16. Athena
ATHENA
I plant my palms on his chest and ride him like I’m trying to erase six years in six minutes.
Sweat beads at my temples, drips down the curve of my spine, and the muscles in my thighs burn, but I don’t stop.
Each bounce, each grind, each punishing slam sends hot ripples through my whole body.
He watches me with his head tipped back and his mouth slightly open, hands clutching my hips but not controlling them.
His eyes are feral, a dark mix of reverence and hunger, and when I lean forward and kiss him, teeth clashing, I can taste his last ragged breath still hanging between us.
“Fuck—Athena,” he rasps.
“Shut up,” I pant against his mouth.
He laughs and bites my lower lip, and I cry out, slamming down on him so hard the headboard cracks against the wall.
His hands fly up to cup my jaw, and he grinds upward into me, matching my pace, pushing me right into that merciless rhythm that pounds the reason out of my skull.
I watch his face, every flicker of restraint, every ounce of control, and I drink it like a drug.
Six years and this man still reacts to my body like it’s the one place he can never get enough of. The knowledge is a fuse in my blood.
He sits up suddenly, hands locking around my waist, and pulls me off without warning. I land on my back with a grunt, and he follows in the same motion, burying himself deep again before I can miss the stretch.
“Oh my god—”
His fingers lace mine and press my hands over my head while he pounds with hard, ruthless thrusts.
His mouth finds my throat. He licks, sucks, bites, leaving a mark I’ll see tomorrow in the mirror.
I arch into him, thighs locking around his hips.
Each thrust drives farther than the last. The whole bed rattles.
I drag my fingers down his back, digging crescent moons into his skin, and he groans like the sound alone keeps him alive.
“Beg for it,” he orders, voice shredded.
I glare and wrap my legs tighter. “Make me.”
He pulls out almost entirely, holds there, torturing me with the emptiness. “Beg.”
“Asshole,” I hiss.
He slams back in, and the impact lights me up so hard I forget why I’m angry. “You want me again?” he growls against my ear. “Say it.”
“Fine—I want you,” I sob, because it’s the only thing that scrapes through my throat when he starts fucking me like that again.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, relentless. “I want you desperate. Now take it.”
The orgasm that hits me is violent and hot, ripping moans from my chest that I can’t even recognize as mine.
My nails rake over his shoulders. He keeps moving, keeps hissing praise in my ear—good girl, gorgeous, my girl—until I’m shaking underneath him.
The second my body slackens, I roll us, flipping him onto his back.
He blinks up at me, surprised, but the grin that curves his mouth tells me he loves it.
My hands fist in his hair. I slide down, swallowing his cock in one smooth movement.
He swears, a rough, broken sound, hand flying to the back of my head.
I hold his gaze as I take him deeper, letting my throat flex around him.
My lips are swollen, my jaw trembling, but I want his eyes to stay right here when he loses it.
I bob my head, hollowing my cheeks, letting spit slick everything, the obscene noises echoing in the room.
His thighs tense, stomach rigid, and he tries to warn me, voice breaking on my name.
I pull off with a wet pop, catch my breath, then climb back up, straddling him again. He’s shaking, eyes blown, veins standing out along his neck.
“You enjoy torturing me?” he pants.
“Yes.”
He laughs once, then grabs my hips and slams me down on his cock again. “Then ride, baby. Ride until you can’t walk. I want you to feel me tomorrow standing over the sink.”
I do. I grind so slowly this time that he groans, fingers digging into my thighs, nails biting.
I angle my hips to drag my clit against the base of him with every roll, making myself dizzy with how good it feels.
He sits up, wraps his arms around me, and presses his mouth to my breast, sucking, biting until the pain spikes through the pleasure and twists it into something sharper.
“Look at me,” he says again, force behind it. I meet his eyes. They’re wild, sweat dripping, hair a mess. My name is a curse on his lips, and I can feel that rope tight in him, ready to snap. He lays me back, holds my ankles wide, drives hard, and everything inside me clenches in response.
“Come with me,” he orders, voice ripped raw. “Come on me while I’m inside.”
His thrusts turn almost desperate. I can hear it in the way his breath catches, the way his body tenses.
The burn in my belly unfurls again. I clench around him, deliberately, and his face contorts, his eyes closing.
It pushes me over. I convulse, shouting his name, and he loses whatever restraint he had left.
He bites my shoulder, thrusts hard and deep, and the heat that floods me makes me gasp.
He comes with a groan that sounds like it costs him blood, spilling everything straight into me.
He doesn’t move. He presses his forehead to mine, breath hot and shaky, and holds me there while both of us breathe it out. My body still trembles. His hands rub small circles over my sides, hips still buried in me. He kisses me softly, slow, like he can’t stop even if he wanted to.
“Stay inside,” I whisper against his mouth. “Don’t move.”
His grin turns sinful. “Yes, ma’am.”
He rocks once, just to feel me clamp down.
“You’re insufferable,” I choke out, and my voice comes out rough with too many things layered on top of each other.
Nathan’s mouth curves, then softens, and his hand slides up my side as if he’s reminding himself I’m real. He stills when I shift, and he holds my gaze like he’s waiting for me to decide whether this is tenderness or a trap.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, and the humor in it is thin, controlled.
