Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 83786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I don’t make a decision to move. One moment I’m staring into her achingly gorgeous face and the next I’m rising, shoving the table forward and bending her over it. And then I’m inside her again.
She cries out and arches back, giving me a better angle to take her from. It’s not enough. It will never be enough, because no matter how good I make her feel in this moment, the moment always ends. She’ll go right back to hating me just like she always does. And maybe that shit is mutual. Maybe I hate her, too. At least I hate how good she feels, how she opens herself to me when I’m buried inside her, and how quickly those doors slam in my face the moment the sex is finished.
Well, I’m nowhere near finished. Not with rage fueling me.
I pull out of her, ignoring her cry of protest, and spin her around to lift her onto the table. She stubbornly keeps her eyes shut, but she’s so damn soft, the woman I married nowhere in evidence, replaced by the one I only find in the midst of fucking.
I jerk her pants to her ankles, but they won’t make it past her boots and I’m too fucking impatient to attempt to remove them right now. Instead I tip her back and duck down to kneel between her spread thighs. “Does Ixion lick your pussy until your thighs are shaking and you’re begging for him to let you orgasm?”
She laces her fingers through my hair, already lifting her hips toward my mouth. “Of course,” she gasps. “He goes for hours.”
I can’t tell if she’s lying. It makes me wild with rage, with need, with the possessive yearning to mark her as mine. My Hera, my wife, the future mother of my children. I drag my tongue through her folds before I can think too hard on how that future may never come.
Hera pulls on my hair, and I allow her to guide me up to her clit, using the opportunity to press two fingers into her again and hook them just the way she likes. The moment I do, her head falls back and her thighs start to shake. “I hate you,” she whispers.
No, you don’t.
I don’t speak the words aloud, but I convey my disbelief in the way I roll my tongue against her clit. She tastes so fucking good that it threatens to overwhelm me. Ixion can go for hours? So will I if she’d just give me the chance.
Telling her as much will give her another weapon to use against me. I have to hold myself removed… Have to…
Hera comes, her thighs clamping around my head, her throat a long line as she moans her way through her orgasm. She’s still fluid and limp as I rise and pull her to the edge of the table. “Say yes.”
“Yes.” She wraps a fist around my cock and guides it to her entrance. This time, it’s easier to slide into her. I’m not fool enough to believe she actually welcomes me, but it feels too good to worry about it.
I pull her close, grinding into her as I cup the back of her neck and kiss her. She moans. Gods, she sounds like a different person when I’m inside her. Like someone who might actually care about me.
Not Zeus. Not the leader of Olympus. Not a member of a legacy family that can sketch their lineage back to the founding of this city. Me. Perseus. The one who will never sit easy on the throne. The one who is far too aware of all the ways he fails. But not in this. I might be king of a crumbling city, but my wife is still gripping my hips, urging me to fuck her harder, needing the pleasure I’m giving her, even if she tells me she hates me all the while.
I want this to last forever.
It won’t. It never does. One of the first things I learned in life is that good things always leave too soon. This time is no different. Hera orgasms, her pussy pulsing around my cock. There’s no hope of holding out, not when it feels so damned perfect. I grind into her, kissing her hard as I fill her.
I want to stay like this forever. To live in this peaceful moment where no one is asking anything of me and there are no impossible hurdles in my immediate future. A moment where my wife isn’t shoving away from me as if my very touch is burning her.
That desire has me shifting closer instead of away, pressing my forehead lightly to hers as our ragged exhales mingle. My nose bumps hers. It’s such a small touch, a near-innocent one, a sign I desperately want to take for intimacy even though I know better. We may have sex, but we don’t share intimacy, not in any way that matters. If there’s the shortest pause after we orgasm, a time of peace measured in heartbeats, neither of us have ever commented on it. We sure as fuck haven’t sought to extend it the way I’m doing now. “Hera…”