Chapter 9
London
His heartbeat thuds against my ear—constant, strong, anchoring me to the present.
I ripped open a wound I've kept sealed for years. Laid it bare for this man I barely know but somehow trust more than anyone I've ever met. And he didn't flinch. Didn't pity me. He pulled me closer and made a promise that sounded like a vow.
And every nerve ending in my body is alive, electric with awareness of him—the heat radiating from his chest, the weight of his arm across my back, the roughness of his large palm resting between my shoulder blades.
His thumb traces a slow line along my spine. Up, then down. Up, then down. A lazy rhythm that sends warmth pooling between my thighs.
I've never been held like this. Never been touched with this kind of care. And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have more—more from him, more of him.
I’ve never had sex before. Not out of some moral stance or purity pledge. I just never met a single man who made me feel safe enough to be so open or vulnerable.
Mom and Greg's house was populated by men who looked at me the way wolves eye a lamb—hungry and calculating. Friends who came to the house, the dealers who lurked in the living room at all hours, they stared. Some of them tried to do more than stare.
Every male in my orbit was a potential threat and I got good at ducking, dodging, and making myself small and invisible.
But Zeus…
His hand moves higher, fingers threading into the hair at the base of my skull, and a shiver tracks down my spine.
Zeus makes me feel protected, but beneath that is something else—a strong sexual pull, magnetic and relentless, that’s been building since the first moment I saw him.
I want him. I want this man with a ferocity that scares me.
I shift against his chest, tilting my face up from the hollow of his throat. His jaw is above me, sharp and shadowed with scruff. I press my lips there—just below his ear, where his pulse beats strongly.
His breath catches. His hand stills on my back.
"London." A warning.
I press another kiss to his jaw. Then his neck. My hand flattens against his chest and slides upward, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath cotton.
“Don’t push me away," I whisper against his skin. “I want you.”
His body goes taut.
"You've had a hell of a day." His voice is rough gravel. "A hell of a week. You don't need to—"
“Stop. I’m not doing this out of some need for comfort." I pull back enough to meet his eyes. In the dim lamplight, they're dark and burning. "I'm doing this because I want you, and you're the first man I've ever wanted."
His nostrils flare. His hand tightens in my hair—not pulling, holding. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth. No hesitation. No fear. "I'm choosing you, Zeus.”
“Christopher,” he says. “My name’s Christopher. Chris.”
“Chris,” I repeat.
Something breaks behind his eyes when I say his name aloud. The restraint he's been white-knuckling snaps, and his mouth crashes over mine.
This kiss is nothing like the ones at the bonfire.
Those were testing, exploring—fun and playful.
This one claims. His tongue sweeps past my lips, and I open for him, tasting beer and heat and hunger.
His hand in my hair tilts my head, angling me where he wants me, and the dominance of it makes the blood in my veins hum.
He rolls us so I'm on my back and he's above me, bracing his weight on one forearm while his free hand slides down my side—ribs, waist, hip. His fingers find the hem of my shirt and slip beneath, and the contact of his rough palm against my bare stomach makes me gasp into his mouth.
"Tell me if anything's too much," he orders against my lips.
“Okay. Just don't stop."
He pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it. I'm in a plain cotton bra—nothing pretty, nothing lacy—but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m draped in silk and diamonds. His eyes drag down my body, and the hunger in them steals the air from my lungs.
"Fucking gorgeous." The words come out guttural and reverent.
His mouth follows his gaze—down my throat, across my collarbone, along the swell of my breasts above the cotton.
His hand reaches beneath me, unhooking the bra in one motion and peeling it away.
Cool air hits my nipples, and they tighten instantly.
His mouth closes over one, and the sensation rockets through me until my spine arches off the mattress—wet heat and pressure and the graze of his teeth. I grab his shoulders, my fingers digging into muscle.
"Zeus—"
"Christopher," he corrects, lifting his head. His eyes find mine—dark, serious. "When we're like this, I want you to call me Christopher."
The look in his gaze makes something flutter behind my ribs. "Christopher."
He groans at the sound of it and attacks my other breast, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.
His hand travels lower—over my stomach, past the waistband of my jeans.
He pops the button one-handed, drags the zipper down.
His fingers slip inside, pressing against me through the thin cotton of my underwear, and I jolt.
"Soaked," he growls against my skin. "This wet little pussy—all for me?"
