While his mouth worked, his hand slipped between my thighs. His fingers found me wet, ready, aching for him.
“So wet for me,” he growled, the approval dark and thick in his voice. His fingers circled my entrance, my arousal. “Your body knows who it belongs to. Doesn’t it, love?”
“Yes. You,” I gasped, arching into his touch. “Always you.”
The truth was written in every trembling cell.
He slid two fingers inside, and I cried out at the invasion. His thumb found my clit, circling and teasing ruthlessly.
“That’s it,” he murmured, watching my face as the pleasure built. “Let me see how I please you.”
He worked me like he owned me, his fingers curling to stroke that deep, blinding spot. His thumb maintained its steady, maddening pressure, building the sensation until my world narrowed to his touch.
I was close, dancing on the sharpest edge.
“Not yet, baby girl.” His fingers withdrew, and a whimper tore from my throat at the loss. “Not until I truly fuck you.”
He positioned himself between my thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging possessively at my entrance. The heat of him, the sheer weight and promise, stole my breath.
“Breathe, love,” he whispered, leaning down to brush a soft, fleeting kiss against my lips. A sliver of tenderness in the storm.
But I didn’t breathe. I held perfectly still, suspended in the aching anticipation, waiting for him to shatter me whole.
He slid in. I felt every inch, every ridge, every pulse of his cock as he filled me. A stretch so intense that it was more than perfect.
When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt, he paused. Let me adjust to the fullness. Let my body accommodate his size.
Then he began to move.
Slow at first. Long, deliberate strokes that dragged against my inner walls. Then faster. Deeper. Harder, until the bed frame groaned in protest beneath us.
“I’ll fuck you every morning,” he vowed between thrusts, his voice ragged. “Leave your needy cunt wet and sore, aching for me. You’ll spend all day thinking of me. Remembering how I feel inside you. Waiting for me to come back and fuck you all over again.”
He thrust deeper and harder, delivering his promise.
“Sounds good,” I moaned in pleasure.
His hand found my clit again, rubbing in tight circles that matched his thrusts. Pleasure built, coiling tighter in my belly with each stroke.
All of a sudden, I was caught between past and present, trapped in a loop where memory and reality bled together.
This had happened before. This exact scene. Hades above me, inside me, loving me with a desperate intensity—the scent of rain and him, the whisper of my name on his lips.
In how many lifetimes had we fucked like this? How many times had we come together, trying to outrun the same relentless, terrible fate?
My fingers traced the scars Hera’s Whip had carved into his back. The fresh ones from the flogging were still tender, the skin raised and angry. There were other scars, too. Older ones. Some so ancient they were faint, silvery lines on his sun-kissed skin.
An eon of battles. An eon of fighting for me, protecting me, trying to save me.
I thought of his torment through each of my deaths and his wait through decades of emptiness. His search would begin,scouring the mortal world, desperate to find me before our enemies did, only to lose me again.
Every one of my tragic deaths had left wounds in him that never healed. They’d accumulated over millennia, until his very essence was scarred through. He’d never had a chance to mend before the next loss tore him open again.
He could have moved on. Chosen another goddess, another lover, another life.
Yet he had never bent. Never faltered.
Always faithful. Always mine.