I lift my hand and press my palm to his cheek, then I feel his stubble against my skin and my heart bursts in a way that has nothing to do with lust. My eyes sting, and the shock of it makes me blink hard, then harder.
Nathan’s expression changes immediately, the grin dropping away as if it never belonged on his face.
“What,” he asks, quiet and sharp at the same time.
I try to shake it off, I try to pull air into my lungs and make a joke and get away with it. My body refuses. The moment I open my mouth, the sound that comes out isn’t a laugh, it’s a broken little inhale that turns into tears.
Nathan’s hands tighten on me, not controlling, not pinning, simply holding, and he shifts us carefully so I’m against his chest. He keeps one arm around my back and one hand at my hair, then he presses his mouth to my temple like he’s anchoring me there.
“Talk to me,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I press my face into his shoulder, and the tears keep coming like my body has been waiting years for permission. My fingers clutch at his shirt, then tighten until the fabric pulls taut, and my voice finally shows up.
“I did everything alone,” I whisper, and the words are ugly in my mouth. “Every fever, every night wake-up, every morning when I had to pretend I wasn’t tired, every time she asked a question I couldn’t answer.”
Nathan goes completely still.
I hate that stillness. I hate how it makes me feel like I’m about to be judged again, like I’m going to watch him turn cold and clinical and say something I’ll never forget.
Instead, his hand slides up my spine and holds.
“I know,” he says, voice low. “I know you did.”
“You don’t,” I choke out, and the truth comes fast now, unstoppable. “You weren’t there when she screamed for me at two in the morning and I had a shift at seven, and I still went in and smiled at parents and told kids they were brave.”
Nathan’s chest rises under my cheek, controlled, heavy, then he presses his lips to my hair and keeps them there.
“I wasn’t there,” he says again, and each word sounds like it costs him.
I pull back just enough to look at him, and my eyes are wet and furious.
“I didn’t want to need you,” I say, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to want you. I didn’t want to keep remembering your hands when I was packing lunches and paying bills and trying to be two people.”
Nathan’s gaze holds mine, steady and dark, and his thumb brushes under my eye once, wiping a tear like he’s allowed.
“You shouldn’t have had to be two people,” he says, and the edge in his voice makes my pulse jump.
I laugh once, sharp and miserable.
“Well, I was,” I reply. “I was the mom and the dad and the paycheck and the calm one and the bad cop, and I did it while your name sat in my phone like a loaded weapon.”
Nathan’s eyes flicker then harden, and his arms tighten around me as if the idea of that reality offends him.
“You asked me,” he says, and his voice drops further. “That night at dinner, you asked me what I thought about being a father.”
I flinch, and my mouth twists.
“I asked,” I say, then swallow. “I gave you a door and you burned it down.”
Nathan’s stare doesn’t move.
“I would’ve been a dad for her,” he says.
The words hit me so fast I freeze.
Nathan’s mouth stays set, and he looks like he hates himself as he continues.
“I would’ve done it all over again,” he says, voice rough. “Not for Cindy. Not for my name. For her. For you. For the life you were trying to build while you were terrified.”
I shake my head, fast, instinctive, defensive.
“No,” I whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s easy.”
His brow pulls slightly, the expression tight with restraint.
“It wouldn’t have been easy,” he replies. “It would’ve been mine.”
I push my palm against his chest, needing space even while my body wants him close.
“I never wanted to force you,” I say, and the sentence comes out like a confession I’ve been carrying in my teeth. “That’s not who I am.”
Nathan’s gaze sharpens.
“You think I don’t know that,” he asks.
I swallow then keep going, since stopping now will kill me.
“I didn’t want to be the woman who shows up with a pregnancy and a timeline,” I say, voice shaking. “I didn’t want to be the story you already hated. I didn’t want to hear you say you stayed out of obligation.”
Nathan’s hands hold my waist, warm and firm, and he looks at me like he’s trying to memorize my face while I talk.
“I wanted it to be your choice,” I whisper. “A real one. Not fear. Not pressure. Not guilt.”
Nathan’s eyes go darker, and his throat works once as he swallows.
“I hear you,” he says, and the way he says it makes my chest ache.
I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand, angry at myself for crying, angrier that I can’t stop.
“So don’t stand there and rewrite history,” I say. “You didn’t choose us. You chose your disgust. You chose your assumptions. You chose to look at me like I was a trap.”
Nathan’s expression turns hard, then it breaks open into something raw. “I chose wrong.”
I stare at him, and it hurts to see the truth on his face.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight,” he continues, voice low. “I’m not asking you to hand me a role and call it love.”
My breath catches.
He shifts closer, careful, and he rests his forehead against mine for a beat, then pulls back just enough to look at me properly.
“No one is forcing my hand,” he says, and each word is clean and deliberate. “Not you. Not her. Not the past. Not fear.”
I blink, and my chest feels too full.
“I’m here,” he says, voice rough. “I’m here since I need to be here, and I can’t imagine life without you and Ivy in it.”
The sentence lands hard, and my eyes fill again before I can stop it.
Nathan’s thumb presses lightly at my chin, lifting it the way he does when he wants me to look at him and not hide. “Will you let me back in?” he asks, and his voice, once again, reminds me of the deep heart of a brewing storm.