Filthy Gods (American Gods 0.5)(14)

“She’s a family friend.”

I nodded at that. “She’s pretty.” Blonde and tall and tanned.

He smiled, looking at me as if he knew something I didn’t and moved closer, cornering me against the sink. “She doesn’t get me hard like you do.”

He was so close, his front skimming mine and I felt his erection.

“Are you scared of me?” He tilted his head to the side, examining me, looking for cracks in my armor. “Are you scared of a challenge?”

“No,” I said, but my voice shook, the depth of my stomach stirring with heat and passion. I remembered how he felt from behind me, towering, his heavy body pounding into my depth.

I remembered him and his three friends. How their names were spoken like sacred hymns and how much power, terror, and legacy came with them. He was bigger than most men. More important, more powerful and he would only grow stronger, larger than life itself. I felt it in my bones like a storm was approaching off the ocean and onto the sandy quiet beaches. He had been immortalized the moment he took his first breath.

The only thing I was afraid of was my own mortality in front of him. Gods fell in love with mortals and demolished them piece-by-piece. I had been fighting against the electric pull between us, but I was becoming hungry for more of him.

His fingers skimmed the edge of my hip, dipping beneath the fabric of my skirt. “Then lift up your skirt.”

I paled. “What if someone walks in?”

His brows wrinkled while his finger skimmed my skin and I shivered. “Are you scared of a challenge?” he repeated, cocking a brow to irk me.

I glared at him. He was taunting me. He knew I wouldn’t back down, just like in each of our debates.

Still keeping my heated gaze on him, I lifted the hemline of my skirt, exposing my white panties.

My breath hitched as he lifted me up onto the sinks, spreading my thighs open for him to settle between them. He didn’t waste a second, finding my slit beneath my panties and feeling how wet I was. He smirked, unbuckling his belt and freeing his engorged length without removing his pants completely.

“You’ll never back down,” he hissed between his teeth, pushing my panties to the side as the blunt head of his cock found my entrance and he rubbed it up and down, spreading my wet lips, teasing me. “And neither will I. And right now, you’re my challenge, Juliette.” He thrust deep and I gasped, my hands going to grip his broad shoulders.

His mouth took mine in a bruising kiss before I could shout and I hated how he knew my body, how he knew my mind.

He pounded, deep and slow, not worried if someone would walk in on us, and I both despised and loved that fact about him.

He never let others control him. He never let others dictate his time or presence. He was steel and iron. Forged and unbreakable.

I felt like delicate glass in his powerful hands.

I fought him—thrust for thrust, kiss for kiss, nip for nip, and he met me each time, working each other to a pleasure so intense, I feared it would end us both.





Days passed and every moment was spent either sneaking off with Nathaniel or thinking of him. He was everywhere. At the pool, at the bar, at the beach, at the restaurant—in my head, bones, and soul.

At night, we were together. Hidden behind the white doors of his suite, he owned my body and I let him, but not without a fight. I challenged each of his touches with my own, our kisses were a battle of dominance, our hands weapons to make the other come undone.

I rolled across the white sheets and collapsed, staring at the perfect ceiling, crown molding lines the corners. Nathaniel lay down beside me, not hiding his quick intakes of breath, his chest glistening with sweat.

“You distracted me,” I said, trying to convey my frustration, but my voice came out breathless.

Nathaniel laughed once and put an arm behind his head. “I know your weak points. You can’t back down from a debate.”

“Bringing up the presidential elections when you’re touching me is not a weak point,” I said, weakly, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail. My whole body still tingled from his touch, hot and sweaty.

Nathaniel laughed again.

I sat up and went to stand, but as I straightened, I hissed in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Nathaniel gripped my elbow and helped me sit back down.

I clenched my teeth, looking down at my swollen feet. “It’s those damn heels.”

Nathaniel knelt down and I watched him closely as his fingers touched my ankle. I flinched and his eyes darted to mine.

He stood, gripping my calves and swinging my legs back onto the middle of the bed. He climbed on beside me and carefully moved my feet onto his lap. He leaned back, perfectly comfortable against the pillows and headboard and his fingers massaged my feet, carefully, tenderly.

“This may help,” he said.

My throat grew tight and all I could do was stare at his powerful fingers working the muscles and tissue in my sensitive feet.

When his finger touched the bone of my ankle, so delicate, so sensitive, I flinched.

“Too hard?”

I bit my lip, fighting back a moan.

“No, just surprised me,” I said, and I was still breathless.

Nathaniel turned on the television that sat on the wall across from his bed, still massaging my feet. On the screen was a black and white movie, a scene of a man playing the piano. I recognized it instantly.