31
“Do you like being a goddess?” he murmurs against her jaw.
Love pauses. No one has ever asked her that.
“Deities aren’t trained to consider such a thing,” she whispers into his shoulder. “I do like having authority and wielding a bow. Or rather, I used to like matchmaking, but now I merely favor the archery part of it—not the manipulation. But while my mindset has changed, I’m not skilled at anything else. There’s no alternative for my kind.”
Now that they have filled the woods with shouts, the world has fallen silent. Basking in the aftermath of fucking, neither of them are willing to move. Andrew had hissed when Love attempted to wiggle away, offering him the option to retreat indoors. Instead, he’d yanked her back to him, his cock still erect inside her.
He arranges the fur blanket around their waists, leaving their upper bodies naked. Wrapping her in his arms and sneaking one hand beneath the cover, he draws fine lines over Love’s ass. “There’s more to you. Matchmaking fuels your ego, but when you let your guard down, I hear it in your voice and see it on your face, how much you want people to feel their bonds. You could do countless other things with that kind of passion.”
The question sounds small to her ears. “You believe that?”
“What matters is what you believe.” His free thumb skims her cheekbone. “Don’t doubt yourself.”
Love swallows against his shoulder. Except she’ll never have the opportunity to find out. Sadness overcomes Love as she straightens and regards the dome of celestials beyond the treetops.
Andrew follows her gaze. “Show me which one is yours.”
The Star that birthed Love doesn’t shine. Yet she points east to a gap between four specks of light.
“I don’t see it,” Andrew says. But when she points again, he muses, “It’s dark.”
“It’s stubborn,” she replies.
Chuckling, Andrew twines his fingers into her hair, his tone husky from mating. “No. It’s rare.”
Astride his lap, Love snuggles deeper into his chest, as if she’ll find the answer to every mystery in his embrace. And this is what it’s like to feel safe.
They spend endless minutes touching, exploring, wandering. Their hands move of their own volition, as do their lips. His mouth feasts on her neck, and then his tongue trails along the ledge of her ear, until Love has dissolved into a boneless heap.
When his fingers caress her shoulder blades, Andrew whispers. “What do they look like?”
Love’s wings tremble inside her. Not surprising, he has deduced that she hides them willfully, though it’s evident he’s been withholding this question, somehow aware it’s a sensitive subject. “They’re black like my soul,” she replies. “The wingspan is impressive, if I do say so myself. But please do not ask why I conceal them.”
“I’ll resist for now,” Andrew assures her. “But you don’t have to hide anything from me.”
Love glances away, feeling bashful, reassured, and depraved. Damn this mortal for corrupting her heart. She wishes his declaration were true.
Although his cock remains hard within her, the temperature drops farther. It’s evident from the tint of his skin.
The question Andrew had once asked flits through Love’s mind. Who takes care of you?
She must get her mortal warm. Defying his protests, Love eases off his cock, her pussy releasing him while their gazes remain tethered, savoring the sensation.
Gathering their clothes and weapons, they race naked to the cottage, leaving only the blanket behind. In her bathroom, the tub fills on its own. Andrew groans in relief when he sinks into the water, rests his head against the rim, and opens his arms. “Get over here.”
Love flashes him a wicked smirk through the curtain of steam, and his eyes consume her as she descends into the foamy liquid.
“I can see your beautiful tits through the bubbles,” he teases.
“I can see more of you,” she flirts, eyeing the outlines of his muscles underwater.
Andrew moves to grab her, but Love slips behind him, bending her limbs on either side of his hips. He straps her arms over his abs, and she nips his ear.
“I’ll be fucking you in this tub soon,” he says in a gruff timbre. “On the floor. In your bed. Against the wall. I’m going to make you come on every surface of this cottage. But first, I’m desperate to hold you until you fall asleep.”
“I would like that very much,” she whispers. “As well as the rest of it.”
They watch his fingers thaw. Afterward, Andrew retrieves a towel and dries her. His hands drift over Love’s damp toes, ascend her limbs to the patch of hair shrouding her pussy, then to her wet navel, dripping breasts, and steam-flushed cheeks, which he cradles in his palms.
Love’s eyes flutter shut. She commits this experience to memory.
Who takes care of you?
For tonight, he does. And she will take care of him.
Seizing her turn, Love runs the towel over his muscles, his cock, his arms, his throat. The gesture is intimate, akin to a mating ritual, and fills her with wonder.
Because Love is his Selfish Little Myth—she’s grown fond of the nickname—she wants to keep going, keep fucking him, keep letting him fuck her. However, he has made a request, and they must rest to regain their stamina.
Darkness blankets the forest, starlight and firelight glossing the walls. Andrew hoists Love up into his arms, her ankles linking around his ass, her fingers toying with his hair as he carries her to bed. He whispers filthy, doting promises that she will hold him to. Until then, they sink under the blanket.
