"Fuck." The word is prayer and profanity. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to treat me like I'm fragile."
He lifts his head. Those brown eyes seem awed and conflicted and fiercely possessive. His hand comes up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.
"You should've told me," he says, but there's no anger in his words. "I would've?—"
"You would've tried to talk me out of this.” I turn my head and press a kiss to his palm. "I don't want to be talked out of it. I want this. I want you."
He stares at me for a long, charged moment. Then something settles in his face—a decision, a claiming.
"Then you'll have me." He shifts, pulling back a fraction. "But we're going to go slow. As slow as you need, and I’m going to feel every inch of you take me."
He moves with agonizing patience. Each millimeter, he pauses, lets me adjust, watches my face for any sign of pain. His thumb finds my clit and he works it in gentle, patient circles.
The sting fades. The pressure transforms into fullness—stretching, intimate, overwhelming in a way that makes my eyes burn.
"Breathe, sweetheart." His voice is a rasp. "Open up for me. Let me in."
I exhale and feel my body yield. He slides deeper—all the way—and we both groan. He's trembling above me, muscles locked tight, holding himself in check.
"So tight." His forehead presses to mine, his breath ragged. "So fucking tight. You feel that? That's you wrapped around my cock like you were made for me. Mine, London. No one else gets this pussy. Just me."
He starts to move. Slow, deep strokes that have me clutching at his back. Every thrust hits a place inside me that sends sparks up my spine. His mouth finds mine—soft kisses between breaths, whispered praise against my lips.
"Taking me so well, sweetheart. So beautiful." His hips roll, grinding against my clit. "Feel what you do to me."
My legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer. The angle shifts, and pleasure crests—sharper, more urgent. I'm climbing toward something that feels inevitable, enormous.
"Christopher—I'm going to?—"
“Do it.” He picks up his pace, his hips driving with purpose. His thumb presses harder, faster. "Come for me, London. Soak my cock. Let go."
I shatter. My whole body locks and then releases in waves that roll through me endlessly. I hear myself cry out—his name, broken and breathless—and feel his grip on my hip tighten to bruising.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural sound, his body driving deep one final time before going rigid. He pulses inside me, and the intimacy of it—the surrender—makes fresh tears spring to my eyes.
He collapses over me, careful not to crush me, his face buried in my neck. I feel his heart hammering against my chest, matching my own frantic rhythm.
When he pulls back to look at me, his face is stripped bare. No walls. No armor. Just Zeus—Christopher—raw and open and mine.
"You're mine now." His thumb catches a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You understand that? I'm not letting you go."
I turn my face into his palm. I hope he means that because I don’t ever want him to let me go.
He eases out and deals with the condom. Then, he pulls me against his chest, arranging the covers over both of us, his arms banding around me like he plans to hold me all night long.
And I’m okay with that. No, I’mgreatwith that.
Chapter 10
Zeus
The chapel doors close behind me, and I drop into my seat at the table.
I notice the shift in my own body—the way I'm sitting upright instead of slumped, the way my hands rest flat on the wood instead of balled into fists. My head isn't pounding from last night's whiskey. I didn't drink myself into oblivion. I slept. Actually slept. Four solid hours with London's body curled against mine, her breath warm on my chest, and not a single nightmare.
Chaos takes his seat at the head of the table. Fury settles to his right, Demon to his left. Mayhem, Jinx, Prophet, Fuzzy—the rest of the patched brothers fill in around us. The room drops into the focused quiet that precedes club business.
