul, my heart—everything I am or will be—belongs to him.

  I summoned him with fear; he bound me with desire.

  Content Considerations:

  Hey there lovelies! Beyond this lovely page is a tale that has some content that you may need some warnings for. This is an M/M between a tentacle having bird man and a green warlock.

  In these pages there is CNC, choking, tentacles, dominance and submission, spanking, shibari, use of toys, anal play, and forced deep throating.

  If those things sound good to you please read ahead. If not I appreciate you for making it this far. <3

  Hawthorne

  “Where is it?” I mutter, my hands frantically pulling at old tomes covered in thick layers of dust. The particles waft into my face, coating it in a grimy sheen. “It has to be here. I know she kept it.”

  It’s been three days since Grandmother passed away. Two nights, I swore I could hear her voice in my mind chiding me to come wash up because the dirt caked under my nails was unsightly for her guests. I can still hear her cane rhythmically tapping and the creaking stairs as I lie in bed, desperately seeking sleep.

  She’s gone.

  Her love is no longer in this home. The scent of her patchouli and cardamom perfume is confined to a stoppered bottle. It’s no longer lingering in the halls, on her dress or even my skin from a long, warm embrace.

  Standing on my tiptoes on an old wooden kitchen chair, I reach for another book as the chair wobbles. The Lesser Key of Solomon has to be somewhere. It’s a grimoire detailing the seventy-two demons of King Solomon, their summoning rituals, names, ranks, and infernal hierarchy. When the book I pull down turns out to be another cookbook, rage bubbles up in my throat. My hand slams through the row of books, sending them crashing to the floor.

  “Damn it all!” The chair teeters, and my body sways unsteadily. My heart leaps—a sensation I thought I could no longer feel after her death. Instinctively, I grab the sides of the shelf to steady myself. The chair rights itself, but not before the second and third rows of books shift, and a candlestick falls, clattering to the floor. Ivory wax drips onto my bare hand, and instead of jerking away, I grit my teeth through the pain, savoring it. I feel deserving of it after⁠—

  Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. “Please, Grandmother, if your spirit is still here, let me find the grimoire.”

  I don’t expect that anything magical will happen the moment I speak. Still, as I stand here, I hold my breath, hoping for some sign—a flicker of the candles, a chilling breath on my neck—anything that might confirm my grandmother’s presence to guide me to the book I desperately hope I find.

  Finally, I release the breath I’ve been holding and slowly open my eyes. Then, I see it. The book hangs precariously off the edge of the highest shelf as if placed there just for me to find. Its cover is made of thick blackened leather, crackled and weathered by centuries of age. Even its spine is imposing, adorned with pulsing runes of protection that emit an eerie glow. As I touch it, the book’s dark magic resonates under my palm, thrumming with a life force of its own.

  Intricate arcane symbols decorate its edges, and at its center is an ornate sigil that glows in the dim candlelight. It’s a swirling pattern, the meaning of which I can’t decipher. When I trace the raised symbol with my fingers, the sigil responds, shimmering and shifting as if it’s alive.

  A surge of excitement buzzes through me, and I leap down from the chair. Opening it here in the tiny, confined space of my grandmother’s study feels too dangerous. I need to tread carefully. I need to ground myself. The greenhouse is the only place I know that feels safe. The magic of the earth will surround me with protection, just like it always has.

  I dash through the house, out the back door, and into the garden. The moon casts a silvery glow over the bluebells and butterfly bushes I planted, creating a path to guide me. As I reach the door, the word “safety” echoes in my mind. The sound of the old, rusted door’s rattling glass panes signals my arrival. The scent of soil and herbs, and the sound of serenading crickets wrap around me like a comforting embrace.

  I allow myself only a moment to light the rusted oil lamp on the table before turning my attention back to the grimoire in my hands. Carefully, I open the cover, revealing pages of aged parchment that rustle softly with every turn. Each page holds a meticulously handwritten blood-red script, begging for me to read aloud.

  The air fills with the scent of ancient parchment, and something darker, more sinister bubbles beneath it. As I turn each page, I notice the margins filled with hastily scribbled annotations in my grandmother’s shaky handwriting. She’s added descriptions of each demon’s powers, their rankings in the infernal hierarchy, and their preferred title, as if she’s summoned them herself before. She never mentioned it to me if she had.

