Page 83 of Mated to the Monster God
When we fall, we fall as one.
It hits me in waves—pleasure so deep it tears a sob from my throat. He groans, shuddering, and holds me tighter than ever, burying his face in my hair.
And then it’s quiet.
For a beat, the only sound is the rush of water and our mingled breathing.
I laugh.
It bubbles out of me, stupid and breathless and wild. He pulls back, blinking down at me like I’ve gone mad.
“What?” he asks, lips twitching.
“I don’t know,” I giggle, wiping at my cheeks. “I just… I love you so much it’s stupid. Like, look at us. In a moss cave. Post-apocalypse. Making love like it’s the end of time.”
He huffs a laugh and presses his forehead to mine. “I do not find it stupid.”
“Of course not. You’re a literal alien war machine.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Your alien war machine.”
“Damn right.”
We lay there tangled up, naked and damp and grinning like idiots, hearts pounding in sync.
And for once, nothing else exists.
Just love.
Just this.
The waterfall hushes the world.
Mist curls around us like ghost breath, catching fire in the newborn light. The sky bleeds pink and orange, the sun clawing its way up through the horizon like it’s just as reluctant to leave this place as we are.
We’re curled together beneath the falls, my back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist like vines. His chin rests in the crook of my neck, breath warm, slow. I can feel his heartbeat thudding against my spine—steady, strong, impossiblyreal.
The moss beneath us is damp and warm from our bodies. Our clothes are scattered like leaves around the edge of the pool. The water trickles in little rivulets over our legs, sparkling in the light like we’re carved from something holy.
I don’t want to move. I don’t even want toblink.I want to bottle this moment, trap it in amber, and wear it around my neck until I die.
My fingers trace idle patterns on his forearm—lines, loops, the occasional heart.
He doesn’t speak.
“I keep thinking,” I murmur, voice thick from sleep and satisfaction, “we could’ve left.”
His fingers tighten just a little on my hip, not enough to hurt—just enough to feel.
“We could’ve gone,” I say. “Hopped a supply ship, vanished into the stars. Started fresh somewhere not dripping in old ghosts.”
Sagax exhales, slow and deliberate. “We could have.”
I turn my head, just enough to see his profile. His eyes are open, watching the mist drift across the cave’s ceiling like it holds secrets.
“But?” I prompt.
He smiles, slow and devastating. “I saw the stars the moment I met you.”
