16
Love’s heart sprints, although the rest of her body cannot move. He’d pronounced those five words as if they had been conceived under a velvet blanket. Soft, smooth, sensuous. She feels it like a caress, a slow drag of titillation beneath her dress, flesh aching and thighs clenching in a manner they never have before.
“We can’t,” she utters.
Andrew doesn’t care. “I want to touch you anyway—with more than a fucking pen. I want my fingers on every sensitive, sacred place you possess. I want that pleasure to reach each inch of skin and every drop of blood until your body is writhing down to the bone.” His gruff tone matches the half-mast of his eyes. “I want that privilege to be mine.”
The slit of her cunt pulsates, the delicate walls thrumming to life. Oh, Stars. Now she knows how such words feel. Hectic like a percussion, a strained pulsation that dampens her crease and firms her nipples into studs.
Based on what she’s read in his canon, this man has quite the erotic imagination. Yet wordsmith aside, Andrew speaks with the feverish confidence of experience. He has long since reached full maturity, so this should not come as a shock.
All the same, combativeness sharpens Love’s reply. “You’ve been fucked before.”
Andrew’s mouth twists in delight. “Is that a problem?”
The itch of envy increases. “Not at all.”
“Then it won’t matter to you if I say the relationships have never lasted. Women enjoy making use of my cock, but not all of them want a man who lives a solitary life. And while I’ve tried, I just haven’t clicked that way with someone in the long-term.”
The word “cock” on his tongue is a carnal thing, the noise probing between her walls, desire wetting Love’s palate as well as her pussy. Feral urges spread like a brushfire across her body. Although lust-driven, her lack of practice beyond making herself come reminds Love how little she identifies with her kind, to say nothing of her targets.
This has always been a fact. Yet it has never affected Love to this degree. Andrew’s declaration, combined with the fervent look he gives her, imbues Love with an unfamiliar power—vigorous, primitive, ecstatic. The liquid flowing through her veins accelerates, her pulse beats with the force of cannonball, and her soul lifts off the ground. The potency is so intense, it might bestow her the ability to relocate a cliff with her bare hands.
If the pressure in her cheeks hasn’t given Love away, the rise and fall of her breasts does. Andrew watches her body react, realizing his speech has achieved what his hands cannot.
He drapes his tongue across his lower lip. “If not Anger, then who?” A ravenous edge shapes his question. “Which deities have been given the luxury of touching you? Which ones do I need to restrain myself from?”
The notion of Andrew staking his claim on her should not be enticing. “No one,” she confides. “I’ve only ever pleasured myself.”
A gruff noise skids from his mouth. “I’ve pictured that too. There’s only one thing sexier than imagining your spread legs, your wet fingers buried to the knuckles, and a shout ripping from your open mouth.”
“What’s that?” she musters.
“The vision of you holding that longbow and aiming it at my chest, like you did on that first day,” he husks. “With your feisty mouth blowing frost in my face, you shredded me to pieces then and there, without so much as breaking skin. Every minute since, I’ve fantasized about that moment going differently, with me tearing open that dress, pinning you to the tree, and hauling you off the ground. The weapon would have tumbled from your shoulder, and your screams would have shaken the forest.”
Stars almighty. This man.
Andrew’s stare wraps around Love and holds fast. In tandem, her gaze clutches his, the irresistible pull like a magnet. Pictures flash through her mind, each more sensual than the last.
Her limbs strapped around his hips. Her claws in his hair, and her head thrown back. His pants slung low, his ass flexing with every sinuous beat of his cock, and his mouth swallowing her moans.
Andrew’s pupils double in size, his voice stroking her like a plume. “Has Love ever been loved?”
“No,” she confesses, though the word carries a bitter taste.
Sex and decadence, pounding hips and searching tongues—they prevail where she’s from. Deities indulge in lust; they fuck because it’s fun. Camaraderie and perhaps fondness accompany the rutting, but love is lost on her people. It’s a human necessity, not an immortal one. That’s why it has taken millennia to create her.
Andrew maintains eye contact. “I want my hands on you.”
Apparently, she has no self-control. “Where?”
“Wherever you command me to put them.”
