It was, and was not, what he’d expected. It was warm and perfect. They had always felt “at home” with each other. They felt even more at home now. Familiar, as if they’d been making love for centuries. It was not wildly supernatural. Milo had expected that making love to Death would involve weird fires and shadows and whisperings in the dark—perhaps even pain—but there was very little of that. Only the soft red glow in her eyes. The occasional drawing of blood. The sudden flutter and leathery warmth of being wrapped in wings, once or twice. And once her eyes had widened until they seemed to
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