Page 65 of Marked by the Demigod

She lets him kiss her, her head pounding. "Just how dangerous is your life?" she asks, her voice higher pitched.

The look he gives her is filled with amusement, amusement that's so out of place it's almost insulting. "Aimes, I did an obscure magical ritual binding myself to another living being on an impulse. I thought I was going to die that day." He kisses her, as if that was somehow okay. "And if not that day, I thought the next."

Her stomach sinks, and any trace of the mimosa breakfast vanishes. "Can I help?" She blurts. "Is there anything I can do so you're...not?"

His eyes flicker with surprise. "Just by existing you're helping." He offers. "Don't die."

He kisses her again, this time with the final press of the conversation being over, and works her mouth open with his. A small pillar of heat worms her way into her stomach, outside her control, as he winds his hands through her curls and presses her back onto the bed.

"I'm fine." He all but growls into her neck, as if she is more important to convince than, you know, actually being fine.

With more heat than necessary, she pushes him back, skin prickling, and straddles him once more. "I better not find any more marks on you," she says.

His hands grip her hips, sending a jolt all the way up her spine, sparking out at her brain, heating her cheeks and flushing her neck.

His eyes light up, as if he can read her thoughts, see how much he's affecting her. And he looks younger, more eager than before. "You won't," he says, his lips moving slow, deliberate, and her eyes are drawn to them.

They're perfectly shaped, the sort of lips that girls get jealous when boys have, lips made for pouting and lips made for kissing.

He presses back against her, and she pulls away, breaking the kiss, sudden, and he whines in the back of his throat. It's a soft sound, one he probably doesn't even realize, as if he isn't in the most meticulous control each time she sees him.

And she wants to break that down, break down the control, take it away until he has to relent, has to relax, and has to just be. Without this worry and without this anxiety and without this poise.

He's staring at her, and she stands, stripping off her shirt in what is probably her most graceful undressing in front of a man ever, and he is rapt. His eyes jump, as if they can't figure to focus on her chest, her ass, her skin, her neck, or the small mound of brown curly hair between her legs.

She trails her hands down his arms, fitting her fingers around his wrists. "How about you do what I tell you to this time?"

His eyebrows shoot up, his face briefly shuttering. "Have I ever not?"

It's such a ridiculous statement that they both grin at each other, before she presses his wrists back into the bed, over his head, and the grin is gone, his eyes wide. "Just go with this," she pitches her voice down, and he shivers in response, exactly like she wants him to.

She waits, a brief second as the hushed whir of the air conditioning flows over her and prickles at her overwarm skin, before he nods.

If he wanted to, he could easily break her grip, and the flexed muscles and tendons right beneath his skin shift, as if showing her that she isn't holding him down. Or showing himself, reassuring himself that this isn't something dire, isn't something he needs to escape to disappear from.

She presses against his shoulders, presses him against the bed, releasing his wrists. "Relax," she purrs, and climbs so she's right over his face.

His eyebrows jump, and he grins, cranking his neck forward and kissing her right on her clit. "I assume this?" His voice cracks, right in the middle of the sentence.

She nods, and his hands come up to grip her hips, hard, bringing her down onto his mouth with a force that she shudders, rippling up inside her, tightening her belly and her throat, and...and...

And words leave her and she closes her eyes, throwing back her head. "Oh," she manages, his hands holding her down, stabilizing her, keeping her tethered to the world.

He makes a soft sound deep inside his chest, gripping her ass and squeezing, then licks at her clit for a brief, brief second, before switching back to her pussy.

She overbalances, and catches herself on the bed frame, and he chuckles and she can feel it. Almost as if she is an outside observer, she feels the orgasm off in the distance, before it happens, until it crashes over her and she shudders.

For a small moment she trembles, legs weak, and she pants, before slowly climbing down off of his face. Her hands somehow slick with sweat, she rests her head against his chest. His heartbeat is solid, thumping, and his dick presses through his slacks, but for a moment it's like she can't move.

He breathes out a laugh, a brief sound, before undoing his own fly and shimmying out of his slacks. She pushes herself up, fitting her hands around his wrists, though her arms shake. "I wasn't done," she whispers, her voice like a rasp, and his face goes slack with the realization.

She straddles him, then sinks down onto him, and he moans again, his eyes squeezing shut. "Fuck," he strangles out, then says something that sounds absolutely filthy in a language she doesn't know, but he's just whispering, as if he isn't there, and she thrusts at him again, and again. "Fuck."

* * *

Afterwards,heart pounding and body feeling like it's floating, he nuzzles against her, his arms warm against the overactive air conditioning.

She stares up at the mirror on the ceiling, admiring the slant of his ass. "I don't like being passive." She blurts out.

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