
“Sam screws his eyes shut tight, drawing his fingers into his mouth with a muffled groan, hips bucking instinctively against his free hand. It’s not like demon blood — but he didn’t expect it to be.
It doesn’t taste like power, like violence, dark and spicy and caustic. No, this… this is simply lust. It’s pathetic need and infatuation he tastes as he laves his tongue over the pads of his digits, in between the still sticky divots between each finger. It tastes like possession and Sam grinds his hips against his hand like he’ll break into a million sharp pieces otherwise.
If he’s going to Hell, he might as well go with something sweet on his lips.”
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