April 2026 – Listen Here

Had you ever found yourself so thoroughly ruined by an evening that afterward, you could do nothing but sink into a steaming bath, Epsom salt dissolving slowly around you, because your body smarted with the memory of it… and your restraint had long since deserted you?

Or felt that irrepressible urge to summon your closest circle, uncork far too many bottles of wine, and recount every moment, scene by scene, detail by scandalous detail, until you were breathless with it all over again… not from laughter alone, but from the sheer weight of what you had dared to touch?

Because… gods… I had lived both.

I was laughing there then, steeped in heat and quiet, the water lapping gently at skin that still felt marked by him… trying, and failing, to make sense of what had just passed between us. And I knew, knew, that if any of you had been there, I would already have been leaning in, glass in hand, voice lowered, saying, “Wait… no, you don’t understand… it only gets better…” with that unmistakable curve to my mouth… and no intention whatsoever of hiding it.

I felt… loose. Spent. Perilously uncontained. Like I had gotten away with something I shouldn’t have… and would absolutely do again.

Everything throbbed, from the crown of my head, where my hair still remembered the pull of his hand, to my toes, curled and clenched for hours. Bruises bloomed across my skin in a symphony of mulberry, plumaceous, and murrey petals that ached when touched. I touched them anyway. Treasured reminders of what I had let him do… what I had taken in return. I turned languidly in the water, fingertips drifting over each mark with quiet, private admiration. I would not hide them.

So this, this was me, doing the next best thing, because I could not keep it contained. I had to confess it to someone… to anyone.

Come closer.

Let me tell you how it began.

When the Demigod arrived, it began with something almost guileless, mocking in its austerity, a fleeting, featherlight kiss at the door, a hello after months apart, before he murmured an excuse and disappeared down the hall to refresh himself.

I barely had time to marshal my breath.

When he returned, the room had dimmed into candlelight and a hush laden with anticipation. I was placing the fresh loaf I had made for him beside his bag, still warm beneath my fingers… when he appeared behind me.

No warning.

Only the pervasive, unmistakable dominion of him as he swept in behind me, his arms closing around my waist in a motion that whooshed the air from my lungs, wrenching me compact against him. His grasp constricted as it traveled, one austere hand braced at my hip, holding me immobile, the other rising, proprietary, engulfing, nearly sacramental in its fixation upon me.

His broad chest molded to my back. No quarter. No evasion. The mechanics of breath eluded me.

Because then his mouth found me. Not my lips.

His teeth closed over the column of my throat, and I tipped my head without thinking, baring more of that vulnerable stretch for his ardent abuse. My body answered before I could stop it, pliant and perfidious in his clutches.

I whimpered in his presence. He answered it.

Another bite, hungrier. Deeper. Breath hot and dangerous. He tarried there, as though inscribing the architecture of me to memory… or marking it for himself. My pulse sold me out immediately, a faithless thing, fluttering wildly beneath his mouth. Another press of teeth. Not enough to puncture, only enough to promise.

I writhed in his custody, unable to stay still, undulating against him, pursuing the friction of our bodies. I rolled my hips, provoking, offering, but his grip tightened as though he preferred me like this, kept in exquisite captivity.

And that only seemed to encourage him. Another bite. Slower this time. Deeper. Tasting, marking, drawing out each second until the room itself congealed with it.

I arched back into him, wriggling, grinding against him, unable to stay still, my body seeking friction, pressure, anything to answer the heat fomenting beneath my skin.

And there, hard against my derrière, already ferrous, already straining beneath denim… gods.

The unmistakable outline of his yearning cock.

A slow, Cheshire smile curved at my mouth as I rolled against him, once, twice, provocation edged with sovereign arrogance in every inch of my body. Egging him on.

It only made him bite harder.

His teeth sank in with purpose, then released, his mouth working its way higher, unhurried, until he found that sensitive place behind my ear. His breath was hot on my prickling flesh. A kiss. A brush of lips.

And then, my earlobe was caught between his teeth. A sharp jolt shot through me. I yipped, startled, but I didn’t pull away.

I only wriggled harder.

Tease me?

I would ruin him for it.

I shifted my hand, forcing its way between us, finding him through the fabric, tracing the length of him with agonizing pressure… testing, replying… drawing my touch along him, demanding, provoking. His mouth continued its assault, kissing and nipping along my neck, my throat, his growls the only sounds in my ear, each sharp little sting sending heat lancing through me, need coiling in my belly like a waking adder.

I unleashed my Inner Goddess, and I ground back against him until it bordered on unbearable. Until I needed more. I knew what to do, ready to take him down with me, but the moment I whipped around in his arms to do just that, he caught me.

Held me. Withheld everything. I looked up into his sparkling eyes.

I rose onto my toes, reaching for those wicked lips, but I wasn’t tall enough. A feral smirk touched his mouth as he lowered his head.

And then, he took mine.

His mouth crashed into me, hungry, pervading, stealing the air from my lungs as his tongue penetrated so deeply my mind went blank. His teeth caught my bottom lip, sharp enough to draw that faint, metallic taste, and I pressed into him in answer, my body moving without thought, seeking, begging for more.

For the edge. For that sharp, dangerous sweetness that lingered just beneath it all.

A low, rumbling sound tore from the Demigod. It was richly archaic, unbridled, unmistakably male, a snarl that did not temper itself for the sake of gentleness. It did not ask, it did not wait, it took hold.

And the feminine in me answered.

Immediate. Primeval.

I opened, helpless to it. Unspooling, not yielding, but rising. Meeting that force with one of my own, equal in hunger, equal in need.

Drawn to it, yes, but answering just as fiercely. Not fragile. Not hesitant.

Made to receive that pull, and rise to meet it. For the clash of him, solid, punishing, male, and the answering surge within me, wild, consuming, female.

Ready, aching, not to follow… but to meet him fully.

And I even found myself, rather foolishly, nodding when he suggested we should take it to my room, although I had the presence of mind to sashay ahead of him, my hips swaying a touch more erotically than necessary, as though I might assert even the smallest illusion that I was the one in control… even though we both knew that was a lie I was already too far gone to believe.

And then we were in my candlelit room, and he was pulling off his shirt.

And gods… I swore every divine hand had a part in him, every ideal, every fantasy, poured into one impossible body.

