Page 103 of We Are the Match
“More,” I demand, arching my hips against her fingers.
Her other hand slides up from my chest and wraps around my throat, just lightly. “The same rules as before, Princess,” Paris says, a wicked glint in her eyes. “You say ‘red’ if it’s too much. ‘Green’ if you’re good.”
I moan, arch my neck against her hand, desperate for more pressure. “Green,” I say. “More.”
Her grip tightens just slightly, just enough for the pressure on my throat to make the rest of the world drop away.
There are no wars and no gods. There is no world waiting for me outside this bed. There is just this woman holding me. Paris.MyParis.
“Paris,” I say.
She grunts, her whole body reacting to the sound of her name in my mouth.
“Beg,” she says, leaning in and pressing a searing kiss against my lips. The hand around my throat loosens, slips down to cup one of my breasts.
“Please, Paris.” Gone is every ounce of trained self-control. Gone is any inhibition. “Please, Paris, fuck me with your fingers.Please.”
She laughs. The sound of it is cruel and sacred.
“You want this?” she asks.
And then her hands, strong and deft, are spreading me. I am soaked with pleasure, and Paris slides two fingers inside me with ease.
At the sudden fullness, my body contracts with pleasure.
Paris moans, the sound half pleasure, half pain, and I realize I am clenching hard enough to hurt her, crush those perfect fingers a little, but the pain seems to make Paris only wilder.
A third finger, and then she is fucking me hard, so hard it hurts in every way I have always wanted it to.
“Take that hand,” Paris orders, pinning one of my hips with her injured hand, keeping me spread for her on this bed as if pain is not a consideration—her pain or mine. “And touch me, Princess.”
I obey eagerly, letting her guide my hand to her clit. I stroke the outside of her clit reverently. Hesitantly, I draw my hand back and lick my finger, drawing a gasp of pleasure from Paris.
“Good girl,” Paris growls.
Good girl.
My vision goes white.
She pushes her hips forward, thrusting her fingers deeper inside me as she does, and my head falls back on the pillow, barely holding myself together.
“Enough,” Paris says. There is a note of sternness in her voice that only adds to the slickness between my legs. “Let go, Helen of the gods. You aremine.”
And then I do, we both do. Paris is coming apart on top of me and inside me, I’m clenched around her fingers, and she’s thrusting against mine, my body trembling on and on, uncontrollable waves of pleasure that do not stop, do not falter until we are both sated, exhausted, tangled up in one another.
Hours later, when we are lying together beneath a mess of sheets, Paris props herself up on her elbow and looks down at me. “Helen,” she says.
I blush, the sound of my name in her mouth an unholy thing after—all this.
She grins, but her expression sobers a moment later. “Helen,” she says. “After—after tonight.”
I stare up at her, waiting. “Who will we be when all this is done?” I ask her.
“I don’t know.” She is here with me, my head pillowed on her lean, muscular shoulder, my hair strewn across her chest, half-covering her breasts. “I—I don’t know what Eris deserved. Not really. She was no worse than the rest of us. No worse than me. Did she—did she really have any choice in the things she did?”
It aches in my chest. “Did any of you?” I ask.
Her eyes cut to mine, dark with the weight of it all. “It feels like a choice,” she says finally. “When I crawled over my dying sisters to reach safety. When I saved myself first. I tried, after. To go back for them. To carry them out. The only one I carried from the flames was Kore, and even then ... even then I was too late.”
