Page 92

Because it is. In all the best ways, it’s the first time.

She rests her palms on his shoulders. “I’m going to make you mine.”

He leans in, licking the seam of her mouth. “You already have.”

The declaration comes out like a secret, one much older than she’d known or could have imagined.

Sorrow’s heart detonates like a star.

Nevertheless, she has few seconds to react, because Envy braces Sorrow’s backside and lowers her onto him. The descent is slow, disastrous in pace. Her mouth falls open along with his, the slide of his prick stretching her, so that she clamps around him.

The sensation of him gliding into her dampness robs her of breath. The tip crests and hits a limit. A prolonged groan of satisfaction—of aggravation—spills from them. The combined echo dashes through the grotto and gets snatched by the waterfalls.

Their foreheads meet. Envy’s face twitches like he’s holding back, then his features dissolve into rapture as Sorrow gyrates into him. Summoning the utmost restraint, she rocks her hips with a leisurely cadence that she doesn’t quite feel.

She wants this fast and hard, but they’ve done fast and hard before. With that in mind, she juts over his shaft with furious concentration, turned on by the sight of Envy helpless, useless as his brows slam together.

The vision spurs her on. She rolls, urging him backward, until his spine dissolves onto the moss, and she’s got him, she’s got all of him. This archer, who sprawls before her, muscles contorting and spanning her view.

She angles forward, pins his arms to the ground, and hovers over him. Just like that, she patiently rides this god into the constellations. Her thighs clench around him, and her inner walls cinch around him, and her body cages around him.

“Sorrow,” he keens.

“Envy,” she implores.

As their bodies writhe, they watch each other. Truly, she could almost care less whether she comes, so long as he does.

However, it warrants repeating: She couldalmostcare less.

She shifts her tempo, achieving a subtle bounce, tiny shards of pleasure flooding her bloodstream. Her waist flicks at Envy’s groin, lashes at his length.

When he grows more rigid, sparks bolt up her shins. Her knees dig into the ground on either side of him. With her limbs splayed, the skirt bunches into a mess.

Flattening one forearm along the ground, Envy balances on his elbow, slanting halfway up while his free hand claims her hip. His grip encourages her. She bucks above him, and he’s caught between enjoying it and searching her face.

He almost looks proud of her.

He definitely looks hot and bothered.

That’s why he shoots upright and crooks his hands over the backs of her shoulders, fixing her into position.

Sorrow startles. “What—”

He purrs, “Do you like having me inside you?”

“I’ve always liked that. But I like it more now.”

“Then don’t move,” he commands. “Not one inch.”

Then he begins to thrust upward.

Though they haven’t sped up yet, the repetitive snap of his body renders Sorrow senseless. Her joints loosen, yielding to the impact. Actually, becoming pliable magnifies every slant of his pelvis, so that she feels it acutely.

Now she lets herself be ridden. Meanwhile, Sorrow holds onto him, though she isn’t certain where her fingers have crash landed. In his mane? Evidently, because her digits get lost in strands of hair.

Stars almighty. His lips wreathe into a naughty I’m-fucking-someone-special grin as he lunges into Sorrow with such gentle ferocity that a wail builds in her mouth.

“There you go,” he implores. “Take it. Take it from me.”