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He’s, shamefully, at the top of my recent searches.
Most of Hades’ feed is filled with pictures of his car, or boxing gloves, or old books, which the skeptic in me assumes is curated to look artsy and interesting, probably to woo and impress women.
As if he needs any fucking help in that department.
You seemed to have screwed him no problem without seeing his artsy, book post-y self.
I simmer, biting my lip as I scroll through his posts. Past the pictures of his dark, British-racing-green Camaro, and the boxing stuff, and the books, and a couple of promo posts about the Irish pub I’ve been helping Callie, Neve, and Eilish get ready to open, there are…otherpictures. Pictures I would normally use, at least to myself, as ammunition to make fun of his vanity and his whole “hot, rich, and dangerous to know” vibe.
At least I would if I could stop drooling over them.
Pictures like the one of him shirtless, half in shadow and dripping in sweat, as if he’s just come back from a run or the gym.
God, it’s getting embarrassing. I need to stop looking at this picture.
But I can’t.
Obviously, it’s his abs that pull the eye first. Half in shadow, and the way the light hits them, they look insane, almost as if he’s photoshopped them. Except I know he hasn’t.
Because I know that’s what they look like in real life.
I know what they feel like grinding against my ass, or pinning me to the wall.
I flush deeply.
I know what the sweat on those chiseled abs and sinfully grooved hip lines angling down into his gym shortstastes like.
I know what a lot of him tastes like…
It’s not just the shadowed abs, hip grooves, and chest that I like about this picture. It’s his face. It’s also half shadowed in the shot, with one side almost completely dark.
Except for his eye.
The one on the lit side is sexy enough, with that cool, ice-blue stare. But it’s his eye on the shadowed side of his face that I think is what I like most about this picture.
It’s the intensity of it. The way that even if the rest of that side of his face is in shadow, the eye seems to spark. It’s intense, and powerful, and makes me shiver.
But somehow, it also reveals a vulnerability in him. There’s something haunting in that shadowed eye that grips me and won’t let go.
The—no joke—two thousandcomments on this particular post are almost exclusively from women, of course. Every single one a fawning, nauseating, emoji-filled gush about his looks, and his abs, and howsexxxyhe is.
My lips tighten even skimming them.
But not one of them, at least not that I’ve seen, mentions the shadowed eye.
And I kind of like that. It’s as if that look I see every time I perv this picture is for me and me alone. My dirty little secret.
Just like the rest of him.
I obviously know about Hades’ reputation. I know ours was probably one of a string of a million nights just like it for him, all with different women ready and willing to do anything and everything with him.
That makes me furious. Like, stabby furious, even if I have no right to feel that way. Because Ididtrick him into sleeping with me. And I did it knowing exactly who and what he was. Is.
I mean, that was kind of the point.
But still, even if thinking about all those other girls being with him makes me want to scream, I can block them out. And I do that by letting my mind go blank and simply reliving that one night.
Every touch. Every kiss. Every whimpered moan from my lips and growled command from his. And once I’m drowning in the heat of those memories, everything else fades away until I can imagine that it’s just him, and me.