Love crawls to Andrew, and he extends those safe arms to her. Because she likes being on top, she sprawls her weight over his torso, her limbs straddling his waist. The mortal tucks her against him, nestling Love’s head into his neck and combing through her hair while her eyelids flutter closed.
Yet at midnight, Love wakes up. She doesn’t require as much sleep, so she listens to the mortal’s steady breaths, his chest contracting like a landmass beneath her. A place where she wishes to live forever.
He’s peaceful. She’s restless.
Warning herself to play nice instead of naughty, Love veers her head and bites into a pillow. Then quietly, tentatively, she turns back to him. Her heartbeat staggers, her nipples stiffen, and the nexus of her thighs grows wet.
Carefully, she slips out of bed to retrieve an arrow, then returns with the weapon poised in her grip. Slinking across the mattress, Love uses the arrowhead to usher the blanket down Andrew’s waist. Then in one illicit move, she shears through the material, exposing him fully.
He groans in his sleep, the harsh sound piercing through the air. Silently, she begs his pardon, then continues. Maneuvering the severed blanket out of the way, she swings one leg across his waist and admires the V of his hips, which flank the solid girth of his cock.
Andrew stirs, moving as though in unconscious offering while the tip of her arrow inches toward his cock like the deadliest sex toy in history. With careful ministrations, she lightly skims the outline of his length, then circles the head, which swells wider. The mortal hums, his body arching in slumber as she teases him with her weapon, cautiously grazing, coaxing his erection, enlarging its size.
Such a lovely-shaped cock. And so sensitive.
Tossing aside the weapon, she extends her hand. It takes years to reach his body, days for her fingers to scrape down his throat, hours to make contact with his torso. She drags her fingers across Andrew’s muscles.
Then waits. Then keeps going.
Love traces the hard grid of his abdomen before her index finger moves along the inclines of his hips. Blood rushes to the center of her body, her cunt throbbing like a pulse as she considers the possibilities.
But then Andrew’s hand lands atop hers. Grasping her wrist, he guides her fingers to his cock.
Love pauses, sheepish as she glances up. From the shadows, pewter irises glint at her like bottomless wells. He watches her through famished eyes, which shudder when she encases him in her grip. He’s thick and heavy, his crown smooth.
The image whets her appetite. The rough sound of his groan is even more appealing.
Folding her digits around his erection, Love bends forward, her thighs straddling his waist. On a helpless sigh, she takes his mouth and tongue, their lips clutching. It’s a precious, passionate kiss. They draw deeply on one another, as though sucking on air, their tongues entwining.
Breaking away, Love makes an erotic journey, branding herself on him. From mouth to neck, pectorals to biceps, and down the contours of his torso. She enjoys the way Andrew’s cock bucks against her and the gritty noises he makes, as if he’s swallowed sandpaper.
He reaches out to snatch Love, to lunge upward and pry her open. However, she’s too swift, seizing his wrists and nailing them to the mattress. Never releasing her prey, she lingers on his rapt gaze and then slithers down his frame, her lips searing his flesh from the base to his crown.
“Patience, mortal,” she croons against the tip.
Then she straps her lips around the pome and gives a tender suck. And Andrew is lost. The mortal’s head flings back, the word “Fuck” cutting from his mouth. Spurred by the reaction, Love moans around the top of his cock and exerts pressure, her tongue flicking over the line and tasting salt.
Stars. She’s parched.
Lowering her mouth, she consumes more of him, every inch sinking between her gluttonous lips. Andrew’s growls become rhythmic, each one harsher than the next. His hips snap gently, working in cadence with her mouth.
Love siphons the upright flesh, its width expanding around the swipes of her tongue. His moans escalate in volume, as uncontrolled as his movements, his waist hurling toward her waiting lips. At some point, their fingers interlock overhead, and his pleasure becomes her pleasure.
The lips of her pussy dampen, provoked by his shouts. Feeling downright possessive, she sucks harder, swivels her tongue, and laps at the crease in his crown. Bobbing her head, tugging on him, Love discovers another method of touch that never existed until this man.
Rushing her mouth over his length, she’s careful not to bite. At least, not repeatedly. That infraction occurs only once, her canines grazing his flesh until Andrew hisses, the flavor of blood seeping on her palate to mix with his semen.
Her thoughts evaporate. She finds herself in a dreamscape, a state of jubilation. Voracious, she dines on the mortal, licking the fluid, tightening her mouth around him.
“Love,” Andrew grunts before going still, then combusting.
His bellow fills the cottage. His cock spasms, cum spilling down her throat like wine. Smooth. Inebriating. An indulgence that could turn into a habit, if she isn’t careful.
Except she’s already breached that line. And she does not care.
The instant Love frees his cock and wrists, Andrew is on her. With a rasp, he seizes her waist, hauls her upward, and flips her over.
Love’s back strikes the mattress. Instinctively, her thighs spread, and her calves link around his ass. Her mouth curls into an eager grin, then she falters as Andrew hovers above, his pupils enameled in pure black.
“Mine,” he whispers through his teeth.
