Page 20 of Heroines of Olympus

That hope was slow to fade, but after a hundred years and no sign of her spirit being born into another, she had resigned herself to never seeing Andromeda again.

Another four hundred years pass and by then, now, Aphrodite’s shell is practically impenetrable, and she is convinced no one will ever truly make her feel again.

She opens the top drawer of her vanity and pulls out a silver box that is intricately decorated with bronze filigree shaped into brambles and thorns surrounding it like a cage. The long pearl-tipped hair pin is sharp as she pricks the end of her index finger on her left hand. Blood rises to the surface, and she turns her finger over and the blood falls onto the brambles.

In recognition of her life essence, the vines and thorns start to morph and shift until the lid of the box is accessible and the magical lock successfully opens.

Aphrodite reaches inside and pulls out the bronze medallion, running her fingers over the ridges of each zodiac marking. The center is empty, and she gets lost staring into the vacant space.

She snaps the box closed; the vines sliding around it until it is impenetrable once more without Aphrodite’s blood.

A creaking sound from the direction of her bed stills her. Someone is in her room. Her heart stops at the thought of Oedipus being behind her.

Turning around, she lets out an exasperated sigh when she sees Zeus, completely at his leisure, inherbed. Internally, she is shaking. How much did he see? At least it isn’t Oedipus. Zeus is easy.

Aphrodite rolls her eyes to mask the anxiety she is shaking off and gets up, walking over him with every intention of thoroughly distracting him from her secrets.

“What’s that box there?” He asks curiously, but she is already walking over to him, switching her mood to one of demure seduction.

“Nothing important,” she says. “Just some little trinkets that I’ve collected, notes of things I enjoyed.” For effect, she adds, “Sometimes I keep notes from Andromeda with me. I occasionally find myself missing her, even after all this time.” She shrugs her shoulders, content to let that be the end of it.

He follows with, “Why go to such lengths to hide them then?”

The blankets of the bed are soft and decadent as she drops down to sit on the foot of the bed, keeping her distance from him, knowing how to play the cat-and-mouse game that lets him think he is in charge.

Her voice is soft and falsely vulnerable, lashes batting, “I was embarrassed, of course. We can’t have people knowing I can be sentimental.” Her finger trails along the v-neckline of her dress, drawing attention to her breasts in a subtle hint to change up the conversation.

It works, his gaze instantly turning molten.

He’s handsome, even if she can’t stand him. A long time ago, Aphrodite learned that shutting off emotions and focusing on sex is easier, eliminating the pesky need to actually care for someone to enjoy the act. Someone can be the bane of her existence, yet still be able to make her come so hard she sees stars. Lightning magic does not hurt either… or maybe it does, and that is kind of the point.

The moonlight is dimmed in this corner of the room, but it bounces off his muscular chest, her nipples going hard in anticipation of the hours she knows are heading her way. This is hardly the first time she has found him waiting in her bed, but it is the first time she was so preoccupied that she failed to notice it immediately.

She knows exactly what he wants when he waits for her like this. Their activities vary in moods, positions, and number of partners. One of her many talents that comes with her domain is the ability to sense what her partner is looking for, what kind of mood they are in, and cater to that. When he is in her bed lying in wait, he is in a feral mood that needs to dominate and control. An illusion she is happy to grant him, allowing herself to get lost in it as well.

He crooks his finger, and she crawls across the spacious bed on all fours until she is straddling him.

Reaching out, he rips the top of her dress open, exposing her breasts to the chilly air of the room. The sight of Aphrodite’s body reacting to him paints his face in a self-satisfied smirk as he runs a thumb over her right nipple, making her suck in a breath at the sensation.

Lust pools in her center and she needs him inside her, but knows not to do anything until instructed.

His thumb continues to move in circles, making her need blossom. He eyes her mischievously, as if challenging her to break and touch him or herself.

Aphrodite does not give in, her body rigid aside from her gasps of pleasure that are increasing in frequency. It always amazes her how quickly she can reach this state, with so little touch, simply from being restricted in her responses. To her, it makes every touch magnified, and creates a wicked yearning that begs to be penetrated.

Zeus pulls her closer to him, growling, “Good girl.”

In a fluid motion, he is under her skirts, one arm around her waist, holding her close, the other getting closer and closer to its destination.

When he finds her already dripping wet for him, his arrogant grin almost sours the mood but before it can, he thrusts two fingers inside of her, immediately hooking them and finding her g spot.

The moan that escapes her is wild, feral as he hits that sacred place. She rocks her hips and grinds against his hand, yelping when he grips her hair and yanks her head back, while rising onto his knees, sliding his fingers out of her.

“I didn’t say you could move, did I?” He asks, his tone gravelly and laced with desire.

She shakes her head no, a smirk forming, knowing he will dislike that, but also knowing that hewantsto punish her.

The hand that is still fisted in her hair moves her head toward his erection. She opens her lips, pleasure rippling through her as he drives himself into her mouth, her eyes watering as he hits the back of her throat.

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