They showed her everything: the elegant woman, a mother, now trembling like a supplicant, lips swollen and bleeding where she'd bitten them raw, thighs slick to the knee with her own desperation.

They showed me behind her, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging transparent with her sweat, eyes glowing faintly (because they always glow when I'm this deep in the god-space), mouth wet with the taste of her skin.

I had kissed and licked and bitten every inch of her that wasn't breast or cunt until her entire body was one open wound of pleasure. She was shaking so hard the chaise creaked beneath us.

And then the tears changed.

They weren't the sharp, frantic tears of denial anymore. They were slow, heavy, ancient. They carried twenty-five years of silence with them.

I felt it the instant it broke open in her chest, felt it like a seismic shift inside my own ribs. Her thoughts flooded me, raw and unfiltered:

{I can't do this if it's just tonight. I can't survive you walking away again. I've loved you since you were sixteen when you walked into the rooftop party, you saved me, the penthouse too, and when I caught you looking at me in that swimsuit and pretended I didn't notice. I've touched myself to the thought of you for almost a decade.

{I've practiced what I would say if you ever looked at me like this. I've rehearsed giving you everything and then losing you and it still wasn't enough to stop me wanting.}

Her voice cracked the air like a confession booth splitting down the middle.

"Peter…" It was barely sound, more breath than word.

I turned her in my arms, slow, reverent, until we were face to face, her knees over my thighs, my hands cradling her jaw like she was made of blown glass.

She was crying so hard her whole body hitched with it.

"Take me," she whispered. "Please, baby… eat me, fuck me, ruin me, keep me, anything. I need your mouth on my pussy, I need you inside me, I need to feel you come in me so deep I taste it for days. I'm begging you, I'm on my knees inside my own soul, please—"

I pressed my forehead to hers and let her feel the tremor in me, too. Because gods tremble when mortals offer them everything.

I looked straight into her eyes, those storm-blue eyes that had haunted my own dreams since I understood what wanting was, and I told her the truth I'd never said aloud.

"Margaret… if I cross this line tonight, if I put my mouth on you, if I slide inside you and claim what's been screaming my name for years, there is no version of tomorrow where I let you go. You'll never cut me off again. You'll never pretend this didn't happen. You'll never wake up in that big bed alone while I'm down the other side pretending I don't love you. This becomes forever. Tell me you understand that."

Her breath stopped entirely.

A sob tore out of her, huge, ragged, relieved beyond bearing.

"Do you know how long I've waited to hear you say that?" she choked. "Do you have any idea? I've practiced this moment in my head a thousand times, how I'd play it cool, how I'd tease you, how I'd make you chase me so I wouldn't look pathetic. I rehearsed every version of giving in gracefully."

She laughed, wet and broken and radiant.

"I was never going to be graceful, Peter. I was only ever going to be yours."

Then she lunged, arms around my neck so tight I felt her heartbeat slamming against my own, legs wrapping my waist, face buried in my throat as she sobbed into my skin.

"Please," she whispered against my pulse, lips trembling, voice stripped down to something small and young and achingly honest. "Please, Peter… will you let me be your woman? Not your partner's mother, not just her mother when one day you claim her too, not your secret, not your fantasy.

"Your woman. Openly, completely, every day for the rest of my life. Let me love you out loud. Let me belong to you the way I've belonged to you in silence for months waiting for you."

I couldn't speak.

So, I answered the only way a god can when a mortal offers him her soul on a platter of tears.

I pulled her to me buried my face in her hair and let her feel the way my own eyes burned.

"Yes," I rasped against her temple. "Yes, Margaret. You're mine. You've always been mine. And I'm yours. Forever starts right now."

I lowered my mouth to her cunt and the world narrowed to heat, salt, and the wet, pulsing heart of her.

The first thing that hit me was sound: the slick, filthy drag of my tongue through her folds, the wet click of her lips parting, the obscene squelch when I sucked her clit between my lips and pulled.

Every noise ricochet off the mirrors in perfect, pornographic surround-sound, her own cunt screaming back at her from every angle.

Then taste: Thick, tangy nectar, copper-bright at the edges from how long she'd been leaking, sweet like overripe peach left in the sun, edged with the faint, addictive bitterness of pure adrenaline. When I pushed my tongue inside her, the flavor bloomed darker (raw, animal, unmistakably Margaret), and I groaned so hard the vibration tore a ragged scream from her throat.

Texture was unholy.

Her outer lips were swollen silk, slick and burning hot. The inner folds fluttered against my tongue like wet velvet ribbons. Her clit, a hard, slick pearl the size of a ripe berry, throbbed so violently I felt each pulse against the flat of my tongue. When I sealed my lips and sucked, it swelled even larger, pulsing in time with her heart, so sensitive she tried to jerk away and I pinned her harder.

I slid three fingers in without warning. Jesus fuck. She was scalding, walls rippling and gripping like a living fist, slick so thick it coated my knuckles in seconds and dripped in heavy strands from my wrist. The ridged spot inside her was swollen, spongy, and when I curled my fingers and stroked, her entire cunt clamped down so hard my bones creaked.

The wet, rhythmic sounds of my fingers fucking her were louder than her sobs.

Above, her tits.

I dragged my free hand up and seized one heavy breast, fingers sinking deep into soft, fevered flesh. Her nipple was rock-hard, dark rose verging on purple, so engorged it felt hot enough to brand.

I pinched, twisted, tugged until it stretched an inch from her body; she screamed, back arching so violently her spine cracked. I slapped the nipple once, sharp, and watched it bounce, blood rushing back in a crimson flood that made it throb visibly.

Milk-pale skin turned red in the perfect shape of my palm.

I switched to the other breast and did it again, harder, until both nipples stood obscenely swollen, glossy with my spit, aching in the cool air every time she breathed.

Then I ate her like I was starving.

Mouth sealed over her clit, cheeks hollowed, tongue flicking so fast it blurred. I hummed deep in my chest (low, filthy, deliberate) and the vibration detonated inside her. Her thighs locked around my ears, muscles spasming so hard I felt the tremor in my teeth.

I forced them wider, shoulders wedged between, and sucked until her clit dragged against my teeth.

She came with a sound I'll take to my grave: A broken, guttural wail that cracked in the middle, turning into a high, desperate keen as her entire body seized. Her cunt convulsed, walls milking my fingers in violent, rhythmic waves.

Then the flood: a scalding, forceful jet shot straight into my mouth, salty-sweet, thick as cream, splashing my tongue, my chin, running in hot rivulets down my throat and chest.

I swallowed greedily, my mouth chasing every pulse with my tongue, drinking her like communion wine while she shook and sobbed and tried to push me away because the pleasure was too sharp.

I didn't stop.

I softened my mouth, lapped gently through the aftershocks, tracing every fold, every tremor, collecting every drop that painted her thighs pearlescent. The taste of her orgasm lingered, richer now, edged with something darker, something that tasted like surrender and forever.

When I finally pulled back, my lips were swollen, chin dripping, shirt soaked through with her slick and my own sweat. The mirrors showed me exactly what I was: a man drenched in his woman, shining with her release, eyes glowing faint gold with the god still riding close to the surface.

I crawled up her body, slow, deliberate, letting her feel every inch of the mess we'd made together.

When I kissed her, I fed her the taste of herself (deep, filthy, reverent), until she was moaning into my mouth and licking her own slick from my lips like it was the only thing that could save her.

And in the hush that followed, with her trembling in my arms and the mirrors reflecting infinity versions of us finally, finally whole, I pressed my forehead to hers and let her feel the tremor in my own voice.

"You taste like mine," I whispered. "And I'm never going hungry again."

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