Instead, the truth springs free. “I never wanted to kill you.”
She uses that tiny touch on my chin to bend me in her direction, bringing our faces even. “I know.” Then she kisses me.
It’s not like last time. My panic about the situation is mostly negated. I’ve admitted to myself—to her—that I don’t want to hurt her. Relief makes me a little weak, or maybe it’s the taste of her on my tongue. Our kiss has my jaw pressing harder to her fingers, but she doesn’t give at all. The tiny show of strength thrills me.
She thrills me.
Calypso turns us and backs me toward the bed, never once breaking the kiss. It’s only when the backs of my legs hit the mattress that she stops long enough to push me to sit down. She looks down at me, lips plumped from our kiss, her eyes already hazy with anticipated pleasure. “I really, really would like to strip you down and spend the rest of the night enjoying each other. You can get back to arguing with me in the morning if you insist.”
I lick my lips, tasting her there. Her words are more statement than question, but I find myself nodding. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to the side. I watched her get dressed earlier. I know she’s got a fancy lace bra beneath her sweater and a matching pair of panties under her jeans. Every part of her is perfectly curated, and while I can deeply appreciate that, I want to see her when she’s messy and losing control.
I, on the other hand, am wearing a sports bra and boring briefs. Or at least it feels boring until Calypso drinks in the sight of me. She steps between my legs and runs appreciative hands over my arms. “You have tattoos.”
Truthfully, sometimes I forget they’re there. I follow the path of her fingers as she traces the curving lines of the snakes writhing down to the handful of heads at my wrist, mouths opened and fangs glistening with poison. They twine with my scars on my arms, not quite covering them up but not really accenting them either. “A reminder.”
“Of what you’re capable of.” She grabs my hand and brings my arm up to kiss each of the snake heads around my wrist. “Oh, Medusa, you are so delightfully dramatic. I love it.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
She smiles. “Yes, you really are.” Calypso steps back long enough to strip down to her bra and panties before resuming her place standing between my thighs. She clasps my wrists and brings my hands to her body. “Touch me. You won’t hurt me.”
“I could.” I don’t know why I’m arguing. I want to touch her, and I certainly don’t want to hurt her. She, of all the women I’ve been intimate with, understands what I’m capable of. By all rights, she should be running from the room screaming, or injecting me with something more permanent than whatever was in that needle back in her high-rise apartment.
“But you won’t.”
I skim my hands down to catch her hips and pull her closer. Her breasts are full and heavy and I desperately want them out of that bra, art piece that it is. I’m not the most patient lover, but I try now, leaning forward and tracing the scalloped edge of the lace with my mouth.
Slow. You can do slow.
I reach up and ease the straps off her shoulders, easing them down and bringing the lace with them, until her breasts are bared and her arms are half trapped at her sides. I lean back to take her in. I lick my lips. “I don’t know where to start. You’re like a…something really cool and filled with all my favorite things and I want to play kid in the candy store with your body.”
“Oh. Wow. I—” Calypso gives a breathless little laugh. “You have a way with words, Medusa.”
I search her face for the mocking light I’m so familiar with. I’m not good with words, not polished or suave or anything that’s required of public-facing officials or the people who use their charm to navigate treacherous circles.
But she’s not mocking me. There’s amusement in the curve of her lips, but her eyes are searing hot. Calypso digs her fingers into my short hair and guides me back to her breasts. “I like it. A lot.”
Her breasts deserve worship, and I’m only too happy to kneel at the altar of her body. I drag my mouth over her curves, appreciating every inch before moving to her nipples. She tugs and pulls at my hair as I play with her, finally giving a delicious little whimpering sound as her legs go out.
I’m there to catch her, grabbing her behind the knees and lifting her up to straddle me. I arch up to catch her mouth even as I skate my hand up her thigh to cup her pussy over her panties. The lace is drenched. It seems to defy belief that she’s wet for me. I don’t deserve this, but I’m just selfish enough not to stop and demand how she could be even remotely into me as I am into her.