The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

His tone was wicked and triumphant. “What’s this?”

He stroked again and again, provoking more moans from me, and my grip on the bookshelf was ferocious. I remembered all those desires from that night, and they swirled together with my need now. I wasn’t the virgin I’d been back then, a lifetime ago. No one was going to come through the library door and disturb us, and even if they did, they wouldn’t see Royce fooling around with nobody Marist Northcott. They’d find Royce with his wife and partner, who was Marist Hale on the outside and the fearsome Medusa inside.

Only he saw the real me, and I saw the real him, and I loved that about us.

“I want this,” he growled as his fingers massaged and teased. “Give it to me.”

“Yes,” I cried.

And then we deviated from the script. His pants were undone in a rush, my panties yanked halfway down my legs, and he pushed inside me.

“Fuck,” we groaned together.

His hand tangled in my seaweed colored hair and his other was on my hip, holding me steady as he began to thrust. It was rough and raw the way he fucked me, but it wasn’t loveless. In fact, it was so full of love, it overflowed from us.

He gasped his love for me over the hissing fire and swore he’d never get enough. We’d be together until the end of time, a love of mythic proportions, that, despite all odds, had avoided a tragic end.

Ours was the only love story in the myths that I believed had a happy ending.

We were Persephone and Hades.