His shoulders are broad enough to make me feel small just looking at them. Massive, sculpted pectorals, so full, so defined, it would have taken both my hands to span just one. Biceps thicker than my thighs. Viscous, veined forearms that spoke of strength without effort. Salt-and-pepper curls trailed down his chest, drawing the eye lower… over a torso carved to perfection, each line, each plane of him impossibly precise and made to be taken, down to that sharp, sinful cut of his hips disappearing beneath dark-wash denim and worn cowboy boots.

Gods… He was unfair.

I dropped before him without dignity, a supplicant on her knees, fingers already fumbling at his belt, my dress slipping loose from my shoulders as though it, too, had lost all will to resist. I barely noticed it falling; I was too consumed by him, by the tension like wildfire through me. But I could not get his damn pants off.

And I loved it. That frantic urgency. The way my reason was starting to fray.

The Demigod took over. He shoved his jeans down, kicked free of his boots, one, then the other, impatient now, breath heavier, movements keener, and then jumped on one foot.

One stubborn sock refused to give way.

But I couldn’t stop staring. His massive cock was so close. Right there. Within reach.

My hands hovered, itching. I licked my lips, my mouth already parted as I watched him wrestle with that final, ridiculous barrier, and I nearly laughed, half wild, half desperate, ready to tell him to leave it, forget it, come back to me, 

But then he was there.

Standing over me.

All of him.

I wrapped my hands around the length of his cock, drawing him to me, past my lips, tasting the first salty notes of his arousal before entombing him, unable to stop, unwilling to, every thought gone, every boundary blurred, until there was nothing left but the fraught length of him and my answering need.

I had meant to go slowly, to begin our hours-long evening with something measured, seduction drawn out… After all, it had been nearly a year since I had seen him, since I had had this, this private, unbroken moment with the Demigod.

But on my knees before him… well, all common sense vanished.

I took him as though my life depended on it. Like the fate of the Fae world relied on it. I could feel my thighs damp and slick, ready for him.

There was nothing careful in me, nothing that wished to be. Nothing suppressed. Only feral need.

I forced him to the back of my throat until I couldn’t take him any further, and then I worked him there, my throat tightening, massaging him even as my hand moved with him, stroking, keeping pace. My other hand wrapped around his oak-like thigh, gripping, pulling him closer, deeper, my fingers digging into one massive buttock, or as much as my hand could hold, dragging him into me with a desperation I didn’t even try to hide.

And gods… he let me.

He let me take control.

Even as he moaned and groaned above me, low and rough, the sound of it sent something sharp and electric through me, making me take more, give more, push harder. I tasted him, and still I didn’t stop, my mouth, my hand, alternating, relentless, drool slipping, obscene, unchecked, as I choked and took him deeper, my body reacting without permission.

My eyes rolled back, then snapped up to his face, needing to see it, needing to know it felt as good for him as it did for me.

And then, he moved.

His hips pressed forward, driving into me, his hands clamped onto my shoulders, keeping me exactly where he wanted me, using me, driving himself into my mouth with a ruinous cadence that stripped the last of my breath. My nails bit into him in answer, curling into muscle, and tears forced their way free from the corners of my eyes, heat, pressure, too much and not enough all at once, and for the briefest, ridiculous second I wondered if I had grabbed waterproof eyeliner… and then it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered because his hand was at the back of my head. And that, that only made me want to give him more.

Everything.

My hands constricted around him, tireless, still working him as I pulled back just enough to breathe, my tongue tracing, coaxing, drawing more from him, savoring it, lost in the way he reacted, in the way I could feel him unraveling under my hands, under my mouth.

I was so lost in it, in the control, in the triumph of it, that I thought, just for a moment, I might win him right there.

My body protested at the thought of it ending too soon, of pushing him over that edge before I was ready to let him go.

Not that that had ever happened in the four years I had known the Demigod.

But still. I wanted to hold him there. Keep him there. And just when I thought I might, formidable hands hooked beneath my arms and wrenched me upward.

Not to my feet. All the way up.

My legs wrapped around his hips, locking to him, my breasts crushed to his perfect bare chest.

And he looked at me with that devilish grin, and I froze, lungs filling, lips swollen, still parted… still aching for more.

But he carried me to the bed and laid me back, and then he stood there, and just looked at me, really looked at me, and gods, here was this massive, impossibly intelligent Demigod, a man who could have had any woman he desired on this planet, any woman at all, and there I was, a 42-year-old mortal mother, laid out beneath him, breathless and undone, and still he only stood there, drinking me in as though I were something rare, something earned, something he meant to ruin slowly, and when he finally spoke, low and almost disbelieving, it was only to murmur, “what had I done in a past life to deserve this…”

And then, instead of dropping to his knees and diving into my apex, he traced his fingers from my sternum down my abdomen… over the curve of my hip… to the outside of my thigh, around my knee, and down my calf, and then he did it again.

The same path. But this time… slower. Closer. Barely grazing.

As if he had needed to be certain. As if he couldn’t quite believe I was real and not something imagined. My breath caught. My body already reacted, already craved more than he would grant.

And when he finally lowered himself to his knees, it still wasn’t with urgency. It was with that same inexorable magnetism. As if the world outside my four walls did not exist.

He placed a kiss on my knee. Velveted. Almost tender.

One hand stroked my outer thigh, grounding me even as everything else began to unravel, and then his head turned. The other leg. Teeth catching the flesh there, sharp enough to make me gasp, my body arching before I could stop it, and then, heat.

A long, slow sweep of his tongue over my folds sent sensation erupting through me, too much, too fast, my body struggling to make sense of it, to choose between them.

The kiss. The bite. The lick.

I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.

And then he did it again.

A kiss to the knee, just in a slightly different location.

A bite, a little higher on my inner thigh.

And that lingering lick, just a fraction longer through my folds.

Each pass was worse than the last. Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.

Only that I was unraveling beneath him, caught between what had just happened and what I knew was coming next, needing it. Aching for it. Unable to stop him. Unwilling to try.

And then came the devouring.

He came to me like something ravenous, something wholly undone by the mere presence of me, his hand rising first, cupping the weight of my breast, thumb rolling slowly, deliberately over the peak until it tightened beneath his touch. The other drifted lower, tracing the heat of my thighs, mapping them with a languid, unerring resolve that made my breath catch before I even realized I had lost it. His mouth followed, wet, open kisses pressed along my stomach, each one lingering just long enough to resemble a promise he had no intention of keeping, gently.

