Page 89 of Torn

“Nearly there,” he growls in promise.

But they’re not nearly there, because it goes on and on. He takes her devotedly, endlessly. He’s inside her, and inside her, and inside her.

She can’t stand it. Yet she does stand it.

At last, yet too soon, his face lifts. As they stare at each other, Merry feels him tensing, and she feels herself clenching, both of them about to spring apart.

“Now,” he urges, his voice breaking into a groan.

“Now,” she agrees, her voice surging into a cry.

She clings to him, and he wraps himself in her, and they squeeze while he jams in. And the sky explodes, radiant light bolting through her veins, turning her into a shooting star. They seize up, then convulse, shouting into infinity.

Merry’s gaze flies to the clouds. That’s when she realizes.

The storm has ended.

24

Anger

Just like that, one moment has ended, and another begins. One feeling has passed, and another sprouts. One desire has unleashed like a riptide, and another wraps around him as beautifully as her limbs.

The clouds have calmed down. No more fractures of lightning or whisks of wind. No gush of rain.

The squall had ceased at some point, either when he’d groaned, or she’d arched, or when they’d both hollered. Fates, he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared.

A violence of precipitation, the sort of anger that he can’t regulate. Yet he can’t recall a second in which he’d been scared, not one fleeting second. The only thing he’d feared when arriving had been her. Her words, her expression, her judgment. The very loss of her heart, torn because of him.

The shower hadn’t even been secondary. It had been reduced to particles, vague and unimportant. He would have braved a blizzard to see her, to be near her and beg forgiveness. And when she hadn’t rejected him, the city had vanished, all except for her light.

The final droplet slides from his mouth and lands someplace he can’t see, doesn’t need to see, because all he wants to see is her face. The sparklers of her eyes and how they shine on him, illuminated by what they’ve just done.

All he wants to see is the effect it’s had on her.

He stands in between her legs, unsure how he’s managed to stay upright while inside her. They’re holding each other, arms and legs slung like ropes, boneless and trembling and dripping. In the past, in the aftermath of mating with other goddesses, he’s only ever wanted to retreat, to be alone. This is the first time when he remains exactly where he is, not wishing to leave, his body still lodged within that sweet passage.

His lungs labor, the way his pelvis had labored only minutes ago, his inhalations rushing to catch up. Pink spools of hair stick to Merry’s neck, where his lips rest against a rapid pulse point. He’s bare while her dress, which is more like an oversized T-shirt, is drenched to a film and plastered against her.

Merry’s fingers thread through his layers, massaging the roots in such an adoring way that his eyelids flutter. There are endless firsts about this wet and wonderful connection. This is the first time that it means something to him—and to his partner.

Actually, not his partner. Not a mere bed companion.

Anger raises his forehead from the brackets of her collarbones, where he’s been resting, recovering from the surge. Summoning the courage to face her, he suffers a brief splash of dread.

Does she regret it?

Or did she like it? Did he please her?

Can he please, please, please do it again?

His gaze climbs to hers. A vision of pink irises, happily worn out. Eyes that regret nothing yet worry the feeling isn’t mutual.

This is one myth he can dispel immediately. Hope glitters across her face an instant before he balances her damp cheeks in his palms. Indeed, not a partner, nor a bed companion. Not merely those things.

Soul mate?

Perhaps something a little less perfect. Perhaps something a bit more real. Perhapsthis.

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