Chapter 18
Ophelia
Hades kisses me like he's trying to memorize the taste of my mouth.
It's hungry, desperate, raw, and exactly what I need in this moment.
His hands fist in my wet hair, angling my head so he can take the kiss deeper, and I let him. I let him devour me because it's better than anything I've ever felt. And if my life is going to crumble to shit, I may as well get a fucking orgasm out of it.
And I know I'm getting one this time. Hades has come unhinged, and I am right there with him.
He pulls away from me, and we are both breathing hard. There's something in his eyes that makes my stomach clench, and I know that on the other side of this is something explosive.
I see the war in his eyes.
Control versus desire. Protection versus possession.
"I need you," I whisper, pressing my nails into his chest, and the words come out broken. Desperate. "Please. I need—I can't—"
I don't even know what I'm asking for, but he does, because he understands my body and mind in a way that sometimes even I don't.
"Come with me," he says, his voice rough, and before I can respond, the shadows rise around us.
The world dissolves.
When reality solidifies again, we're in a bedroom, and thankfully, the ride is much smoother than it has ever been before. I thank whatever higher powers there might be, because vomiting right now would be horrible.
I take a second to look around the room.
It's familiar, and I stiffen for a moment.
I've been here before. I recognize the massive black marble and dark wood, the candlelight that highlights everything in warmth.
And that bed, the massive bed in the center of the room. I've had many dreams about it.
The room is his lair in the Underworld.
It's beautiful.
It's terrifying.
It's exhilarating.
"This is my room," Hades says, still holding me against him. "In the Underworld. No one comes here. Not even Thanatos."
"Why did you bring me here?"
His hands tighten on my waist. "Because what I'm about to do to you is private. And I don't want anyone interrupting."
My core clenches and heat rises in my stomach. My nipples are hard, and I shiver. This time I'm not cold. I'm filled with desire.
I need this. Need him. Need to feel something other than breaking.
"I want you," I say, meeting his eyes.
Something flickers in his expression. There's a moment of hesitation, and I curse him in my mind. This is happening. He wants it.
I want it.
"Please, Hades. Don't turn me away." I bite my lip, making my eyes large and pleading.
He groans, kissing me again. This time it's softer. He pulls away quicker than I would have liked.
"Tell me to stop," he says, his hands moving to cup my face. "If this becomes too much. If you need me to stop. Tell me."
"I won't."
"You might." His thumb traces my lower lip. "What I want to do to you... what I've wanted to do to you since the moment you walked into my office... it's not gentle."
My breath catches. "Good. I don't want gentle. I want—" I reach up to grab his shirt, pulling him closer. "I want you to fuck me."
"No."
The word is firm, and I freeze. I open my mouth, totally prepared to remind him I'm not a sweet little virgin, but I stop.
I don't know how to say that to him. It feels weird talking about my past, and I know I don't want to know that about his.
"I'm not going to fuck you." There's something fierce in his voice now. "I'm going to consume you. You're going to be so overwhelmed by what I give you that there's no room for anything else. But you won't forget. You'll remember this. You'll remember me. Forever."
Yes.
God, yes.
"Then stop talking," I whisper, "and prove it."
He kisses me again, and this time there's no hesitation.
His mouth crashes against mine, brutal and claiming, and I kiss him back with everything I have, fisting my hands in his shirt, pulling, tugging, trying to get closer. I need him to consume me, and he knows it, making a low sound in his throat as his hands are everywhere.
"This dress," he growls against my mouth. "I've been thinking about taking it off you all night."
"Then do it."
His hands move to the zipper at my back, and I feel the whisper of metal teeth separating. Cool air hits my spine as the fabric parts, and then he's sliding the dress down my shoulders, over my hips, letting it pool at my feet.
I'm standing in front of him in nothing but the pomegranate necklace he placed on me earlier this evening.
His eyes move over me like a physical touch, and I watch his jaw clench, watch his hands curl into fists like he's restraining himself. Maybe he is. He's a man who prides himself on control, and I can tell he's losing it.
"Fuck," he breathes. "I would not have survived if I knew you weren't wearing underwear this whole fucking time."
I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful.
Because the God of Death is looking at me like I'm the only thing in all the realms that matters.
"Your turn," I say, reaching for his shirt.
