Page 53 of Bonds of Hercules
I tried to yank away.
Achilles slammed himself forward, pinning me against the shower wall with his body.
Our chests heaved together.
Eyes locked.
He raised his hands between us. “You’re getting yourself all worked up,” he signed angrily. “It’s not worth it.”
I laughed miserably, choking on disbelief and angst as water sputtered off my lips. “You said you wanted her too.”
“I said,” he signed, “that I cared and viewed her as ours … our mentee.” His fingers moved slower. “I do, but you’re falling apart.You’remy priority. Not her.”
“So, you’re just giving up on us?” I scoffed, shoving against his wide, bronzed chest.
He flexed and leaned into my touch, his skin scorching hot.
“They’re our brothers!” His fingers slashed perilously close to my face. “You’re having nightmares about the Gorgons, you’re barely eating, you’re a mess—you need to stop this … before you get bad again.”
Fiery despair exploded in my gut.
Stifling a sob, I pushed him back with all my might.
He banged against the shower wall, bronze skin heaving as he stared down at me.
Hands fisting, his tattooed cock stood erect against his chiseled abs.
The beast of the House of Ares was back.
He’d never really left. He just liked to pretend that he was someone else, someone nicer, someone with morals.
I clicked my tongue. “You’resopredictable.”
Achilles moved in a blur, pinning me with my back against the wall and my hands above my head, as hot water sprayed over both of us.
Reaching down with one hand, our gazes locked together—faces millimeters apart—he squeezed my aching cock. His touch tethered me to reality. The anguish abated.
I tipped my head back.
He stroked me expertly, hard and fast, then shallow and slow, just the way I liked. Our hearts pounded through our sternums; our chests were pressed flush against each other.
He released me abruptly.
I cried out, needing him close.
Eyes smoldering, he picked up the discarded soap bottle and turned it over. He banged it against his palm, then squeezed, veins standing out along his forearm.
Thick liquid slowly poured into his hand.
His hair was loose, plastered across his wide shoulders, and his muzzle dripped water. It smelled like something was burning.
Achilles arched his eyebrow.
He didn’t have to speak; I knew exactly what he wanted.
Slowly, I turned around and widened my stance.
Wet hands trailed down my spine, his nails pricking lightly against my skin, as he caressed the sensitive skin at the top of my ass.
