010: She hasn't earned it

It makes perfect sense that he'd spin it that way to his family, to his friends, to anyone who'd listen. It justified his distance, his coldness, and now, his open-door policy with Kira.

It wasn't about me holding him back; it was about him making sure everyone knew he was a martyr.

And me? I was just the greedy wife.

This conversation needs to end. I need air. I need space. Most of all, I need to stop looking at him, stop feeling the unsettling heat radiating from his almost naked body.

"So, that's it?" I ask, trying to mask the pain in my voice. "That's your grand explanation? You just... assumed? And decided to, what, help me with my 'excitement'?"

"Something like that. You looked like you needed saving, Peyton. And a little fun never hurt anyone."

His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, lingering. "Especially when you're already in a free-for-all marriage."

The audacity. My cheeks burn, but it's no longer just humiliation. It's a furious heat that thrums through my veins. He thinks he has me figured out, that he can just walk in and then offer himself up as a solution.

I take a step back, needing to break the too-close proximity. My hand brushes the wall. "I don't need saving from anything, especially not from you."

He takes a step forward, boxing me in against the counter. He's impossibly close. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs.

"The way I remember it, you didn't exactly fight me off that night. You were... receptive," he says, and I snap.

"That was a mistake! A drunken, stupid mistake!"

I push against his wet chest, though he doesn't budge. He catches my wrists and pulls my hands to either side of my head, pinning me against the wall, his body pressing on me.

"Was it?" he asks. "Because it felt pretty real to me."

My lungs tighten, suddenly starved for air.

My mind screams for me to push him away, to yell, to do anything but stand here, frozen and trembling.

But my body is a traitor.

His eyes drop to my lips again, his thumb brushing slowly over my wrist. The subtle movement is electric.

"I need to leave," I whisper.

"No, you don't," he counters. And then his head descends, slowly, deliberately.

Until he kisses me.

It's not a tender kiss, not romantic. It's something darker that I can't explain.

I should fight him. I should. But then his tongue traces my bottom lip, too teasing, too enticing, and the fragile walls I've built around myself begin to crumble.

My hands, still held captive, clench. And then, against all reason, I lean into him, my lips parting just enough to invite him in.

The kiss deepens, becoming raw and claiming. It's messy, hungry.

I kiss him back, allowing the passion to wash over me, even if it's just for ten seconds—I'll make sure to count.

Ten seconds pass, and I'm still counting.

I'm breathless. But he doesn't stop kissing me. His other hand roams freely on my waist. It goes down to my thigh, deeper, and then it goes up again to my ass.

He squeezes it, eliciting a moan from me. It sounds like another voice that ignites something in him. I hate myself for it, but I just can't stop.

I hate to admit it, but maybe he's right. I crave the excitement; I crave to be touched—something Odin deprived me of.

His kiss grows wilder, desperate.

He lifts me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and then I feel it—the friction, the heat that flashes from down there.

It's like a spark on a fuse. I yank my hands from his grip and wrap them around his neck, pulling him closer.

And that's a turn-on for him as he lifts me higher, suspending my hips right on his tummy.

My hands are on his chest now. He's dry now, but the heat, the warmth remains. I trace every muscle, arching my back as he presses his weight on me.

The tingling sensation starts to spread; my movements become faster, desperate until...

He suddenly breaks out of the kiss, eyes locking on me. He smiles.

"See? I told you... you want this."

"Fuck you," I snap and push him. He doesn't budge. Before I can react again, he buries his face in my chest.

My tit throbs.

His hair, still wet, tickles my skin, and the scent of chlorine and him—unmistakably him—fills my lungs, stealing the last shred of my resistance.

My fingers, now on his back, clench into fists, yanking at the soft fabric of his underwear.

I could push him away; I know I could. But the thought is a faint whisper against the roar in my ears, the furious pounding of my blood.

He's right. I do want this. And in this small, hidden bathroom, with the gushing water of the faucet a convenient cover for my gasps, I let myself want it. For now.

I trace the curve of his waist down to his groin, and I slip the fabric down, feeling his hardness in my palm.

He groans and glances at me. He likes it.

Putting me down, he grabs the back of my neck, pulling my head down to his groin. I catch his eyes—dark and unyielding, demanding my compliance.

"That's quite a transformation. From fire to angel in two seconds flat. I like it," he says and shoves his dick into my mouth.

I try not to gag at the sudden thrust. He's too huge to contain; my mouth just his cock fills it completely.

I can't believe I'm doing this, but I can't ignore how my core is wet and needy. Sucking on him seems like the worst turn-on I've ever had.

He grips it tight. He squirms, cursing under his breath as his hand tangles in my hair, bringing me close.

My eyes are shut, my tongue exploring every inch that fits into my mouth.

He squirms harder, faster, pushing himself into my mouth till his cock hits my throat.

"Fuck, Peyton, you're good at this," he groans, his hips bucking with renewed urgency. "Odin's a bad liar. He said you're bad in bed."

That hit me. Odin said that too, huh?

Can't he at least not tell me this while we're at it? For Christ's sake, what is wrong with him?

I sink my teeth into his cock. It's not too hard but firm enough to make him groan loudly.

I drag on his tip till I'm out of his length. I stare right at him.

I'm about to say something feisty when he yanks me up, spins me to face the mirror, and drags my shorts down.

I gasp—my ass is on full display. He tugs at my panties too and enters me in one fluid motion.

A moan rips out of me... My vision blurs, my thighs clench. My grip on the counter feels like jelly as he starts pounding into me.

Now he's close, his chest practically glued to my back as he thrusts deeper, like he's trying to reach the end of me.

He squeezes my nipples, sending jolts like electric shooting through me. My eyes roll to the back of my head; my moans are louder now, and I'm thankful the tap is still on, drowning out it all.

He's faster now, hitting my G-spot. I'm melting again, nearing orgasm, desperate for release... but that's when the bastard thinks it's time to play tease.

He pulls away and chuckles in my ears; his breath kisses my skin.

"Not yet. You haven't earned it."

Just as I'm about to shoot a witty retort, I hear it—a voice, a laugh.

"Yeah, I agree. She hasn't earned it."

My heart skips a beat. I turn, and there is Raphael, leaning against the door, arms crossed, face unreadable.