  I thumb quickly through the pages, searching for anything to give me the sign I need, until I feel that instinctual thrum of inner knowing. I know precisely which demon I want to summon: Aamon, the marquis of necromancy and witchcraft. He can help me bring my grandmother’s soul back. With his knowledge, I can expand my own powers and finally protect those I love. Nobody will die again.

  In the heart of the grimoire, I find the chapter I need on binding rituals. The incantations are written in a long-forgotten language, but the word’s meaning resonates in my head with a low, haunting hum even before I read them aloud.

  Holding this doorway to the underworld in my hands, I question if I should even try. It holds more power than I’ve ever known. Until now, I’ve been confined to crafting herbal remedies, fragrances, and tinctures, while my grandmother’s power held the ability to summon demons. She was a witch to be reckoned with, and somehow she still met with an untimely end at the hands of people who refused to understand her.

  I spend the next few minutes gathering the necessary materials, arranging dozens of candles in a precise pattern. Their flames flicker like will-o’-the-wisps, casting shadows against the flowers and glass of the greenhouse, making them dance. I sprinkle herbs and salt to form a protective circle around me and position my best interpretation of the casting seal in front of me on the floor.

  In my left hand, I hold my grandmother’s athame, its weight familiar to me. My right hand trembles as I press the blade against my pale skin, slicing through it deliberately. Rivulets of blood dribble down my wrist, and I carefully extend my arm beyond the protective ring of salt, letting the blood drip into the sigil.

  With a steadying breath, I chant the incantation. I draw power from the well of magic within me, pulling more energy from the earth beneath my bare feet as a source. The air thickens, and energy crackles through the greenhouse.

  The shadows lengthen into a swirling vortex within the circle, pulling them inward. From the void, an imposing and otherworldly figure appears. As the shadows recede, I see him—Aamon, the seventh demon of the Ars Goetia.

  Standing seven feet tall, Aamon is more avian than man. His feet are covered in fur as black as the night sky, and constellations seem to shimmer and shift across his skin. He is completely unclothed, his body a display of rippling muscle. His arms end in long talons, and from his broad shoulders sprout four massive white wings, like those of a seraph.

  “Who summons me?” His beak-like mouth twists into a scowl as he takes me in, his expression full of disbelief or, more likely, disdain.

  I draw more energy from the earth, feeling it hum through me. I urge that grounding force to anchor me against the overwhelming power radiating from him. My heart races as I meet his gaze.

  “I did. My name is Hawthorne, but you may call me Thorne.” My voice is steadier than I expect despite the gnawing fear in my gut. “I seek to bargain for my grandmother’s soul to be returned to her body and for the power and knowledge you can share with me.”

  Aamon’s golden eyes blaze with curiosity and amusement. “Very well, boy. I accept your offer, but know this…” He pauses, his long, reptilian tongue flicking out of his beak-like mouth, tasting the air. “The price of this power is steep. Few mortals can pay without their body, soul, and mind turning to madness.”

  With those words, he extends his hand toward mine. I hesitate as the thought of breaking the protection seal flashes through my mind. But I need this deal.

  Slowly, I reach out and grasp his hand. The moment our skin touches, the world spins violently, and an army of voices screams into the night. I’m jerked forward into his arms as a gilded shackle of magic forms around my throat, yanking me to my toes.

  “You are mine, Hawthorne Grimwood. Thy will be done.”

  Hawthorne

  The world spins around me faster and faster until the greenhouse blurs into a swirl of color. A cacophony of screams and whispers comes from everywhere and nowhere. I force my vision on Aamon’s burning eyes as he tugs me downward into the darkness of the underworld.

  Then everything abruptly stops.

  My feet still aren’t on the ground; instead, my toes feel the silken fur of the Goetia’s feet. I’m no longer in the greenhouse. The underworld isn’t a cold, lifeless pit void of all life. It is teeming with dazzling lights and towering buildings that stretch into the sky. They’re covered in pulsing images that shift and move, showing scenes of sin and debauchery along with laughter and cries of despair paired with a thrumming beats of music.