There was a wickedness to him. A villain’s satisfaction curled at the edge of his mouth as he watched me unravel, panting, waiting, caught in the terrible anticipation of what he would do next.

And then he lowered.

Slowly, with premeditated grace.

His nose dragged along the inside of my calf, a teasing, maddening path upward, breath warm against my skin before his teeth caught, just barely, at the delicate edge of lace, an enticing nip that sent a sharp, electric tremor through me. He inhaled, saturating his senses, as though he meant to take all of me into himself, and the sound of it, god, the sound of it, was enough to make my body betray me entirely.

When his mouth finally found me, there was nothing tempered in it.

He buried himself there as though I had been something to be devoured, like I was the ripest, most decadent summer fruit he had ever known, and he did not hesitate, did not ease into it, only took. The rough scrape of his bearded jaw, heated and damp, dragged against me as his tongue followed in a long, persistent stroke, slow and filthy, tasting, pressing, claiming the length of me in one seamless motion that left me gasping.

There was no gentleness left.

Only hunger.

He worked over me without mercy, circling, returning, dragging his tongue in slow, orchestrated paths that refused to let me settle, refusing to let me gather even a shred of composure. Each movement was methodical, maddening in its precision, the tip tracing slow, endless circles that built and built, never quite granting release, only drawing me tighter, higher, closer to the edge.

And when his mouth closed around me, when he sucked, slow and sure, as though savoring something meant only for him, I buckled.

Because he did not stop.

He licked and lapped and took as though he intended to consume me entirely, leaving nothing behind but his echo, of him, burning through me long after I had lost the ability to think, to speak, to do anything but feel.

And then, again, deeper.

Closer. More.

As though he had meant to ruin me with it.

His hands locked around my thighs, holding me open, holding me there, because my body betrayed me, trembling, trying to close, trying to trap him, overwhelmed by it, and gods, I loved it, the way his fingers dug into the lambent, sensitive flesh of my inner thighs, the pressure sharp enough to ground me even as everything else dissolved, the insistence of it, the authority of it, the way he forced my thighs to open for him, and would not let me escape it.

And the Demigod did not stop, he devoured, listening to my body, attuned to every shift, every tremor, finding what drew the deepest cries from me, that low, rumbling sound of pleasure rising from him when I crossed the peak, my legs trembling on either side, my toes curling into his shoulders, and still, he did not stop.

His tongue, ever probing, ever circling that aching center, teasing, returning, long, sweeping strokes that felt like the finest satin drawn across my entire sanctuary as I moaned, cried out, rode above him, helpless to it, my body answering him again and again.

His hands folded together at my hip bone, obdurate and steadfast, adding just enough pressure to keep me there, to hold me precisely where he wanted me as I shattered, again and again, around him, my hands white-knuckled in the sheets or tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, pressing him deeper as I lost myself to the rhythm of it, to the way he would not let me come back down.

I did not know how long he continued, only that it had been long enough that time ceased to behave like time at all… long enough that I forgot my name.

And then he was on the bed, kneeling beside me, and I had not even caught my breath before his fingers were inside me, plunging, seizing, and then, just as suddenly, he slowed.

He slowed.

His fingers shifted, changed, no longer urgent but precise, calculated in their intent, as his other hand rose to my breast, caressing, kneading, grounding me even as his touch deepened, his fingertips circling in a way that made me melt around him, finding that place inside me with devastating accuracy.

And even then, it wasn’t enough for him.

His mouth found my breast, drawing my nipple in, pulling, taking, until I whimpered, sharp, startled, delighted by the edge of it, only for him to release it just long enough to unmoor me, to leave me grasping, 

And then, he changed again.

That sudden, overwhelming cadence returned, powerful, merciless, driving through me until I broke, until I cried out, my body giving way completely, curling around his thigh for support as wave after wave tore through me, leaving me trembling, undone, barely able to hold myself together.

And still, he knew.

He slowed, bringing me down with that same maddening control, his fingers easing, stroking out the tremors he had created, drawing out every last shudder, every last aftershock, until I was left shaking, oversensitive, gasping beneath him.

And then his mouth was on me again, devouring, eating me alive.

Biting, teasing, drawing another sound from me, acute this time, as sensation turned almost too much, splintering through me in a thousand tiny bursts I couldn’t contain.

I couldn’t hold it.
I couldn’t think.
I could only feel.

And then he was over me, crawling, straddling, climbing his way up my body, his mouth glistening, and when I met him, when my lips found his, I tasted myself there, felt the evidence of what he’d done to me linger between us, before he marked my throat, my neck, my ear, teeth, tongue, heat, everywhere at once, while my hands clawed at him, fastening upon his shoulders, pulling him closer as my body arched and twisted beneath him, chasing sensation I could no longer control.

And when I wrapped around him, he didn’t let me keep him there.

No. He shifted. Freed himself.

Moved.

Repositioned me like it was nothing, like I weighed nothing, only to return, his other hand finding me again, sliding into me with the same unerring precision, the same impossible awareness of my body, as though he knew it better than I did.

I could only shake my head, breathless, undone, half-laughing in disbelief at him, at this man, this Demigod, and the wicked, infuriating perfection of him. His fingers curled inside, pumping and pumping as he uttered a deep moan of satisfaction.

And then I was shattering and gushing all over again, biting the pillow, teeth clenched as I screamed until my throat burned raw, my body nothing more than a trembling, boneless thing beneath him.

I didn’t remember him stepping off the bed and encasing himself in protection, though I knew he must have. I could only focus on the unbelievable descent from my last shattering climax. And then he was there again, poised over me, his body hovering just above mine, so close I could feel the heat of him, his cock just whispering above my swollen folds yearning to accept him.

My legs wrapped around his hips, my body arching upward, restless, needy, begging for him, his length, his fullness, for everything.

And he waited. Gods. He waited.

A smug, knowing smile at his lips, holding himself just out of reach, letting me feel the absence of him, the ache of it, until I broke, until I begged.

Just when I was about to scream in wanton frustration, there was the earth-shattering thrust, and I was nearly split in two as he plunged into me. Pain and unspeakable euphoria ripped through me. I was screaming. I was crying out, clinging to his shoulders, my body pulling him closer even as I tried to hold myself together, and he began driving into me with a surging beat that should have destroyed me, pumping into me over and over in a violent cadence, our bodies slamming together. Each thrust cleaved a new sound from me, my body arching to meet him, to take him, to match him even as I lost control of it entirely.

