It was like he’d been broken open, the shell of darkness cracking to let in the light.
He raised his hands and removed his gloves, setting them aside on the stone windowsill. My heart thudded at the deliberate motion.
In any other circumstance, it wouldn’t have been sexual.
With Hades, who kept himself so tightly leashed, it was everything.
I waited for him to touch me. But he lowered his hands, resting one on the windowsill and letting the other hang loose by his side. He made no move to touch me, but anticipation made my heart race faster.
My gaze flicked between his hands and face—that fallen angel face that so entranced me. I saw the struggle in his eyes, and more than that—fire.
“Touch me.” The words escaped on a rough whisper.
I drew an unsteady breath, fingertips itching.
Touch him?
Because he wouldn’t touch me. Somehow, I knew it. He’d made me do so much, but he wouldn’t make me do this.
Instead, he asked.
He ruled hell with an iron fist, commanded armies of the dead, and stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. Yet for this, he asked.
And I wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it. To trace my hands over the broad planes of him, the curves and dips of muscle that were hidden beneath his clothes. To feel those rough fingertips on my skin.
More than that, it would break him open even more. I saw it in the way his eyes followed me when I was near—curiosity melding into confusion, and then heat.
As if he’d never felt anything like that.
As if he hadn’t known it was possible.
And the thing was—Hades hadn’t.
His hand on the windowsill, so strong and beautifully made, twitched. He swallowed hard, his throat working, and his eyes went dark with lust.
What had so broken him that even this touch was too much?
I raised my hand and hovered my fingertips over the back of his hand. The air tightened around me, and my gaze moved to his, holding fast to the heat in his eyes.
Lowering my hand, I touched him, my fingertips gentle against his skin.
He drew in a harsh breath.
Heat raced up my arm, shivering through me.
It was the consent he’d wanted, and something wild lit within him.
His hand moved swiftly, flipping over and gripping mine. He pulled me toward him—a beast unleashed. As if that one touch were all it took to break the floodgates of ice that kept him contained.
As I swayed toward him, his other hand reached out to grip my hip, making sure I didn’t press the full length of myself against him. As if that much touch—that much feeling—would break him.
From the look in his eyes, it would.
The ice cage he kept around himself was meant to keep out all feeling—pain, pleasure, joy, agony.
Was that my strength?
My out?
Not the pleasure or the sex, but forcing him to feel something? Anything?
I blinked up at him, suddenly wary.
Feelings were too hard. Too difficult. Because if he began to feel something, couldn’t I, too?
Yet wouldn’t it be worth it, if I succeeded?
It was his mouth that convinced me. There was nothing soft about his body. Even his eyes—which revealed the fire inside the cage of ice—revealed nothing soft.
But his mouth did.
And as his lips parted slightly, I couldn’t resist anymore.
I leaned up on my tiptoes, trying to close the distance between our mouths. He was so tall that he’d have to help me, and I desperately wanted him to help me.
“Seraphia.” His rough voice scraped over my nerve endings. “What are you doing?”
“I think you know.” I reached up and gripped the back of his neck, pulling him down to me.
At my touch, a rough groan tore from his throat.
Instead of going for his mouth, I pressed my lips to his neck, running my tongue along the smooth skin that tasted of fire. He stood still, neck corded and hand white-knuckled on the windowsill, trying to restrain himself.
All of that tightly leashed tension was the headiest thing. So much power, right under my hands.
I ran my tongue along the smooth line of his neck as I slipped my fingertips beneath the hem of his shirt, dancing over the hard muscles that strained to meet my touch. His skin was so smooth, cold and hot at the same time.
A shuddery breath escaped him, and I leaned closer. He still gripped my hip, trying to keep me at a distance, but I pressed harder.
“You’ll be the end of me,” he groaned, his hand sliding