She is. That’s enough. I stroke her over her panties, wanting her to make that sound again, to tease her until she’s shaking and whimpering and begging me for more. But when you are only getting one taste of paradise, it’s impossible to maintain control.
She’s so close and I want her too much.
I delve my fingers beneath the lace and press two into her wet heat. “Gods,” I murmur against her skin. “You feel good.”
“You…too.” She clutches my shoulders, her nails pricking my skin. She rolls her hips even as I explore her, searching for the spot that will make her melt for me.
I desperately want Calypso to melt for me.
My need rises up with a strength that overwhelms me. I don’t intend to move, but my body takes over. I stand, lifting her as I do, and turn to set her on the bed. She blinks those big eyes at me, but eagerly lifts her hips without a word so I can tug her lace panties down her legs.
I force myself not to rush, to drink in the sight of her, to pause long enough to get out of my tactical pants. I run my hands up her thick thighs, pausing over the tiny stripes of stretch marks that I hadn’t noticed before. Some might call them imperfections, but they just make her that much more real to me. A goddess, yes, but a woman made of flesh and blood.
A woman I wish was mine.
CHAPTER 7
CALYPSO
I’ve had many partners over the years. Men and women and non-binary, rich and powerful and ruthless enough that I never forgot my place. Or, rather, my perceived value. Love is all well and good, but love doesn’t pay the bills and love doesn’t offer the kind of safety that comes with money. My relationships were always transactional, even if most of my partners pretended otherwise.
I have no shame about that. Certainly no regrets.
But the result is that, until this moment, I’ve never had anyone look at me the way Medusa does. As if she can barely believe I’ve allowed her hands on my body. As if she’s about to pinch herself because this can’t possibly be real.
It makes my chest feel funny. I am a realist, but I can’t identify the emotion that surges within me in response to the way she runs her hands up my thighs in a wondering kind of way. “Why are you looking at me like that?” It’s a question I never would have voiced with past partners. I am confident and well aware of my assets; both things that drew the kind of people I allowed into my bed. But this is different.
Medusa is different.
“Why are you asking me that?” She shakes her head slowly, her gaze settling on my pussy. “How can you ask me that when you know who you are and who I am? It’s like one of the gods descended from wherever the fuck they reside and spread her legs for me. You’re lucky I haven’t passed out from the shock.”
I love how frankly she speaks. Maybe others would consider it awkward, but she’s honest in way that feels revolutionary. “Have you considered that the feeling is entirely mutual?”
She blinks at me for a long moment before she bursts out laughing. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not.” She motions between us. “Look at you. Look at me. I’ve seen the guy you were sleeping with, and I know who you were rumored to be with before him.” She holds up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m not looking for sweet lies or bullshit. I know who I am.”
“Do you?” I reach out and cup her jaw. She’s right. She’s not beautiful or suave or any of the other things my past lovers have been. But how can she look in the mirror and not see her value? It’s written there in the stubborn line of her chin, in the obvious way she hones her body into a weapon, her muscles clearly defined beneath her gorgeous tattoos. For fuck’s sake, the woman has a six-pack, which is not a common occurrence.
What attracts me to her goes beyond that, though. “Surely you’re not foolish to think that looks matter more than the core beneath? You’re honest.”
“Awkward.”
“Honestly awkward, then.” I shrug. “Awkward isn’t a bad thing, Medusa.” I don’t have to ask who made her feel that she was lesser. Even as carefully polished and poised as I am, I’ve still spent most of my life being very aware of what little value I offer in the eyes of those who hold the purse strings of Olympus.
I can see her formulating more arguments, and it makes something twist deep inside me that this woman has been so cut down that she won’t believe a simple compliment. That she sees her valuing my life as something to be hidden and ashamed of, because she’s supposedly failing Athena.