A Touch of Malice (Hades x Persephone #3)(23)

“So what? You intend to fuck me in all the ways I haven’t been fucked tonight?”

He laughed. “Technically it’s morning.”

“I have to go to work soon.”

“Pity,” he said and spun her around, and with his hand on her neck, he pushed her forward until her face touched the granite countertop. He kicked her legs apart and entered her from behind, sinking deep. The hand that had grasped her neck moved to her mouth and he parted her lips. She sucked on his fingers, tasting the metallic of her come on his skin.

Persephone reached to grip the edge of the counter as Hades pumped into her, but as soon as he started, he lifted her off the counter. A guttural sound escaped her mouth as she moved with him still inside her, his cock touching a different, more sensitive place as her back met his chest.

“I haven’t forgotten your earlier claim.” His voice was gravelly against her ear. He was referring to the game they’d played at Sybil’s, when she’d claimed to have faked an orgasm.

“I lied,” she groaned, trying to move against him, but Hades would not budge.

“I know,” he said, and his teeth grazed her shoulder. “And I intend to discourage such lies. I will fuck you to the point that you are desperate for release—over and over again so that when you finally do come, you won’t even remember your name.”

The promise in his voice excited her.

“You think you’ll be able to stop?” she asked. “To deprive yourself of the satisfaction of my orgasm?”

Hades smirked. “If it means hearing you beg for me, darling—yes.”

He craned her neck and devoured her mouth. His tongue twined with hers, sweeping and sliding, coaxing her mouth so wide, her jaw hurt. She could not even kiss him back. This one was his and she could only cling to him. When he released her, it was to turn her around, lift her leg and entered her again. The angle let them remain close, and he covered her mouth with his, kissing her so hard she couldn’t take in air. When his lips left hers, it was to trail kisses and teeth over her neck, pausing to suck the sensitive skin until it bruised beneath his touch. When she could no longer hold herself up, he pressed her into the wall, thrusting harder, faster.

She watched his face, eyes wild and unfocused, a sheen of sweat beading across his face—until she could no longer focus on anything but the feel of him and the pleasure he wrung from within her.

“I love you,” he said. “I have only ever loved you.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Do you?” he questioned her through his teeth, but not from anger. He was straining, the veins in his neck popped, his face was flushed.

“I know,” she repeated. “I love you. I just want everything, I want more, I want all of you.”

“You have it,” he promised and kissed her again, their bodies slick and sticky. His hand moved, one pressed against the wall behind her, the other clenching her ass so tight, she knew it would bruise. Her chest felt tight, taut with the air she couldn’t release.

Then, suddenly, he tore away with a curse, teeth grazing her lips. Her guttural cry was from frustration. He really meant to torture her—but then he pulled out completely and sat her on her feet, adjusting their clothes before Hermes appeared in the kitchen.

Suddenly Persephone understood Hades’ haste.

It would be the second time the God of Mischief had interrupted them. Hades’ expression was murderous, but one look at him silenced their frustration. The golden god appeared stricken, pale.

“Hades, Persephone—Aphrodite has asked for your presence. Immediately.”

Persephone’s first thought was that this must be about Adonis—but why did Hermes look so concerned? Something wasn’t adding up.

“At this hour?” Hades’ arm tightened around Persephone.

“Hades,” Hermes said, his face ashen. “It’s...not good.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Her home.”

There were no more questions—just the smell of sharp winter air and ash as they teleported.



CHAPTER VII – A TOUCH OF TERROR


They appeared in a large room that Persephone thought must be a study. The light was muted, making the walls look dark teal in color. Chestnut colored bookcases lined with leather-bound tombs boxed in a desk of the same color. Thick frames of antique gold hung on the wall, encasing paintings depicting naked nymphs, winged cherubs, and lovers beneath trees. The opposite wall was all windows, bare, leaving them exposed to the freezing night.

The decor was not at all like Aphrodite’s—no plush rugs, crystals, or pearls—and for a moment, Persephone thought they had arrived at the wrong location, but her eyes soon found the Goddess of Love sitting on the edge of a chaise in the center of the room. She was dressed in a light blue, silk nightgown and sheer robe. Her body was twisted toward a woman who lay draped beside her.

Persephone did not recognize her, but thought she had hints of Aphrodite’s features—in the curve of her lips, the arch of her brow, the tilt of her nose. She was pale, battered and beaten. Her hands, which lay curled upon her rising stomach were bloodied, nails broken and jagged.

But what caused Persephone’s stomach to coil were the goddess’s horns. Two bits of mutilated bone protruded from her muddy and knotted honey colored hair. A small dog with dirty, white fur was curled up tightly beside her, shivering.