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Their gazes lock like horns. They pant into each other’s faces, her eyes chipping away at his restraint.

The next thing Envy knows, he’s palming her ass and hoisting her against him. Sorrow yips, but he plugs the sound with his mouth, fusing it against her throat.

The wine-and-fig taste of her sends him into a tailspin. He parts his lips over the pulse point and begins to suck.

On a shocked moan, she throws her head back and clings to his shoulders. Her body arcs, her nipples shoving through her vest and scraping his shirt. The effect this has on his cock is profound, hardening him to the point where his shaft might tear through his forsaken trousers.

After all the sex he’s had, Envy hadn’t known it was possible for decadence to feel new. But condemnation, those puckering buds and her disjointed spasms are precious.

Precious and erotic as fuck. And all his.

It’s always been you!

She can’t take that back. He won’t let her.

Envy flexes his tongue between her clavicles, and with each pull of her skin, he yanks another moan out of her. She thinks he’s worthless? She thinks him unimpressive, shallow, ugly? He’ll show her.

When he’s done with this goddess, she’ll eat her words.

In quick succession, he pops the buttons of her vest. Her pale breasts spill out, those nipples perked for his teeth. When he grazes the peaks, she’s an erratic mess of sound, and so is he. His fingers trail down her skirt, vanishing between the threads, then slipping up her thighs to find the soaked cleft of curls.

With a groan, he murmurs, “You’re wetter than my tongue.”

“I…” She licks her lips. “I…I hate you.”

“Are you sure? That’s not what your body’s saying.”

“My b-body is a heathen, and your h-hand is a bastard.”

“But how much fun they might have together.” His angry thumb circles the swollen nub. “Would you like me to stop?”

He will, if she says so. Yet she whines from his touch, her insides coating him even more as he dabs at her. And while her expression is doused in rage, her cheeks drown in pink.

Between them, a greedy, needy coil of tension springs apart. His pelvis clenches as hard as her incisors. Eyes the color of tears narrow on him, insisting,Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—

“Fuck me,” she demands, gripping his collar and jumping on his waist. When her legs strap around his hips, Envy recovers from the jolt and attacks her neck, her tits, her everything with each strong tug of his lips.

Once she’s thoroughly flushed, they scramble to the ground, the raft’s deck wobbling. Indeed, there’s something desperate and disdainful about this. Envy prides himself on sensual awakening, but Sorrow shows no patience for pacing.

Their intent is primal, urgent, hectic. The mood seeks release, not communion. Not even foreplay.

So be it. The agony is stifling and then a relief when Envy frees himself, and Sorrow bends on all fours. In seconds, her skirt flips over her hips, and he’s behind her, balanced on his knees. Her luscious backside spreads as she glowers over her shoulder at him. “Hurry.”

Envy couldn’t agree more. He thrusts, his hips snapping forward.

They both cry out. But as he lunges into her, he can’t decide if this is pleasure or pain.

It’s over swiftly and hardly his proudest moment. They flop onto their backs and gawk at the heavens, their chests pumping. Rumpled and sweaty, they struggle for breath, just as they struggle to look at each other.

Meanwhile, the stars twist overhead, as if scolding the pair of them.

There’s a myth amongst their people. They believe the stars will shine their greatest when a deity asks for the truth.

But a deity will only receive the truth if he or she is ready to hear the answer.

And that immortal will only be ready to hear the answer if he or she is ready to change.

If that’s happened before, no one has ever heard tell of it. However, stranger things have occurred.