And then, he changed. Slowed.

Dragged the moment out, making me feel all of it, every taut inch of him, every pulsing vein of him, until I was trembling with the anticipation of it, only to take it from me again.

Driving forward once more. Holding me there. Making me take it.

And I screamed, and gods, I loved every second of it.

He repeated it over and over, and when my legs were lifted, draped along his shoulders, I tilted my head, helpless not to watch, the way he moved, the way he drove into me, the way my body gave to him again and again, opening, yielding, taking him despite the ache of it, welcoming the pounding intensity that should have been too much and somehow only made me crave more.

And I watched him, watched the strain in him, the way his jaw set, the way that wicked, knowing grin carved itself across his mouth, and when his eyes caught mine, they were dark and blazing. I was mesmerized by him, by the way every tendon and sinew in his body pulled taut with it, strength winding and releasing beneath his skin like a stallion barely contained. Heavens… he looked carved for this, an Adonis among men, every line of him straining, every movement driven by something primal, something that did not ask and did not relent.

I felt it then, that shared, unspoken recognition, how far gone we were.

How deep in it.

And though my face was drawn tight with the overwhelm of it, lost in that dizzying euphoria, I still found myself grinning back.

Because there was no hiding it, not the hunger, not the excess, not the sheer, intoxicating abandon of the moment as we drove each other further into it… Neither of us willing to stop, and gods, neither of us wanting to.

I didn’t remember turning onto all fours, but I remembered the weight of myself there, on my knees, on my elbows, my breath uneven as I looked back over my shoulder just as I felt him press in, that first overwhelming breach as his crown parted me again, already sensitive, already undone.

And I answered him.

Bucking back into him, taking him, using him, riding him, chasing that edge with a feral, insistent hunger that had long since burned away anything resembling constraint.

And then he claimed the rhythm. Seized it. Drove into me.

With the fury of something not wholly mortal, the Demigod moved through me again and again, each thrust deeper, fuller, striking that hidden, aching nexus inside me that made my body jolt, my breath catch and splinter, his hands locking around my hips, not merely steadying me, but hauling me back to meet him, forcing me to take every motion, every punishing drive that sent another wave tearing through me.

Orgasm after orgasm ripped through me, shredding sense and time alike. My elbows sank into the opulent mattress, my thighs hardened, obdurate, indomitable. I convulsed, throbbed, took everything he gave, welcomed him, opened to him in a way that should have been too much and somehow only deepened the hunger.

And somewhere, buried beneath the heat, beneath the chaos, there lingered that small, flickering fragment of thought… stunned. Almost awed in its disbelief. That my body, my tired, lived-in, mortal body, was not collapsing beneath him… but rising to meet him.

Rising beyond itself. Demanding more. My Inner Goddess was ravenous.

And he gave it to me.

One hand viciously clamped around my breast, and it hurt, and I gulped, blinking as that sharp jolt snapped through me, his grip tightening as he kneaded my whimpering nipple, while the fingers of his other hand reached around my hip, circling, circling, coaxing my pearl, forcing a second, warring wave as I struggled to support both his weight and my own, never letting me settle, never letting me come back to myself.

His weight pressed down over me, surrounding me, enveloping me, and I took it as a challenge, something fierce and prideful rising in me, determined to show this immortal that I could hold him, hold us, carry both our weight through these dueling surges. These sister storms tearing through me. And it was only sheer stubbornness that saw me through it, screaming through every second.

And then, just as I was finally descending from the heavens, his touch returned, that coaxing swirl, silken, maddening, dragging me open again, pulling me right back to the edge, and at the same time, his breath hit my back.

Hot. A lick. Close. Lips brushing with all the seduction of an English rose. A warning I barely had time to register before his mouth was on me.

My back. My shoulder, and then, teeth. A sharp, sudden bite that ripped a sound from me before I could stop it, my body jolting, shocked, confused, because it clashed so violently with what he was doing between my legs, that unappeased, liquid motion that would not let me drift away from it.

It shouldn’t have worked. It shouldn’t, and that was precisely why it did, why it struck with such devastating force.

The bite. The swirl. The bite again, quick, feral, marking, each one landing like a spark against skin already too alive, while that maddening, silken motion never faltered, never subdued, never gave me a moment to breathe.

I couldn’t separate it.

Pain, pleasure, shock, heat, it all collapsed into one blinding flare that tore through me, my body arching, reacting, chasing something I could no longer name, only that I needed it, all of it, more.

He rolled his hips, driving deeper still, and I was gone.

I thrust back against him without thought, meeting him, taking him, supporting his weight, losing the edges of myself entirely, my body moving, floating, or drowning, I no longer knew. I no longer cared.

And then his teeth and fingers released me, his hands returning to my hips, but they did not stay there. A hard smack landed against my left side, and I groaned, shuddering at the impact before he soothed it, only to follow with two more sharp strikes to the other side, and gods, it was madness how much I loved it, how my body answered it, how I ached for it before it even landed.

And it did.

Again.

Again.

Each one left heat blooming beneath his touch, deepening, spreading, my skin shifting, flushing, awakening under his hand as I gave myself over to it, no resistance left, no thought left… only sensation.

And somehow, my breath steadied. My eyes rolled white.

A strange, floating calm settled over me even as the fire spread, that slow, searing warmth unfurling across my derriere, each pulse of it echoing through me, grounding me even as everything else dissolved.

And then he slowed, truly slowed, dragging himself through me again, unhurried now, savoring it, stretching the moment until every inch of movement felt magnified, a fleeting reprieve that I tried to use to catch my breath, though the sudden stillness only made me more aware, of him, of the weight and presence of him, of how completely I was filled with it.

A cool breath of air ghosted over my back from the fan, sharp against overheated skin, and the contrast made me shiver, made me feel everything more keenly, every shift, every subtle movement, as though my body had been stripped raw to sensation.

It took me a moment, too long a moment, to understand his words, to pull meaning from them through the haze, to realize he was asking me to ride him… and even that simple request felt distant, as though I were reaching for it through water, my mind slow to follow where my body already lingered.

I nodded, mutely, my throat too raw, too ragged to answer, my mind too hazy to form anything coherent, and when he withdrew, I went to roll over, but the world tilted at such a strange, impossible angle that I couldn’t quite make sense of it.