He catches my wrists, stopping me. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because if you touch me right now, this will be over too fast." His grip tightens slightly. "And I want to take my time with you."
Before I can respond, shadows rise from the floor.
They wrap around my wrists, cool and solid, and I gasp as they lift my arms above my head. They spread across my skin like silk, holding me in place.
Not painful.
Not scary.
Erotic.
"Hades—" I'm trembling in anticipation.
"Trust me," he says, his voice dropping to something dark and velvet. "I'm going to make you feel so good. But first, I need you to surrender control. Can you do that for me?"
I should say no. Should demand he release me. Should maintain some kind of agency after spending the entire night feeling powerless.
But looking into his eyes, seeing the hunger and restraint warring there, I realize something:
This isn't about taking my power.
It's about giving me permission to let go.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Good girl."
The praise does something to me, sends heat rushing through my veins and wetness pooling between my thighs. He notices, and his smile turns predatory.
"You like that," he says. It's not a question. "You like being told you're good for me."
I nod, because I can't form words.
"Then be good," he says, stepping closer. "Stand there. Let me worship you the way you deserve."
His hands settle on my waist, and I shiver at the contact. He's still fully clothed, and I'm naked, held in place by his shadows. The contrast makes me feel deliciously helpless.
He leans in, pressing his lips to my throat, and I arch into the touch.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin. "I've barely touched you and you're already trembling."
"Please—" My nipples feel like they could cut glass, and every nerve ending in my body stands at attention.
"Please what?" His mouth moves lower, trailing kisses down my collarbone. "Tell me what you want."
"I don't know," I gasp as his teeth graze the swell of my breast. "Everything. Anything. Just don't stop." I've never felt like this before. It's like every touch is electric.
"I won't." His tongue traces the underside of my breast, and I moan, squirming. "I'm going to touch every inch of you. Taste every part of you. Make you come so many times you forget your own name."
His mouth closes around my nipple, and I cry out.
The sensation is overwhelming: wet heat and gentle suction and the scrape of his teeth. He works the sensitive bud until I'm panting, writhing against the shadows holding me, and then he moves to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention.
"Please," I beg, and I don't even know what I'm asking for anymore. "Hades, please—"
"Not yet." He slides down my body, his tongue tracing letters on my skin. His name. "I want to taste you."
I'm panting and trembling and about to explode. I simply need the right touch. The right pressure. Anything.
"Beautiful." He grips my thighs. "Open for me."
I spread my legs slightly, and his eyes darken.
"Wider."
I obey, and he makes a sound of approval.
"Perfect." His hands slide up my inner thighs, and I'm shaking now, need coiling tight in my core. "I can see how wet you are. How ready." His words are warm against my clit. "This is my favorite shade of pink," he tells me.
"What?" My train of thought is lost somewhere.
"I told you my favorite color is pink," he grins up at me. "And I was thinking about your perfect little cunt."
That's the only warning I get before he dives in.
His mouth closes over my clit, and I scream.
The sensation is electric, overwhelming, perfect. His tongue is wicked and skilled, circling and flicking and sucking until I'm sobbing with pleasure, not that it takes much. I'm primed and ready, and so deliciously close it's painful.
"Please," I gasp. "Please, I'm so close—" I'm shaking with desire. I feel like I'm going to die or explode or something.
He pulls back slightly, and I whimper at the loss, tears on my eyelashes.
"Not yet," he says, and his voice is dark with command. "You don't come until I tell you to."
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers trace my entrance, teasing. "And you will. Because you're going to be good for me. Aren't you?"
"Yes," I sob. "Yes, I'll be good, please—"
"Then hold it." He slides two fingers inside me, and I cry out at the intrusion. "Feel how tight you are. How perfectly you grip my fingers. Imagine what you'll feel like around my cock."
I can't think. Can't breathe. His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes me see stars, and his mouth returns to my clit.
The pleasure builds and builds and builds until I'm shaking, trembling, right on the edge of shattering.
"Please," I beg. "Please let me come, I can't hold it, I—"
"Now," he commands. "Come for me."
I explode.
The orgasm tears through me like lightning, and I scream his name as pleasure crashes over me in waves. His fingers don't stop, his mouth doesn't stop, and the sensations keep going and going until I'm sobbing with the intensity of it.