Page 34 of Lies Among Gods

She arched her back, her fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer as she rode the wave of sensation. “Alaios,” she gasped, the sound a plea and an admission.

He didn’t answer with words, only with a low, primal growl as he slid her panties aside. His fingers delved into her slick heat, a gasp catching in her throat as her chest seized, a suffocating pressure stealing all air. The rhythm of his fingers quickened, becoming ruthless and demanding. Her head lolled back, her eyelids, heavy as velvet curtains, slid shut, leaving only the faintest trace of a sigh on her lips. The pressure was intense, focused, shattering the last of her control. Her world narrowed to the feel of his mouth, the scent of ozone and leather, and the incredible, consuming friction of his touch.

He pulled back the slightest bit, his breath ragged. “Look at me, Lyra. I want you to look at me while I make you lose control."

His words were a command, and she obeyed, her eyes wide, glassy with building need. He slid another finger beneath the lace edge of her panties, and then two of them slipped inside her, slick and warm, finding the perfect spot. He began to stroke, slow and deep, a measured tempo that pushed her closer to the edge.

Alaios’s gaze, dark and intensely possessive, was a tangible weight as it devoured hers, a silent observer to the visible blossoming of pleasure on her face.

His fingers, slick and rhythmic, plunged in and out with increasing urgency. A frantic drumming echoed in her ears, her own heart a wild drumbeat against her ribs, each throb mirroring the relentless rhythm of his hand. The air grew heavy, thick with the heady scent of her own arousal, as the last vestiges of control dissolved like mist, leaving only the all-consuming tide of pleasure washing over her. A violent shudder ran through her, her muscles tightening around his fingers as the climax hit—a blinding, white-hot cascade of pure, honest pleasure that left her shaking and breathless, her head resting on the desk.

His breath was warm on her face, a sharp, intoxicating mixture of champagne and desire. His mouth slid down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, as his hands, rough and determined, found the zipper of the dress. With a smooth, practiced zzzzip, the dress opened, and he pushed the velvet aside. His teeth sank into the top curve of her breast, a sharp, possessive nip that pulled a ragged gasp from her. Lyra felt the pressure building up again in her core with each nip. He slid the dress down past her breasts, the rich fabric pooling at her waist, exposing her to the cool air and his gaze. His mouth found her hardened nipple, sucking it into his mouth with a low, hungry sound.

He shifted his body, settling the solid weight of himself between her legs, and his mouth captured her nipple, the suction a hungry, rhythmic pull that sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to her core. It felt as if a magical cord, taut and charged with heat, connected the sensitive peak of her breast directly to her core. With each greedy tug of his mouth, she felt that cord stretch tighter, coiling the rising pressure into a fierce, delightful ache. Simultaneously, his free hand—rough and powerful—cupped and kneaded the other breast, working the soft flesh, his thumb brushing repeatedly against the puckered peak.

The velvet dress was a forgotten barrier bunched at her waist, and the coolness of the air on her exposed skin was a cruel contrast to the molten fire spreading through her.

Finally, he lifted his head, his breath ragged, and a low, guttural growl vibrated in his throat. The cool air brushed against the nipple he’d just released, making it instantly harden and ache for his return. He didn’t disappoint; his mouth moved to the other breast, claiming it with the same possessive suction, demanding her full surrender as his hand reversed its role, now kneading the breast he’d just left, starting the exquisite, agonizing tension all over again.

He shifted his weight, his mouth tearing away from her breast. He focused on the dress; the fabric was the only thing between her and his hands. With a purposeful movement, his hands grasped the velvet at her waist and pulled the material down, gliding down her thighs, past her feet. His rough palms brushed against the delicate, now highly sensitized skin as the fabric pooled on the ground. The feel of his hands following the path of the retreating dress was a decadent caress.

His dark eyes devoured the exposed landscape of her body—the curve of her hips and the vulnerability of her core. He settled his hands on her thighs, pushing them further apart, and then his mouth followed the trail his hands had made.

His lips trailed a line of fire down her stomach, his tongue flicking at the slight indentation of her navel. Lyra gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair as he continued his descent, his breath—hot, ragged—fluttering across her most sensitive skin just before he reached his destination.

With a deep, guttural sound of triumph, his mouth settled, his tongue a slow, deliberate stroke against the center of herpulsing core. The intensity was blinding, immediate, and utterly consuming, causing her hips to buck in response.