I couldn’t tell which way was up, or how to move, or how to get myself onto all fours, or even just off to the side so he could take my place, and for a moment I simply… lingered there, caught between will and execution, my body refusing to cooperate with my thoughts.

And then I felt his palms on either side of my hip, anchoring me, his voice mellower now as he asked if I was alright.

And all I could do was giggle, a ridiculous sound like my brain had just clocked out mid-sentence, but I nodded, because gods… I was so far more than just “good,” I was blissful. Unsteady. Possibly a little unhinged in the best possible way.

And then the Demigod was sprawled out before me, fully, unapologetically laid bare, dominating nearly the entire length of my bed, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loose at his side, his body all ease and quiet command. A faint sheen of sweat caught the candlelight along his chest and abdomen, gilding every line of him, every carved plane, making him look less like a man and more like something conjured, something touched by divinity and left there to tempt mortals.

And gods… that grin.

Lazy. Knowing. Entirely too pleased with himself.

Like he had been well aware of exactly what he was doing to me simply by existing there, waiting, unhurried, certain I would come to him.

And I tried not to stare. No, are you kidding me? I didn’t try at all.

I was quite certain my composure had abandoned me entirely as I took him in, my jaw practically rattling on the floor.

But my gaze betrayed me, drawn lower, helplessly caught by the sheer, swollen length of him, so heavy, so impossibly long it lay against him all the way to his navel. He was altogether…

Impossible to ignore, impossible to look away from, my mouth went dry as the full reality of him settled in.

And there he was.

In my bed, inches away. Waiting.

For me.

And all I could think in disbelief was:

What on earth had I done in a previous life to deserve a moment like this?

Feeling less like myself and more like a marionette to my Inner Goddess, I straddled him, but did not immediately guide him where he so clearly wanted to go.

I lingered there.

Balanced above him, suspended in that strange, humming stillness, trying to reconcile the reality of him beneath me. Because yes, we had just spent the better part of an hour in something wild, something consuming…

But there, in that quiet hollow between storms, everything felt heavier. Slower. More dangerous.

He was mine. Just for that moment. For that evening. Mine to take in. To learn. To memorize.

And I meant to savor every second of it.

I shifted, sliding back and forth against him, my body tracing the length of him through that thin barrier, the friction drawing a low, unsteady breath from me as my thighs adjusted to the breadth of his hips, to the sheer presence of him beneath me. I had been on the receiving end… but then I was the one in control. My movements were unhurried. Intentional. A regal assertion of my own.

And I looked down at him, that maddening, smug expression still playing at his mouth, his hands laced behind his head, sardonically at ease, archly unbothered, as though he had all the time in the world… as though he knew exactly what I was doing.

That I was making him wait. And heavens… he let me. His face said it plainly: he would wait as long as I chose to tease him.

And though my body ached for him, though every slow movement only deepened that need, I made him wait, made myself wait, just a breath longer than I had ever intended.

The sensation of sinking onto him, taking him fully, so deep it stole the breath from my lungs, so overwhelming I could have sworn I felt it echo through my entire body, that stretch, aching, rapacious, my breath catching as I adjusted around him, needing more of it, needing to feel every inch as I settled, as I took him in.

My eyes fell shut, my head tipped back as my hips began to move, swiveling at first, circling, rolling, feeling him drag through me with each motion, every shift purposeful, every rotation coaxing more sensation from it, clockwise, chasing that perfect, devastating point, and then back again, countering, testing, finding it, holding it, my body learning him in real time as my hands reached for the headboard, clinging hard as I lost myself in the heady intoxication of it.

And then I was riding him, truly riding him, again and again, the movement no longer careful but driven, insistent, chasing that rising edge as it built inside me, my body tightening, responding, taking more, needing more, while beneath me he remained stretched out, hands still behind his head, watching me with that maddening, satisfied grin, letting me use him, letting me take what I wanted in the most beautiful, chaotic way.

And then it broke.

It tore through me – my knuckles bone-white on the headboard, my body seizing as I rose, convulsing around the force of it. The sensation overtook me completely, a violent, breathless wave I could neither contain nor steady myself against. I was lifted by it – beyond thought, beyond control – tightening, clenching, overwhelmed… until the sheer force of it drove him from me.

I had lost all sense of separation, no longer certain where I ended and he began. Everything dissolved into that overwhelming surge as it crashed through me – and kept going… and going.

I was gushing, spilling a river down him and over him, the bed slick and sopping beneath us as the wave carried on, leaving me shaking, spent, utterly lost in it.

Wet, lewd, indecorous sounds filled the room as our bodies collided. My cheeks flushed at the sound – I did not stop.

And still, he only grinned. A Cheshire grin. Dark. Knowing. Arrogant.

But like a drug I was utterly addicted to, I guided him back within me, too quickly, almost desperately, like I couldn’t get him where I needed him fast enough, like even a second without him was too long, too empty, and I did it again.

And again.

Chasing it, no, grasping for it, like it was already slipping through my fingers and I couldn’t bear to lose it. And then he shifted, tilting his hips, and it struck something deeper.

Searing.

Merciful heavens, it broke through me.

I cried out, my body jolting as my hands clawed at him, needing something solid to hold onto, needing him, because I was losing myself in it, slipping further under with every second.

And then his hands were on my shoulders, firm, resolute, holding me there, keeping me exactly where he wanted me, refusing to let me pull away, refusing to let me grow languid, forcing me to stay in it. To feel all of it.

Every rising, blazing wave as it surged through me, faster now, stronger, too much and not enough all at once, and I couldn’t elude it.

I didn’t want to. And I was coming, 

By all the Fates, I was coming.

And then he was telling me, low, almost amused, how much he loved getting me to that point… where I could barely think, where the waves kept coming faster than I could recover from them, one after another, until I was left trying to catch my breath between them and failing, his mouth near mine, murmuring every thirty seconds, like he was tracking it, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me, and I tried to understand it, I did, but my mind wouldn’t hold onto it… only my body did. And it knew he was right. My body proved it. 

There was no real pause.

Only the illusion of one.

A fragile, fleeting lull before it built again, before it took me.

And then it did.

I shattered, again, my body betraying me, trembling, splintering, unable to hold steady as it overtook me, my breath catching, my screams ripping apart my throat, and just as I thought I might come down from it, he moved, angling and jutting his hips upward.

And it hit, merciless and jagged, and I was gone, my body arching, shuddering, lost to it, caught in that inexhaustible cycle where there was no escape, only the next wave, and the next, and the next.