I can only moan in answer. His fingers move in slow, devastating circles, and pressure builds inside me—coiling tighter with each pass of his thumb over a spot that makes my vision go white at the edges. I squirm beneath him, chasing it, needing more.
He strips my jeans and underwear in one fluid pull. I'm naked beneath him while he's still fully clothed, and the imbalance should make me self-conscious. It doesn't.
"My turn." I tug at his shirt.
He sits back on his heels and yanks it over his head. The sight of him bare-chested—bronze skin, ripped abs, tattoos crawling across his shoulders and down his arms—makes my mouth go dry. He's carved from stone, a warrior's body built for violence and power.
He shoves his jeans down and off. When his cock springs free—thick, hard, and intimidating, my breath leaves me in a rush. He's big. Very big.
He reaches for his jeans on the floor, pulls a foil packet from the wallet in his back pocket, and rolls the condom on.
Then he's back over me, settling between my thighs, one hand bracing beside my head, the other gripping my hip. The blunt head of him presses against my entrance, and my whole body vibrates with anticipation and a thread of nervousness.
"Eyes on me," he commands.
I obey. His gaze locks onto mine—burning, possessive, tender all at once.
He pushes forward. One inch, and I feel the stretch—foreign and intense. He watches my face, reading every micro-expression.
Another inch. The pressure increases, and I suck in a breath through my teeth.
He freezes.
His eyes widen a fraction. I see the exact moment realization hits—the tightness, the resistance, the way my body is yielding to something it's never yielded to before.
"London." His voice is strained. Barely controlled. "Are you a—"
“Yes. This is my… You’re my first.” I grip his forearms, holding him in place. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
His jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grind. His forehead drops to mine. A tremor runs through his arms.
"Fuck." The word is prayer and profanity. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to treat me like I'm fragile."
He lifts his head. Those brown eyes seem awed and conflicted and fiercely possessive. His hand comes up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.
"You should've told me," he says, but there's no anger in his words. "I would've—"
"You would've tried to talk me out of this.” I turn my head and press a kiss to his palm. "I don't want to be talked out of it. I want this. I want you."
He stares at me for a long, charged moment. Then something settles in his face—a decision, a claiming.
"Then you'll have me." He shifts, pulling back a fraction. "But we're going to go slow. As slow as you need, and I’m going to feel every inch of you take me."
He moves with agonizing patience. Each millimeter, he pauses, lets me adjust, watches my face for any sign of pain. His thumb finds my clit and he works it in gentle, patient circles.
The sting fades. The pressure transforms into fullness—stretching, intimate, overwhelming in a way that makes my eyes burn.
"Breathe, sweetheart." His voice is a rasp. "Open up for me. Let me in."
I exhale and feel my body yield. He slides deeper—all the way—and we both groan. He's trembling above me, muscles locked tight, holding himself in check.
"So tight." His forehead presses to mine, his breath ragged. "So fucking tight. You feel that? That's you wrapped around my cock like you were made for me. Mine, London. No one else gets this pussy. Just me."
He starts to move. Slow, deep strokes that have me clutching at his back. Every thrust hits a place inside me that sends sparks up my spine. His mouth finds mine—soft kisses between breaths, whispered praise against my lips.
"Taking me so well, sweetheart. So beautiful." His hips roll, grinding against my clit. "Feel what you do to me."
My legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer. The angle shifts, and pleasure crests—sharper, more urgent. I'm climbing toward something that feels inevitable, enormous.
"Christopher—I'm going to—"
“Do it.” He picks up his pace, his hips driving with purpose. His thumb presses harder, faster. "Come for me, London. Soak my cock. Let go."
I shatter. My whole body locks and then releases in waves that roll through me endlessly. I hear myself cry out—his name, broken and breathless—and feel his grip on my hip tighten to bruising.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural sound, his body driving deep one final time before going rigid. He pulses inside me, and the intimacy of it—the surrender—makes fresh tears spring to my eyes.
He collapses over me, careful not to crush me, his face buried in my neck. I feel his heart hammering against my chest, matching my own frantic rhythm.
When he pulls back to look at me, his face is stripped bare. No walls. No armor. Just Zeus—Christopher—raw and open and mine.
"You're mine now." His thumb catches a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You understand that? I'm not letting you go."
I turn my face into his palm. I hope he means that because I don’t ever want him to let me go.
He eases out and deals with the condom. Then, he pulls me against his chest, arranging the covers over both of us, his arms banding around me like he plans to hold me all night long.
And I’m okay with that. No, I’m great with that.