Page 108 of Hades

He groaned against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body and making my thighs tremble. His hands gripped my legs hard enough to bruise as he held me open. Holding me still while he devoured me like a man starving. Like I was the first meal he’d had in weeks.

The table creaked beneath me. I could hear the wood protesting, could feel it shift slightly with every movement. It made everything more real. More visceral. More immediate. This wasn’t some fantasy in a bed with soft sheets and candlelight. This was raw and urgent and happening right here in my kitchen where I made tea and cooked dinner and pretended to be normal. Where I maintained the façade of respectability.

He slid one finger inside me. Then two. Pumped them slowly at first, then faster. Curled them just right, finding that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids. The spot I could never quite reach myself. His mouth never stopped working my clit, licking and sucking and driving me higher and higher. Building the pressure until I thought I might break apart.

“Come for me,” he growled against my flesh, the words muffled but clear. “Let me taste it.”

I shattered. My orgasm ripped through me with brutal intensity, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. I cried out his name. My hands fisted in his hair, holding him against me while I rode out the waves. The table groaned beneath me. My thighs trembled. My entire body shook. I couldn’t control it. Couldn’t stop it.

He didn’t stop. Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Drew out every last tremor until I was boneless and gasping. Until I was pushing weakly at his head because it was too much. Too intense.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened with me in the dim kitchen light. His eyes were dark with satisfaction. With masculine pride at what he’d done to me.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he said, his voice wrecked. Rough with want.

He stood and reached for his belt, unbuckling it with quick, efficient movements. The metal clinked. He popped the button on his jeans. Slid the zipper down. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet kitchen. His cock sprang free when he shoved his jeans and boxer briefs down his thighs, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.

I reached for him, wrapping my hand around his length. He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking forward into my grip. His cock pulsed in my hand, hot and hard and demanding.

“Careful, baby. I’m already close just from tasting you.”

I stroked him slowly. Root to tip. Felt the weight of him in my palm. The heat. The way he pulsed against my fingers. The way the skin moved over the hardness beneath. I twisted my wrist on the upstroke the way I’d read men liked.

He grabbed my wrist. Pulled my hand away. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

He reached behind me and unhooked my bra with practiced ease. One-handed, before he tossed it aside. Then his hands were on my breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasped. His hands slid to my hips, pulling me to the edge of the table. Positioning me exactly where he wanted me. Manhandling me like I weighed nothing.

His cock pressed against my entrance, thick and demanding. The blunt head nudged against me. He paused. Looked into my eyes as he pushed forward. Slow and steady. Stretching me. Filling me. The burn was exquisite. Perfect. A delicious mix of pleasure and pain. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, needing more. Needing all of him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. So perfectly made for me.”

He bottomed out, then held still. Let me adjust to the fullness. To the invasion. His forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling. The table creaked beneath us, a warning and a promise. I could feel every inch of him inside me, could feel my body stretching to accommodate him.

“Move,” I whispered. Begged.

He pulled back until just the tip remained, then thrust forward hard. Deep. Claiming. Staking his territory.

I cried out. My nails dug into his shoulders, probably drawing blood. He set a brutal pace, fucking me with purpose and possession. Each thrust hit that spot inside me that made me see stars. The table rocked beneath us. The legs scraped against the floor. I could hear dishes rattling in the cabinets, could hear the sound of our bodies coming together wet and obscene and perfect. The slap of skin on skin.

“This is what you needed,” he growled. “Needed me to fuck you. Needed me to claim you. Needed to know you belong to someone. That you’re not alone anymore.”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes. Brock. Please.”

“Please what, baby? Tell me what you need.”

“Harder. Fuck me harder.”

He obliged. His hips snapped forward with bruising force. I’d feel this tomorrow—the ache between my legs, the soreness in my hips. And I wanted it. Wanted the reminder. The table groaned as it shifted. One leg lifted slightly off the floor. I didn’t care if it broke, didn’t care if the whole fucking thing collapsed beneath us. All I cared about was him. This. The way he filled me. The way he looked at me like I was something precious and profane all at once.

I felt my orgasm building again, coiling tight in my belly. Tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. My inner walls clenched around him, trying to hold him, desperate to keep him close.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you love being fucked. Show me how much you love my cock inside you.”

“I’m close,” I warned, my voice barely recognizable.

“Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

His hand slid between us, found my clit, and rubbed tight circles. The rough pad of his finger against that sensitive bundle of nerves was all it took. I came with a scream, my body convulsing around him, milking him, clenching rhythmically. The table shook. My vision went white. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel wave after wave of pleasure drowning me.