In one of my gasping, heaving lulls, he took my right hand, spreading each finger slowly, as though he had all the time in the world, and brought them, one by one, to his mouth.

Each digit was claimed in turn. Drawn in, held, his tongue tracing along the underside before a sharp nip at the tip, just enough to make me flinch and try to withdraw my hand from his hold, but he maintained his purchase.

I could only watch. Transfixed. Mute in my own astonishment as I whimpered and reacted to each one, yet still offered the next, helpless to stop myself.

My body continued its unsteady motion above him, but it was distant now, secondary, because all of me was caught in what he was doing to my hand.

And then, my thumb. Olympus, help me.

He took it slower. With a more knowing design. The same teasing drag of his teeth over flesh, but when he should have released it, he didn’t.

Instead, he turned my hand, bared my palm to him, and bit into the base of my thumb, holding the pad of it between his teeth, giving the smallest, willful shake.

And something in me snapped.

My eyes went wide, my body lifting instinctively as though I might outpace it, but the sudden absence of him beneath me only dragged me back down again, seeking that fullness, needing it, and the moment I settled, it was worse in my hand.

The pressure. The contrast. The impossible collision of sensation that made no sense and yet consumed me entirely.

I was caught there, torn between it, shaking, suspended right at the edge from something so small, so unexpected, and by all the stars above, I couldn’t believe he remembered. Remembered how much I loved that silly cruelty that somehow pulled me apart from the inside, every single time.

When he released me, I started to pick up the rhythm once more, chasing the abyss, but he stopped me. Firm hands came down on my shoulders, pinning me in place as his voice cut through the haze,

“Still.”

And my Inner Goddess, chuffed, intrigued, tilted her head at it… why?

So I stilled. Even as I obeyed… even as I held myself there, suspended, waiting, there was a tension beneath it. A promise. Something primed and knowing, as though he had not stilled me to grant me mercy…

Yet, I breathed, just as he had told me to, though it came stilted and ragged, my bosom rising and falling as I tried to gather myself, blinking, searching for some thread of control to cling to, but the Demigod was a wicked, wicked creature.

Because within me, I felt his thick cock, once.

A pulse.

The corners of my mouth pulled upward as I realized what he was attempting to do. A crease formed between my brows, my consideration narrowing, locking onto the way my body answered him.

I tightened my core in a measured contraction around his cock. A constricting tomb around him.

He pulsed again, stronger that time. I tightened in answer, holding it, my face screwing up in concentration, jaw set as I matched him, met him, pushed back against it, as though I might win that silent contest.

Challenging him. Again. And again.

That dangerous pull between us tightened, sharpened, playful but charged, volatile… inevitable.

But I realized too late that he was not following my lead.

He was provoking me. Antagonizing my Inner Goddess, drawing her out.

My body betrayed me.

My hips began to rise without permission, chasing it, needing it, my breath catching as the sensation coiled tight and sharp inside me, unraveling everything he had just commanded me to hold together, and his grip tightened, fingers digging into my shoulders, forcing me back down.

“Wait.”

Ancient powers.

I tried. I tried.

But he did it again, another pulse, deeper that time, and my vision flickered, my head tilting back as my eyes threatened to roll, my body trembling under the strain of holding still, of obeying, of not chasing what he was so deliberately awakening in me.

Another.

And something in me splintered.

My poise fractured under it.

“No,” my voice cracked, breathless, disobedient, “I couldn’t, ”

And with a shake, I wrenched free.

I broke from his hold as something unleashed, something no longer willing to be contained, and I was moving again, riding him with a wild, lawless hunger, not graceful, not genteel, but feral, driven, my body chasing what he had started, what he had forced into motion within me, what now demanded to be answered.

My blood seethed beneath my skin, my veins barely containing it. Every nerve ignited, dancing, spinning, incandescent, as my Inner Goddess rose in full rebellion, no longer still, no longer obedient, but answering him in kind, just as powerful, just as predatory, beneath a sky that felt ready to split open above us.

And I knew, I knew he had a stupid grin on his face, his ego puffing as he watched what he had done to me, watched me lose control, watched me fall from the edge he had held me on for just a moment too long, and I didn’t mind.

Because I could not stop.

And worse, I did not want to stop. I was all claw and rising, all heat and hunger, something untamed and unrestrained, and Olympus…

I loved it.

And then there was another moment, somewhere in the haze of it, and he said he wanted to give me the biggest orgasm yet. I was quizzical and baffled. I could not fathom how that could be, because I had already been undone so many times, so completely, I was astonished I was still upright at all. Every thirty seconds, he had said.

Curious what filthy thing he could still have in mind, I nodded down at him.

His handsome, chiseled face became grave and serious, and I gave him my undivided regard. Because when he added the rule, “no passing out,” understanding did not arrive gently. A memory flickered of a boundary once overstepped, of how close I had come to a thing I could not return from. I nodded solemnly. No passing out. Beneath the compliance, my Inner Goddess was thrumming and exultant, rearing to life within me, shrieking in delighted anticipation of what was to come.

Because in the very next heartbeat, his hands found my throat.

One.

Then the other.

Placed with surgical precision.

And I was already moving, already lost in motion, but then he took it from me entirely, his hips shifting, controlling the angle, the tempo, the depth of it, driving everything forward while I was left suspended in the sensation of his hold, of his control.

And I focused on his hands.

Because they tightened.

Gradually and intentionally, just the fingertips at first, hardening around my entire throat. I felt so small, so delicate in that precarious position.

One, two, three.

His body thundered beneath me. I had been so close to shattering once more, and I marveled at how he was able to hold those two things, the terrible cadence of his hips slamming into me and my very life in his hands.

The edges of the world began to blur, my breath catching, shortening, my body floating in that strange, suspended place between awareness and surrender, my limbs growing distant, lighter, as though they no longer belonged to me.

Darkness flickered at the edges of my vision.

Not fear.

A threshold.

A line I saw, clearly, instinctively, one I would not cross. I hovered there, finding a peace I could not find in that world.

And just as I began to drift too close, he released me.

Air rushed back in, but there was so much more.

I completely gave way.