Lyra’s control shattered. A raw, needy moan escaped her lips, and her legs shot up, instinctively clamping around his head, pressing his mouth tighter against her. He didn’t break rhythm; his tongue became ruthless, bathing her clitoris in slow, deep spirals while one rough, strong finger slid into her slick warmth, followed quickly by a second. The combined assault of the oral pleasure and the deep, rhythmic thrust of his fingers sent a shockwave of sensation through her, a ferocious, focused pleasure that stole the air from her lungs. She was a bowstring pulled taut, vibrating on the very edge of oblivion.

He pried her thighs away from his ears and gently pressed her back against the desk, his head pulling away from her core. He stood, and her eyes, still glazed with the lingering storm, devoured him.

Alaios was a study in deliberate motion as he shed his clothes. With a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist, he untied the dark silk tie and tossed it aside. His black tuxedo jacket followed, peeling away to reveal the powerful breadth of his shoulders beneath the crisp black shirt. His fingers went to the buttons of the shirt, the motion agonizingly slow, each button released like the breaking of a vow. When the shirt fell open, Lyra gasped, not in fear, but in profound awe.

He was sculpted, yes, but not by gentleness. Every muscle—the defined chest, the flat planes of his stomach, the hard, corded lines of his arms—spoke of ceaseless training and brutal discipline. Strength was etched into his very being. The scars that crisscrossed his torso and arms, some jagged and white, others thin and dark, were testaments to battles long past, a map of the Strife he was sworn to command. He looked as if he had been sculpted not by the gods’ soft hands, but by the hands of Aristos Stoneheart, the master carver of the old empire, whosefigures were always sculptures from the raw, unyielding energy of war itself.

He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his trousers, and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them with an economy of motion that left him standing before her, a dark, potent vision of masculinity.

He didn’t give her time to fully process the breathtaking sight. He was back, moving with the speed of a storm, closing the distance. His hands clamped onto her thighs, rough and warm, and he pulled them apart, widening her stance on the desk. This time, his focus was absolute, his dark eyes blazing with a singular, possessive intent that promised both pleasure and consequence.

His hands slid from the soft skin of her knees, traveling upward with the whisper of a touch along the outer curve of her thighs. The movement was a slow, agonizing caress; his touch so light it felt like a ghost of sensation against her skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. All the while, Lyra’s eyes remained locked with his, dark and unwavering, utterly unable to look away from the fierce hunger blazing in his gaze. His hands finally settled, his fingers clamping onto her hips, adjusting her position with a swift, powerful surety that pulled her core directly into the line of his intent. He buried himself in her in one powerful, consuming stroke. Lyra gasped, the sound stolen from her lungs as she felt the entire, undeniable length of his shaft penetrate her, filling her completely, a potent fusion of fire consuming her.

He started to move inside her, a deep, primal rhythm that was both slow and powerful, stretching her around his entire circumference. Lyra gasped, the air catching in her throat, and she instinctively grabbed the hair at the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to hers. Their lips crashed together, and his kiss was all-consuming, a deep, passionate claim that felt like he wastrying to ravage her whole being. Simultaneously, the pressure inside her began to coil again, rapidly building toward explosive levels as he continued his pace.

His hand slid from her hip and moved between their bodies, his thumb finding her clitoris, stroking slow, deliberate circles against the sensitive peak. The combined friction and the deep penetration pulled a raw moan from her throat, and her fingers dug into the corded muscle of his back, leaving red crescents in the wake of her desperate pleasure.

His thrusts became deeper and faster, the motion turning into a fierce, demanding drive. Her heart raced, matching the tempo of his thrusts, the frantic beat echoing the rising storm within her. She could hear his ragged, strained breath above the din, a low moan of pure exertion.

Then, the final, exquisite pressure hit. He pulled back slightly, his eyes locked on hers, just as the blinding, white-hot release seized her. She cried out; the sound swallowed by his mouth. He drove into her one last, deep time, his body shaking with his own climax, and she heard him say her name, a raw, guttural moan that was the last thing she registered before the world dissolved into pure sensation.

He held her tightly against his chest, his own breathing heavy and ragged, waiting for the tremors to subside. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were soft, unguarded, and deeply satisfied.

Chapter twenty-eight

CHAPTER 23

Favor shaped trade, kinship, and law itself, until belief became architecture and worship became identity. To serve the right god was to move freely within society’s heart; to falter was to feel invisible even among crowds. We learned that prosperity was not merely granted—it was observed, recorded, and quietly enforced beneath divine attention.

Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran