Chapter 18 #2
Finally, finally, he gentles his touch, easing me down from the peak.
The shadows release my wrists, and I collapse forward.
He catches me, scooping me into his arms and carrying me to the bed. He lays me down on the silk sheets, and I'm boneless, trembling, completely undone.
He leans down and sniffs my neck. "Roses," he moans before pulling back.
I whimper. I'm not ready to lose his weight. It's grounding me, keeping me from floating away.
His shadows slither over my body, pressing me into the bed. "Patience, little flower."
He undresses slowly, deliberately, letting me watch. I'm grateful for the few moments to collect myself and also admire him.
The shirt comes off first, revealing a torso that makes my mouth go dry. He's all carved muscle and smooth pale skin. No scars or imperfections.
But he's not unmarked.
In fact, he's covered everywhere.
Tattoos. A lot of them.
A pomegranate over his heart, so detailed I can see individual seeds.
Greek symbols running down his ribs, ancient writing I can't read.
On his left shoulder, what looks like the wheel of fate, intricate and beautiful.
More symbols across his abdomen, spiraling patterns that seem to move in the candlelight.
They're beautiful.
They're clearly meaningful.
And they make my chest ache because I know — I know — they're for her.
For Persephone.
For his wife.
The woman he's been mourning for two thousand years.
It's like a bucket of ice water has been splashed over me, and for a minute, I consider ending this and slinking away. At least then, I will maintain some sort of dignity.
Unfortunately, as I'm about to pull away, Hades pulls off his pants, and holy shit.
His cock is magnificent. Long and thick and already hard, and I feel a flutter of nervousness mixed with anticipation.
The arousal I thought he'd sated re-ignites in my stomach, and I clench my thighs together as his shadows caress my nipples. I'm no longer thinking about anything other than my satisfaction.
"Scared?" he asks, crawling onto the bed.
"No."
His smile is knowing. "Liar." He settles between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress. "But don't worry. I'll make sure you're ready for me."
His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Like he's savoring me.
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and I gasp into his mouth.
"Still so wet," he murmurs. "Still so ready. Do you want my cock?"
"Yes," I breathe.
"Say it." His fingers circle my clit, maddeningly light. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you inside me," I say, past shame, past embarrassment. "I want you to fuck me. Please—"
"Since you asked so nicely…"
He positions himself at my entrance, and I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against me.
"Breathe," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle as he feels me tense against his intrusion. "Relax for me."
I do, and he pushes forward slowly, inch by devastating inch.
The stretch is intense, bordering on painful, but not quite. He takes his time, letting me adjust, and when he's finally fully seated inside me, we both groan.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect."
I can't speak. Can barely breathe. I feel impossibly full, stretched around him, and it's overwhelming in the best way. I feel complete in a way I've never considered was possible.
"Move," I manage. "Please move."
He does.
The first thrust is slow and deep, and I arch against him, crying out. He sets a rhythm that's maddening, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, hitting that spot inside me that makes me see stars.
"Look at me," he commands.
I open my eyes, meeting his gaze, and the intensity there steals my breath.
"I want to see you," he says, his hips never stopping their devastating rhythm. "I want to watch you come apart."
His hand slides between us again, fingers finding my clit, and I'm immediately hurtling toward another orgasm.
"That's it," he growls. "Take what I give you. You're doing so well. So perfect for me."
The praise combined with the physical sensations is too much. I shatter again, clenching around him, and he groans at the sensation.
"Again," he demands, and his fingers work my clit with ruthless precision.
"I can't—" I tremble. "It's too much."
"You can." His thrusts become harder, deeper. "Give me another one."
And impossibly, I do. It's like he's in control of my body, and on his orders, I explode.
The third orgasm crashes over me, and I scream, my nails raking down his back. He doesn't stop, fucking me through it, and the pleasure borders on pain it's so intense.
"Please," I sob. "I can't take anymore." Tears stream down my face, and he smiles, licking them from my cheeks.
"Give me one more, my flower. One more."
I don't think I can. Don't think my body has anything left.
But then he shifts the angle, hitting something inside me that makes my vision white out, and I'm shaking.
I gasp, and I feel my wetness starting to cover the two of us.
Hades laughs and presses so hard I can feel him against my clit. "Come on, my queen. Give your King his due."
One more thrust, and I scream as I topple over the edge.
He follows me with a groan, and I feel him pulse inside me, filling me with his release.
Not that I can focus on it for too long. As he collapses on top of me, I blank out.
Eventually, our breathing slows, and I come to.
Hades pulls out gently, and I wince at the sensitivity. He notices and presses a soft kiss to my temple.
"Too much?"
"No," I say honestly. "I'm just sensitive."
He pulls me against his chest, arranging us so we're tangled together in the silk sheets. I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel safe.
Which is dangerous, on so many levels.
For a few moments, we just lie there, neither of us talking.
His fingertips massage my scalp, and mine trace over his chest. The moment is nice, but I can't help myself. I trace the pomegranate tattoo, and when I feel his muscles tense, I know there's a story there.
"These are beautiful."
"Thank you."
"How long have you had them?"
"A long time."
There are a myriad of questions on my tongue. Was this for her? Why? When?
As tension starts to creep into the moment, I decide not to ask.
I'm too afraid of the answer. Even if it is just for tonight, I want to bask in the lie of this moment, even if the truth might destroy me later.
So instead of asking more, I curl into Hades, allowing him to hold me.
His hand strokes through my hair, gentle and soothing, and I feel myself starting to drift.
"I've waited so long for this," he whispers, and his voice is rough with emotion.
I freeze. The lie I've told myself shatters immediately, and my eyes snap open.
I don't move. Don't breathe. I want to pretend this is not happening. But I can't, and I know it.
He's talking about her.
About Persephone.
About his wife.
The woman he's been mourning for millennia.
The woman whose symbols are carved into his skin.
The woman he really wants.
Pain lances through my chest, sharp and devastating, and I feel breathless.
Because I just gave myself to him, completely, utterly, holding nothing back, and he's thinking about someone else.
He's looking at me and seeing her.
Touching me and remembering her.
I swallow against the tears burning my throat and force myself to stay still. To keep my breathing even. To pretend I'm asleep so he doesn't know I heard.
So he doesn't see my heart breaking.
His hand continues stroking my hair, and he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"Thank you," he whispers. "For coming back to me."
And that's when I realize the full truth.
He doesn't want Ophelia.
He wants Persephone.
I'm just the body she happens to be wearing.