In hindsight, I was surprised there was still glass in my windowpanes. Surprised the neighbors were not pounding at the door, that no sirens split the night, that the world outside had not taken notice of what was happening inside that room, later, I found his body scored with deep red lines from my nails, because I was shaking, riven, coming apart above him, my voice torn from me in ragged cries, my body arching, reaching, clawing for something beyond the ceiling, beyond the sky, fingers grasping at stars that felt just within reach and impossibly far all at once, and I had the strangest, fleeting certainty that I might never quite find my way back into myself again.

And then, there was only light.

Not the riot of color, not the scattered brilliance of sparks and prisms, but something singular. Absolute. Blinding in its purity.

White.

It did not flicker. It did not fracture. It simply was.

And I was drawn toward it, pulled forward as though by some unseen current, suspended in its presence, aware of it in a way that felt almost sacred and entirely overwhelming, and yet… I was not ready to step into it. Not yet.

So I let it take me as far as it would.

Let it pour through me, over me, until I was no longer bracing against anything, no longer resisting, no longer separate from the force of it as it surged, again and again, through every nerve, every hidden place, striking deep, rolling through me with a force that felt geological, tidal, inevitable, like something ancient had awakened and was moving through me without mercy.

There was no counting it.

No containing it.

Only enduring it, and wanting more even as it consumed me.

My body became a vessel for it, trembling, seized by it, carried by it as it broke and broke and broke through me, each wave leaving me more undone than the last, until even the idea of holding myself together felt distant… irrelevant… impossible.

And somewhere within it, I let go of the need to return.

I did not remember when it ended. Or how. Only that it did.

And that it left me changed, left me certain that it was one of the most consuming, unforgettable experiences of my adult life.

I needed a moment. Not distance. Not retreat. Just… a shift to something tangible I could hold in my hands.

So I did not speak. Did not ask. I simply began to move.

An unsteady descent, my body still trembling in the wake of it as I eased down the length of him, trailing downy, absent-minded kisses in my wake, along his chest, his ribs, grounding myself in his Adonis belt, reassuring myself of the corporeal, of the living.

Until I found my place between his thighs.

And there, I settled. Not from obligation. Not from expectation. But because I wanted to. Because after everything he had drawn from me, everything he had taken, everything he had given, I wanted to answer him in kind. To feel him. To take my time with him.

To lose myself again, but differently that time. Slower. Closer. Attuned solely to him. And oh, I wanted to see how he unraveled under my hands.

So, I began. Slow, at first.

My lips closed around his cock, wet and loose, just enough to take him in, to allow my tongue to move freely, then narrowing to a precise line as it traced the underside of his shaft from base to tip. I flicked in targeted strokes that made his breath catch before he could stop it.

And I watched him. His jaw tightened. Locked.

Good. I crooned. So I changed it.

My tongue flattened then, broad, dragging slower, heavier, before narrowing again, sharper, more bladed, returning to that same sensitive slit at his crown again and again, not by accident… but because I knew exactly what it did to him.

His fingers dug harder into his hips. His head turned to the side, half buried in the pillow. The sadistic part of me stirred, pleased, almost radiant, to see… to taste him so riled up.

So I tightened. My lips drew in, sealing around him, pulling, then easing, then pulling again, that subtle shift in pressure making his control stutter, his breath hitching just slightly as his body reacted before he could command it not to.

And I did not let up. Not quite. Just enough to hold him hostage, right on that edge.

Teasing. Testing.

Letting him press deeper into the heat of my mouth, my throat opening to him, unholy sounds filling the room as I gagged around him and held him there just long enough to make his self-command fracture further before easing back again.

Not release. Not yet. Just enough to make him want.

My hands closed around his cock, guiding the sway, shaping it, working in tandem with my mouth so he could not skirt the pattern I set. Loose, then tighten. Gliding, then catching, my grip answering every shift, every reaction, every betrayal of control in his body.

I stroked downward, holding my hands firm at the base, the wet, unmistakable sound of it filling the space between us. I drew my lips up the length of him, slow, dragging, catching at that ridge before easing off the tip with a loud, obscene pop.

His hips betrayed him first. A sharp, involuntary buck. Because I did it again.

Because my tongue returned, narrow, precise, flicking in a way that made restraint impossible, while my hands anchored him, kept him from escaping the pace I set, and my throat took him just enough to make him see stars.

I felt it. That fracture. That moment where control began to slip because the sensation was too exact, too relentless, too known.

And my Inner Goddess crowed. Because I wasn’t guessing. I was using him.

So I deepened it. My lips tightened again, more demanding now, mouth and hands working as one, my tongue unflagging in its rhythm, returning, repeating, building, until his breath broke apart entirely, a low sound dragged from him as his hips moved again, harder that time, unable to stay still under what I was doing to him.

My head moved faster, taking the length deeper, my nose brushing the base as I stole what breaths I could between the motion, but even that felt like too much time away from it. I chased it instead, returning immediately, refusing to disrupt the cadence for more than a heartbeat. My eyes watered, lashes damp, my makeup slipping into ruin, and still, I did not stop.

I adjusted.

Tightened my hold.

Claimed his cock more fully.

My sapphire hair had come undone entirely, a riot around me, but my hands were steady, intractable, a quiet prison that held his monolith exactly where I wanted it. My mouth returned again and again to his great length, not wandering, not hesitating, absorbed. My entire body worked in tandem, chasing every shift, every change, determined not to miss a single moment of it, not to waste even the smallest trace.

There was exertion in it then. Real labor.

And I leaned into it, into the repetition, into the near-obsessive way I continued to suck and adore, as though I had locked onto it and would not release it for anything. Not for breath, not for composure, not for the way I must have looked fevered and disheveled.

Because that was the point. Not just to take him there. But to make damn sure he knew exactly how I did it. So that later, when he thought about it, he wouldn’t remember a blur of sensation.

He would remember me.

The shift of my mouth.

The precision of my tongue.

The way I learned him, and then used it against him until he had no choice but to yield.

And that was when he broke.

One moment, he was holding himself together, and the next, he was on me, grabbing me, flipping me until I was on my back, pinned under the weight of his body as he straddled me. There was no hesitation then. The Demigod was raw and rash.

He barely took the time, just enough, to spill oil across my sternum and glaze my breasts with his broad hands, the cool slickness shocking against my heated skin before it disappeared beneath the heat of him. I gathered myself, clutching the outside of my breasts, pressing them together, offering, knowing exactly what I was doing, what it would do to him, and he took them.

Forcing himself between my breasts with a rough urgency as I lay beneath his colossal weight, and gods, I let him.

I wanted him to.

