Page 65 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Hephaestus was still, staring down at her.
Tears pricked in her eyes. “I thought…” she whispered. “I thought you denied me.”
A muscle worked in Hephaestus’s jaw. Then he bent forward, touching his brow to hers. “How could I deny you?”
The words fell like thunder—hoarse, deep, devastating.
It was a balm, soothing the sting of doubt. The tightness in her chest loosened, her body softening into his. Longing unfurled through her, wild and sweet, smoothing the sharp edges of heartache.
He didn’t speak again—there was no need. Instead, he lifted her into his arms with ease. Everything beyond him dissolved.
Time bent around them, giving way to the rightness of the moment as he lowered her to the bed. His eyes held hers, fierce amber calling to the warmth gathering around her heart.
Then he followed, his body pressing to hers with command, his touch leaving no room for further doubt. Every movement was a vow, every touch speaking deeper than words.
***
When Aglaia stirred, the first thing she felt was him.
Hephaestus lay sprawled beneath her, vast and unabashed in his nakedness, a great stretch of bronzed muscle and heat. The great bed seemed to yield to him, his body claiming the space effortlessly—and her with it.
She was trapped against the solid breadth of his chest, every curve molded to hard muscle. Her belly was flush against the taut ridges of his abdomen, her bare thigh thrown across his hip. His heart pounded steadily beneath her cheek.
Muscular arms were slung possessively around her. The scent of his skin surrounded her: fire and leather, pine, and the salt-dark musk of him. It sank into her blood, her heart swelling.
She pressed closer, her lips softly brushing the skin just over his heart.
A sound answered—low and masculine, rumbling through his chest into hers. His fingers slid into her hair, his palm warm at the back of her head, holding her gently.
When she tilted her face up, he was already watching her. Eyes dark and half-lidded, burning in a way that would have stripped her bare, had she not already been naked.
“You study me.” His voice was gruff, amusement softening the edges.
Aglaia ducked her head, hiding her face against his chest. His warmthdid nothing to calm the burning inside her. “I think you are beautiful,” she whispered into his skin.
A quiet snort escaped him, his fingers gently combing her hair. “No one has ever used that word for me. Apollo, perhaps. Or Dionysus,” he mused. “But not me.”
Then he shifted.
With fluid strength, he gripped her waist and rolled them, reversing their positions. She found herself beneath him, strong hands pinning her into the bed’s waiting cradle with impossible gentleness.
She burned with awareness. Heat licked at every place their bare skin met—the rough-hewn muscles beneath her hands, the firm press of his arousal against her thigh. The air coiled tighter.
Amber eyes raked over her, his desire laid bare. “Though I failed to say it earlier,” he said, his voice dragging against her overheated skin, “I find you beautiful as well.”
Her fingers slid into his hair, knotting there, drawing him closer. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in—and whispered, “I was afraid.”
Hephaestus stilled, then drew back, a crease forming between his brows as he studied her.
Her chest tightened. “That you might regret—”
She never finished.
A flicker of something dark and primal broke across his features. Then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a brand, a claim. A promise sealed with possession. His arms banded around her as if he could meld them body to body, soul to soul. The space between them dissolved into skin and heat.
Her hands traced the muscular ridges of his back, savoring the raw strength that corded there. The scrape of callouses only made her press closer, hold him tighter. Wanting all of it. All of him.