His. It’s enough to wring a grief-stricken noise from her chest. This man has defied celestial law, thwarted destiny itself, made a mockery of the stars, and challenged every notion that’s been bred into her. He sees her, knows her, hears her. By the Fates, he can touch Love.
Her body. Her soul. Her heart.
All of these, he has penetrated. That makes him more powerful than any deity in existence.
But Love shall never be his. As Andrew shall never be hers.
Yet. The word comes out like a vow. “Yours.”
His eyes flare like beacons. With a groan, Andrew slings Love’s thigh higher over his hip and snaps his waist. She keens, her spine arching. His long, firm cock pistons inside her, filling that empty place.
This should not be possible. Love has witnessed countless targets copulating, and rarely does the male possess enough vigor to remain erect after oral sex. But then, Andrew has only ever subverted expectations.
Her pussy clenches his skin, saturating it in her arousal. In slow but fitful motions, he rolls his ass, urging moans from her mouth.
Their bodies grind together, her fingernails digging into his backside, his hands driving into her hair. His back hunches, and her knees rise, the ache building with every sinuous pass of his cock. It’s sharp but shallow, languid but tireless.
“Touch me,” she begs against his mouth. “Fuck me. Make love to me.”
Andrew nods. “Anything you want. Everything you want.”
Yes. Everything. Mating. Fucking. Lovemaking. And more, for she has run out of words to describe this.
Perspiration glazes his flesh, his breathing is labored, and his gaze consumes every fiber of her being. He works into her so good, moves so well. His pace is measured, and her cunt wets him to the seat, their hips writhing.
Love cannot take it.
“Oh!” she cries to the heavens. “More!”
“Gorgeous,” Andrew husks. “And so selfish when you’re about to come.”
Delirious, she nods. Yes, she’s selfish for taking what doesn’t belong to her. But curse destiny, she will never regret him.
Because this is what freedom feels like.
Andrew quickens his pace, his cock pitching in and out until she erupts into noise. Clasping his taut ass, Love bows off the mattress, her nipples pitting into his chest. With a disjointed cry, she comes long and brokenly.
Her mortal bends down, catching the sobs with his lips. He devours them, keeping her secret safe. Over and over, Love climaxes hard, awash in mind-bending pleasure.
As she rides out the orgasm, his cock slams into her harsher, faster, deeper. Moments later, he joins Love. His roar hits her mouth, the noise rapturous.
And as the hours pass, it happens again and again. All night, she fucks a human, tangling herself up with him, their limbs raging.
And through the following day, they hide from the universe and exhaust themselves. Andrew orders Love onto all fours. Palming her backside, he spreads the swells and pounds his cock into her from behind, the echoes of her moans muffled by the pillows.
They progress to the rug fronting the fire, where she rides Andrew’s cock until he’s howling. Then the wall, her body jolting up and down to the tempo of his hips. Next, the tub, water splashing over the rim. After that, the furniture.
With Andrew tied up, Love plants kisses until she’s marked every inch of his flesh. With Love laid out across a dining table, his head dips between her thighs.
They feed each other, bathe each other. It’s madness and paradise. At one point, she feels his heartbeat sprinting, jolting against hers. She’s about to suggest they slow down, but then he grins and exercises this sweet fucking twist of his hip, and she gets dizzy.
She learns the meaning of deeper , the significance of faster . Her back arches, and she conquers the world as Andrew unleashes a primal growl, coming with a roar that breaches the glass walls.
After losing count of how many times she has convulsed around his cock, her body crashes atop his. She winds her fingers through the damp hair at the base of his neck, while he pants into her neck, “Fuck.”
“I know,” she agrees.
They share a depleted, breathy kiss and press their palms together, the way they had at the bridge. Only this time, their skin makes contact.
Sitting upright, Andrew leans across the mattress, retrieves their special note, and rereads the contents aloud. Love clambers behind him, straps her limbs around his frame, and rests her chin on his shoulder as he traces the tear seam. If they stare at it long enough, the note might fade and reveal a sacred message beneath—words they can see only at the right hour, in the right light. The passage will predict their future, including things like the smell of soap in his hair, him reading aloud to her, random fights about nothing, private jokes and gestures, her naked body astride his, his waist pinning her to the nearest surface, the pulse of his cock making her shout, and his arms securing her every night.
Not just that. Love wants his voice on the phone, in the middle of laughing, caught up in a husky groan, on the verge of a hiss, raw from either screaming at her or coming for her, growling protectively for her. She wants a life with this mortal.
Andrew fastens Love to the bed once more. Her limbs fan out around his waist, and his cock pitches into her slick walls, her pussy gripping him to the brink.
Stars almighty, perfection has many flaws. Her kind hasn’t learned that, but she has. Hours like these are much better with Andrew’s feverish lips clamped to her neck, his hips lunging between her thighs, Love’s hair in disarray, the note she almost destroyed resting on the nightstand, and this invisible home that doesn’t truly exist.