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How was he supposed to forget her when she kept on talking to him. His goddess. How was he supposed to let her go. And now he was not. He was clinging to her tightly. Now, he was feasting upon her lips, holding her against his body, relishing in the feel of her breasts crushed against him.
She was so soft.
So strong and so perfect.
She was everything. Everything he wanted. Everything he needed.
This wasn’t about whether or not he’d been with a woman in ten years. Because Athena was nothing like those other encounters. His need for her was nothing like that previous, physical need. There was no amount of self-gratification that could erase his desire for her. Because it was not the same. His need for her was everything he feared.
That well of need that he had only ever let out once before. That had been crushed and destroyed and turned against him.
And yet it was also somehow something totally unique, even sharper. Even more dangerous.
And he did not possess the will to release her. Not for his sake. Not for hers. Instead, he carried her up the stairs. To the north tower, the place that he had told her she could never go.
He carried her there and into his bedchamber.
It was Spartan. Nothing really but the bed.
And he laid her down across the bed, standing away from her and slowly removing his clothing.
He did not feel fear over letting her see his scars.
Athena had seen his every scar already. The real ones. The deep ones. The darkest ones that were in the recesses of his very soul.
Athena knew him. For better and for very much worse. She was his wife.
And it was not supposed to mean anything, and yet it meant everything. Just as she did. She watched him, her eyes sharp as he removed all of his clothing.
And then he joined her down on the bed, moving his hands over her curves. She was wearing a coat, which he stripped quickly from her body, and he looked into her eyes as he pushed his hand beneath her skirt, closing his eyes briefly, letting his breath hiss through his teeth as his fingertips moved along her smooth skin.
She was a gift. One he had not earned. And one he surely did not deserve. One he would not turn away from. For he did not have the strength left in him. Not anymore. It was not just ten years of being alone. It was a lifetime.
And he had kept all of this, all of this need, all of this desire, locked away.
And now it was flooding from him. Hemorrhaging. And he could do nothing to stop it.
He pushed his hand between her thighs, slipped his fingertips beneath the waistband of her panties, and found her wet for him. And it was as if it was the only time it had ever happened in all the history of all of mankind. That this was for him. His.
It was what he wanted. For her to be his and only his. For this moment to be the only moment. For this breath to be the only breath. This breath where his mingled with hers and their hearts beat as one.
Where he could feel the evidence of her desire coaching his hand, and it never had the chance to turn into anything else.
It never had the chance to sour. To become a disappointment.
It never had the chance to be what it would inevitably be.
Him breaking her.
Is that really what you’re afraid of?
He pushed that thought aside, and he let himself feel.
For the first time in ten years. For the first time since he was a boy.
For the first time since he had hoped that someone was showing the smallest bit of care for his safety, for his well-being, but who only wanted to use him.
There had never been any control.