  There are demon figures on painted signs with eyes that glint with hidden promises of pleasure. The streets are a kaleidoscope of chaos. There are beings of all shapes and sizes. There are demons, souls and creatures I can’t name, and all are uniquely terrifying.

  “What is this place?” I manage to ask, my voice barely audible above the roar of the city. I wish I could take it back. It feels silly to ask because I know where we are.

  We’re in the underworld.

  Aamon leans his mouth closer to the tip of my nose. His presence is overwhelming, and I can see his eyes are brighter and his teeth are sharper than before. He glows here in a way that he didn’t in the greenhouse.

  “This is the ring of envy. All desires are possible, though there’s always a price.” He takes a moment to inhale my scent. A sound of pleasure pricks at the back of his throat before he asks, “Is there a desire you want to entertain yourself with?”

  I swallow roughly. The gulp in my throat makes a blush creep up my neck. I came here searching for knowledge of how to resurrect the dead. I came for power and lusted after and envied my grandmother’s skill, not to bed the Goetia.

  His hand relaxes on the chain, finally allowing my feet to touch the ground. Aamon gives me enough slack to see more of the world around me. I take a tentative step forward, glancing down at the street we’re on, only to realize it’s transparent. Below us there is molten lava, rising in waves and shimmering like flecks of gold. The sky above us is an aurora of red, purple and green. This world is mesmerizing and terrifying. I feel a mixture of awe and dread within me. For what purpose was I brought here?

  Aamon steps close again, his breath hot on my neck. “The damned are consumed by their insatiable desires here. This place is designed for endless yearning. The souls who are sent here are obsessed and constantly chasing everything they can’t have. It’s a miserable existence.”

  He extends his clawed hand toward me even though the chain around my throat is still lodged in his other hand. I reluctantly take it, and once I do, the chain pulses and dissipates into fireflies. My breath catches as they flutter away.

  His hand is so impossibly warm, but the cold hard dread I feel is like a rock in my stomach. “Come on, Hawthorne. There is much I need to show you.”

  As he leads me through the streets, I try to take in the overwhelming sensations that assault my senses. The city pulses with life or what feels like an imitation of the life I’ve known.

  As I’m led past towering casinos, I catch glimpses of the souls who enter, appearing so self-assured and full of promise. However, the ones carted out appear starved, frail, and screaming. We pass through crowded markets where vendors peddle wares that look like they came from a nightmare.

  Those who notice Aamon avert their eyes, and some bow their heads. His presence demands to be noticed. I can feel his power radiating off him, and I’m certain everyone else can as well. While his hand guides me through the crowds, I realize this place, albeit twisted, is similar to my world.

  Finally, we reach a towering mansion that looms over the city. It’s a palace of obsidian and silver with large glass windows. There are fountains with figures in different states of undress littering the lawn. One in particular catches my eye as we walk up the stairs to the massive ivory front doors. It has a man on his knees before an imp whose finger is curled underneath his chin. The look of longing in the supplicant's eyes and the wicked grin on the imp’s face stoke a tingle of lust in my belly.

  The doors open on their own, and inside I can see the hall in front of us with moving pictures and opulent furniture. The scent of the air is thick with roses and something woodsy. It isn’t the smell of sulfur or death like I expected.

  “This is my home,” he says as the doors close and the city below goes eerily quiet. “Here you’ll find the knowledge you seek, but remember, Hawthorne, every desire,” he pauses, turning me with one swift move of his hand, “has its price.”

  Aamon’s tongue darts from his mouth, and before I know it, one hand is on my throat, and one is wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My body tenses, and I gasp. “What price must I pay?” I hate the breathy way I sound. My cock throbs in my trousers, my pulse hammering on the side of my neck. I’m sure his fingers can feel it, and I know he can see the blush on my cheeks.

  Aamon bends down toward the edge of my ear. The gust of his breath sends shivers down my spine. “For now, our pact requires a constant stream of mana. I can think of several ways you can give that to me...” His hand on my waist slowly travels further down until it lands on the fullest part of my ass.

  Does he want to bed me? I thought the pact had me in control, but so far I have felt like his prisoner. I am in his thrall and under his command, and not the other way around. Was the summoning unsuccessful?