“Assume you have options.”
“Your mouth. The first thing I’d want to do is shut you up with my fingers, run them across your lips, then down your neck, along every curve until you’re flustered, and your breathing has grown stunted. After that, the tips of your breasts. They’ll darken under my thumbs while sighs drop from your lips.” A low croon vacates his lungs. “My palms over your hips, spanning your ass, splaying your thighs. My touch would split you wide, graze and circle your clit, and tease your sweet cunt until it’s dripping and ready for—”
“For what?” she urges, stricken by her impatience.
Andrew skates his gaze across the hem of her dress. “For the rhythm of my fingers. I would slip them inside you to the hilt, then pump in and out at a lazy pace. I would coax every sob from your throat, make your soft pussy tense around my fingers, then spill down my hand while you convulse. I would find out how many different touches exist for you, tear each one from your lips, and worship the release on your face.”
The roots of Love’s teeth ache, and her fingernails burrow into the rug, the fibers of which catch the slickness pooling from her cunt. This is the most seductive conversation she’s ever had, for he’s found a way to touch her merely by opening his mouth.
And by Stars, she yearns to do the same, her attention dropping to the front of his jeans. Under the material, his cock has risen to a considerable height. In her mind, it’s thick and high, the broad head ruddy, with a slender line cutting across the tip.
If it were possible, her hands would learn how to make him groan: how much pressure to use, how hard to grasp, how leisurely to stroke, in which directions to sweep her fingers, and where to seize him in her fist. His cock would feel magnificent lifting into the grip of her fingers, beads of liquid spurting from the flared crown, and his grunts of pleasure echoing to the rhythmic jut of her wrist.
Such an achievement would inspire Love to use her teeth next, lightly skimming his sac, then grazing to the wide peak. She would drape her tongue, flatten it against him and lick slowly, then purse her lips and seal around his girth until he howled into the night. This mortal would taste divine, the delectable flavor of his cum melting on her tongue, the release spilling down her throat in a pleasurable stream.
Andrew would revel in her finishing him off. He’d savor the vision of her swallowing his climax, then flip Love onto her back. Like her, this man possesses an expansive imagination, so that he would find numerous ways to return the favor.
Rough. Ardent. Carnal. Sensual.
Andrew’s pupils dilate, as if he’s aware of her thoughts. On reflex, Love parts her lips, intending to voice those yearnings. Damnation, she should be vigilant, disciplined, impervious. From the second she’d met him, Love should have been lots of things. She’s supposed to be a warrior goddess, not a wanton traitor.
Yet the draw is unmistakable and downright intrinsic. It’s effortless, although they barely know each other.
It’s also inexplicable, at least from Love. As for Andrew, he’s a human male who likes what he sees, and she’s an otherworldly creature, and that makes his attraction obvious. This is how her matches act whenever they’re about to shear one another’s clothes off.
For some reason, this explanation overtakes her like a landslide. Swift and devastating. This forbidden bond with Andrew is wrong. He’s her enemy and her target. Although she longs for him to keep touching her with his words, and while she longs to echo the sentiments, such endeavors will cause irreparable destruction.
“We must stop,” she stresses.
“I don’t want to,” he says flatly.
“Please. Do it for me.”
Andrew rotates the cup in his grip while considering. At length, he gives a mock toast. “Safe zone it is.”
Love sags, her body calming down from the onslaught. Disappointment, frustration, and relief tug her in several directions.
Andrew talks about the legends that have inspired him, and she describes the tales she wishes existed. Love boasts about the first time she achieved a direct hit during archery practice, and he asks about her shooting techniques. They compare cultures and traditions, but too soon they go quiet.
She folds her legs to the side and marvels, “How have I been assigned to this territory for three months and overlooked you?”
Andrew gives that earnest thought. “I’m a public persona who hides behind his author photo. Otherwise, I keep a low profile in town. In that sense, we have invisibility in common.”
“Except it’s voluntary for you. Whereas the opposite is true for me.”
Setting down the cup, he rolls up his sleeves, which exposes his forearms. “Are you sure about that?”
Love wavers. Is she truly isolated by choice? That is how The Fates would describe it.
