“Just a quickie,” he said, his deep voice dropping to a croon that weakened my knees. “I need my wife. Even a second apart is torture.”
His hands gripped my hips, hard enough to leave marks.
“And I don’t like Apollo’s music. It’s too weepy and mushy,” he continued, his voice a low growl. “I’ll speak to Stardust about moving his classroom far from yours. Or scheduling your classes on different days. Why doesn’t he return to Olympus and live peacefully among his brethren?”
“His brethren are in the labor camp,” I reminded him. “And Olympus lies in ruins.”
“Spoiled,” Hades grumbled, his arms tightening around me. “Enough of him. He darkens the mood.”
He was the one who’d brought up Apollo in the first place. The God of Sun and Brightness was the only one spared after the fall of Olympus, and only because he had helped me when I was Bloom.
Hades slammed into me from behind with one skilled, smooth thrust that made me gasp. He didn’t even bother letting me adjust to his size, just filled me again and again, each strokedeepening the friction. His thickness stretched my aching wall; his hardness seared my flesh with a pleasure that walked the line of pain.
Every thrust filled me completely, making me feel that I needed nothing else in this world but his cock.
This never grew old. I could never get enough, not even when he dominated me like this, taking what he needed to sate his male lust.
I didn’t mind being used. Not only because his appetite was insatiable, but because I knew he still woke some nights searching for me in the dark, terrified I had vanished again. That I was gone.
When it happened, I would soothe him—slide into his arms and let him hold me, then take me sweetly, then roughly. Sometimes I’d wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze until he could barely breathe, just to prove I was real and safe in his arms.
And he would smile through the tears in his eyes and finally sleep.
So yes, I was more than fine with rough, dirty sex. Anything my mate needed and craved. His next thrust drove me to the edge, and I rode the highs. My pussy gloved him tightly.
“Fuck, so tight. So wet,” he groaned. “You’re perfect and made just for me.”
“Whatever you say,” I gasped.
“Tell me this hot pussy belongs to me. Only me. And it’s my right to fuck it however I want.”
“Sure,” I moaned.
I let him talk dirty as long as I got the benefit.
He lifted my ass higher, changing the angle. His deep thrusts hit my G-spot over and over with devastating strength.
I could only mewl, breathless and incoherent, reduced to sounds of pure sensation.
“Look at you,” he growled. “Taking your king’s cock so well. Made to be fucked by me.”
“Fuck me just like this,” I moaned. “You make me feel fucking good, my husband.”
No one else could make me feel this way. Only him. Only ever him.
Encouraged, he drove into me harder, faster. So brutal I was afraid the sofa beneath me would fall apart. The crystal table rattled. Books on nearby shelves shook.
“I’ll never let you fall, my queen,” he promised, his arms locking around my waist, holding me secure even as he pounded into me relentlessly.
Each thrust grew more powerful. More possessive. More dominant.
I whimpered, moaned, writhed. My body was on fire for him, burning from the inside out.
He had ruined me long ago. I was just living it again, and still, I couldn’t get enough.
“This lovely cunt is mine to enjoy,” he rumbled, smug and certain. “Mine to ruin. Mine to use as I please.”
“Are you mine to ruin?” I breathed.