My body answered instantly, arching beneath him, betraying me most deliciously, that deep, aching pull tightening low as I felt my slit wet and slick, undone by the way he looked at me, no civility left, no pretense, only something wild, something unseeing.

I growled back.

And, I provoked him. Of course I did.

I gathered one breast, lifting it, drawing the peak to my lips, knowing exactly what would set him off, and I teased him with it, a bit of unholy corruption, my tongue tracing that insidious path around my nipple once… then again… watching the way it affected him, watching that fragile containment fracture further.

Egging him on. Daring him to fall. Unashamed, I repeated the action on the other breast, fully aware of the effect of the way I was feeding the beast in him, coaxing it forward, calling it out. Because I wanted to see how far he would go. And he did not disappoint.

He answered.

With a rough urgency that sent a violent shudder through me, his hands overriding mine, claiming control, shaping me beneath him as though I were something made for that, something meant to be used, to be held, to be taken exactly like that.

The air grew dense and charged, tight, driven, wholly consumed, as he lost himself to it… to the sensation, to the pull, to the dark, relentless thing we had built between us.

And I watched him. Heavens, I watched him. The way control left him. The way he gave in to it. The way it overtook him. The unhallowed roar that filled the small confines of my room, echoing as he was torn loose. The release hit him all at once, the hot white liquid spilling from him with volcanic force, pressure built too long beneath the surface, now unleashed, coating my breasts, my sternum, my neck, my lips in his wanton offering.

And then, we were just… grinning at each other. Panting, breathless, ruined. Like we couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Weary and spent, he collapsed in a heap beside me.

We lay there for a while, talking in easy murmurs, catching our breath as our heartbeats softened into a steadier staccato. Nothing but quiet conversation and the distant pulse of the radio threading through the room.

I lay on my stomach beside him, tracing idle patterns through the curls on his chest, my fingers slow, absentminded, savoring the warmth of him. My gaze lolled on his skin, on the faint marks I had left behind, the evidence of how hard I had been with him, how little restraint I had shown, and I felt a flicker of chagrin… tempered by a quiet, radiant satisfaction.

I wanted to point them out. But… I was just a little afraid to.

So instead, I lifted my gaze, settling on his face, his eyes, and let myself be pulled back into the conversation, into the ease of it.

After a time, my stomach betrayed me.

A low, unmistakable rumble, more whale song than anything delicate, cut clean through the stillness, regrettably at odds with everything that had just passed between us.

I stilled for half a second, weighing whether he had heard it, because I was starving. And hoping, just a little, that maybe he hadn’t. Because it felt so terribly undecorous.

But… he had.

And he was just as hungry.

With alacrity, we parted, he to one shower, I to another, the quiet efficiency of two people who had just endeavored, quite valiantly, to ravage each other… and were now intent on rebuilding enough strength to face the world again.

The moment the water hit my skin, I felt it, how alive I still was, how every inch of me hummed beneath the surface, and my hands trembled slightly as I reached for the body wash, squeezing it into the sponge with more care than necessary.

On autopilot, I caressed the indulgent dollop over my breasts, and the scent bloomed instantly.

Soft. Floral. Almost unbearably delicate.

Cherry blossoms.

I closed my eyes as it rose with the steam, surrounding me, wrapping around my senses in something so gentle it felt almost absurd in contrast to everything that had come before. And yet I leaned into it, working it slowly over my skin, watching the pale suds gather and glide, carrying that fragile fragrance across every place that still felt marked… still carried the ghost of the Demigod.

I took my time, more than I needed to, more than was practical, because after such a raw, feral clashing of souls, there was something almost reverent in that quiet restoration. My body, moments ago undone, now tended beneath petals and steam… beauty drawn back over ruin, silk over flame.

Moments later, I was out. Droplets of that fairy water still clung, catching the light against my flesh as I moved quickly, gathering myself, pulling myself back together with practiced efficiency. An illusion. But a convincing one.

In the blink of an eye, as though nothing obscene had transpired between us, we were seated at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant.

The transition was almost laughable in its ease. One instant, we were naked and writhing together, and the next, there was the hum of conversation, the comforting clink of glassware, a world that saw nothing but the charm of two people sharing dinner.

We fell into it effortlessly.

Politics. The state of things. The unspoken burdens men carried. The shifting terrain women navigate. His upcoming book. His viral TikTok.

Grounded things.

Serious things.

And I sat there across from him, composed, attentive, quietly in awe of the Demigod’s expansive mind, his effortless command of thought and memory, offering thoughtful responses as conversation volleyed back and forth between us.

And still… threaded through every breath, every movement, every word that left my mouth, the cherry blossoms lingered.

They clung to my skin.

I caught them when I lifted my glass. When I shifted in my seat. When I paused between sentences. They traitorously wove through everything like a playful, unseen hand that refused to let me forget, tugging memory to the surface again and again, layering itself over everything I was trying so very hard to focus on.

I made a valiant attempt. I truly did.

But something in me lingered just beneath the surface, caught between the world in front of me and the one that still clung to my skin. My body remembered in small, devious ways…

And my thoughts slipped. Caught between his voice across the table… and the echo of what had come before. The reason for the cherry blossoms.

Consciously, I kept my composure intact. Kept the masquerade whole.

Because it was a deception, a fragile little glamour. Olympus, I hoped he was buying it. I could not, under any circumstances, come across as some nympho.

And yet there I was, sitting across from him, my gaze betraying me, drawn for half a heartbeat too long to the shape of his mouth… and the cherry blossoms whispered what it had felt like to have my nipple caught between those lush lips.

I forced my gaze upward, to his eyes. It did not help. Because the blossoms remembered that, too. The way those same eyes had darkened as he lowered over me, his mouth devouring me between my thighs.

I pressed my lips together. Crossed my ankles. Steadied myself as I felt heat gather low and insistent, threatening to betray me entirely.

By all the stars, I was a catastrophe wrapped in flimsy composure and still embarrassingly, insatiably wanting.

Beneath the careful cadence of conversation, beneath the practiced calm of my voice, beneath every measured response, that insidious, diaphanous scent refused, utterly refused, to release me.

Refused to let me forget.

What I had done to him.

What he had done to me.

And for the briefest, most treacherous moment, a blink held just a fraction longer than it should have been, I was transported back to my bedroom.

Naked
Pinned
And impaled beneath a Demigod as though I never truly left at all.

Until next time, XO. Elsie