“What made The Stars choose Evershire for you?” he inquires.
She glances beyond the translucent walls. “There are many people in need of assistance here.”
“Lonely people?”
“Sometimes.”
“Heartbroken people?”
“Oftentimes.”
Andrew pauses, his voice tightening. “Who else needs you?”
“Nearly everyone,” she declares. “The human embrace is a gifted thing, but a mortal’s defect is in knowing how to select a life mate. That’s why I’m here. It’s about perfection…” She trails off when Andrew’s demeanor shifts, something about this conversation changing his outlook.
“You’re saying you control what they feel,” he summarizes, then laughs without humor. “You know, I’ve been sitting here, obsessing over your gorgeous mouth, eye-fucking you hard, and hanging onto every word, that I forgot why I’m here. You’re just so…” He stops himself, growling under his breath. “Your power. That’s what you used on Griffin and Ulrik. You brainwashed them.”
Love winces. For the sake of her realm, it’s her duty to lie. Yet the more she and Andrew speak candidly, the harder it is to wedge untruths between them. This mortal deserves better.
“Anger made those shots,” she admits. “He controls the nature of wrath. But yes, he did so at my behest.”
“Anger,” he repeats, tasting the name as if it’s been charred on a stovetop. “The hot titan who’s not your mate but was ‘passing through’ the right place, at the right time.”
“He does not warrant the accolade of titan any more than he warrants to be called intelligent.” Love cringes as though she’s swallowed a vomit-flavored cocktail. “Nor is he my mate.”
“Yet he interrupted his busy schedule to target more than one victim. Not just at your behest, but on your behalf,” Andrew edits. “While making tea, you were talking to yourself. You said something about ‘his type’ but didn’t finish the sentence.” His eyes kindle with treachery. “Fucking hell, you were talking about me.”
Needles prick her throat. She has revealed too much already. If he finds out the particulars of her task, it will further complicate her mission and jeopardize everyone in question. “Andrew, I—”
“Christ, I’m one of your targets. You’ve been playing me for a fool this entire time, just like you’re doing to the rest of this goddamn world.”
“It’s complicated. Please, listen—”
“How the fuck do you live with yourself?” he snarls. “Humans aren’t puppets to manipulate.”
“It’s always been like this. It’s the way of things.” Umbrage loosens her tongue. “You’re a mortal. You’re not meant to understand.”
His tea mug catapults across the room and smashes against the wall. “I know the fucking difference between honoring fate and stealing people’s free will!” he rages, gaining his feet.
She launches off the ground, her voice shaking with indignation, bafflement, and distress. “We’re benevolent. We steer mortals down the right paths, save them from regrets and choices that would otherwise end in spoils. Even more of your people would trip over their own follies and break their necks if it weren’t for us. Instead, we tirelessly reduce that number by a considerable amount!”
“Bull. Shit,” Andrew hisses, his breath pumping against hers. “Mistakes happen, but that doesn’t mean we’re all hopeless. That doesn’t mean you’re entitled to make us your bitches, so you can feel supreme. You have no family. You care for no one. You’ve never been mated, but you’re the one forcing people together? Talk about an error of fucking logic. Millennia of rule, yet it’s clear you know nothing about us, much less about love. I don’t want to be magically desired. I want to be enough. That’s not something you have a fucking right to dictate!”
Love reels backward. In that moment, she feels yet another debilitating sensation—unworthiness.
“Andrew,” she implores as he grabs his coat and charges to the door, but when he turns to face her, a brief and horrible silence pinches the room.
“You don’t know the way back,” she frets. “There’s no path, it’s dark outside, and—”
“Even if I weren’t a grown-ass man, you continue to underestimate mere mortals,” he spews. “I don’t need your so-called help. No one does.”
“Ulrik was a distraction, and Griffin made an enemy of you. I’m not obtuse. I know what you’re capable of in a brawl, but I couldn’t bear to stand by. I was protecting you!”
“Why would you do that?” he asks, then parrots her words. “My conflict with Ulrik and Griffin has always been like this . It’s the way of things . And by the way? You’re lying again, Little Myth. You were protecting yourself .”
He throws open the door and disappears into the forest.