He keeps stroking my G-spot. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes.” I grip his forearm, but even I can’t say if I’m trying to push him away or keep him touching me. “I know you don’t like being exposed like that.”
“Mmmm.” He nips my earlobe. He presses the heel of his palm against my clit. “Do you think there’s anything I wouldn’t give you while you’re mine? Fucking anything, little siren.”
I don’t have words, but that’s okay because he apparently has words enough for both of us. He keeps up those slow movements, a steady coiling of pleasure through me, tighter and tighter, as if we have all the time in the world.
Time is one thing we don’t have.
His free hand comes up to yank the straps of my dress off my shoulders and let it fall to my waist. Somehow this being half-dressed while he fucks me with his fingers feels even sexier than if I was naked. Hades always knows what gets me off the hardest, and he never hesitates to put it into reality. “I’ll bend you over a chair and flip up your skirt so everyone can see your needy little pussy. Spread you wide with my fingers.”
“Yes,” I gasp out.
“I’ll give this to you, love. I’ll give you everything.” He chuckles darkly. “Would you like to know a truth?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get off on playing out that fantasy, too.” He pushes a third finger into me. “If I want to strip you down and fuck you until you’re begging for mercy, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Because it pleases me. Because it will get you off. Because there is nothing you can ask me that I won’t give you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” This is it, the thing that I couldn’t quite conceptualize, the reason why that dark threat held such promise for me. I should have known he’d understand, shouldn’t have doubted him.
Hades hauls me up and bends me over the arm of the couch. He flips up my skirt and pulls my panties down to my thighs. “Don’t move.” He’s gone for a few seconds and there’s the crinkle of a condom wrapper. And then he’s pushing his way inside me, one inch by devastating inch.
The position creates a tighter fit and my panties prevent me from spreading my thighs. It’s the lightest bondage imaginable, but it makes this a thousand times hotter. Hades hooks his fingers at my hips and then he’s fucking me. I scramble to get a good hold on the cushion, but my fingers slide across the leather, unable to find purchase. Hades doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me up and back against his chest, one hand bracketing my throat and the other delving down to press against my clit. Each stroke creates a delicious friction that has me soaring to new heights.
His voice is so low, I can almost feel it more than hear it. “Your pussy is mine to do with as I please. In public. In private. Wherever I want it. The way you, little siren, are mine.”
“If I’m yours…” And I am. I undoubtedly am. I can’t catch my breath, can barely get the next words out. “Then you’re mine, too.”
“Yes.” His rough voice in my ear. “Fuck, yes, I’m yours.”
I come hard, writhing against his hand and around his cock. Hades bends me back over the couch and finishes in a series of brutal thrusts. He pulls out, and I barely get a chance to miss the feel of him at my back before he returns and lifts me into his arms. After that first night visiting the winter market, I’ve stopped pseudo complaining about him carrying me around. We both know it’d be a lie if I kept it up, because I enjoy these moments just as much as he seems to.
He walks us into what’s become our bedroom and sets me down. I catch his wrist before he can move to the light switch like he normally does. “Hades?”
“Yeah?”
The urge to drop my gaze, to let this go, is nearly overwhelming, but after he’s demanded I be honest and vulnerable with him, I can demand nothing but the same in return. I meet his eyes. “Keep the lights on? Please.”
He goes so still, I think he stops breathing. “You don’t want that.”
“I wouldn’t ask for it if I didn’t want it.” I know I should stop pushing, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Don’t you trust me not to turn away?”
His breath shudders out. “It’s not that.”
That’s what it feels like. But saying as much puts him in a terrible position. I want his trust the same way he seems to crave mine; forcing the issue isn’t the way to get it. Reluctantly, I release his wrist. “Okay.”
“Persephone…” He hesitates. “Are you sure?”
Something flutters in my chest, as light and fluid as hope but somehow stronger. “If you’re comfortable with it, yes.”
“Okay.” His hands move to the buttons of his shirt and pause. “Okay,” he repeats. Slowly, oh so slowly, he begins to remove his clothing.
Even as I tell myself not to stare, I can’t help drinking in the sight of him. I’ve felt his scars, but they’re borderline gruesome to see in the light. The sheer danger he must have been in, the pain he survived, leaves me breathless. The burns cover most of his torso and down his right hip. His legs have some smaller scars, but nothing on the same level as his chest and back.
Zeus did this to him.
That bastard would have killed a small child the same way he killed Hades’s parents.
The desire to wrap this man up and protect him makes my tone fierce. “You’re beautiful.”
“Don’t start lying to me now.”
“I mean it.” I lift my hands and press them carefully to his chest. I’ve touched him there dozens of times now, but this is the first time I’ve seen him fully. Part of me wonders what happened to him in the years since the fire that has
