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But she can’t take it from him, can’t take any more of this shit, can’t take it without exploding. She claws at his scalp, needing to climax, but he refuses to let up. Wild sobs pour from her, meshing with his groans.

Enough is enough. No matter how affectionate, this is a joint venture.

Matching his movements, Sorrow resumes her own antics, synchronizing with Envy’s thrusts. On and on and—oh, rightthere.

In the midst of it, their mouths latch into a clumsy, dire kiss. The instant her tongue strikes his, Envy’s torso quakes. Heaving forward, he reels Sorrow backward, this time fastening her to the moss.

As he does, a fresh desire kicks in. He pulls out of her briefly, and they jostle with the remainder of their clothes, wanting to see one another bare.

Envy drags her skirt down her legs, then crawls over her, his hips splitting her thighs wide. Sorrow uses her heels to lug down his trousers, and he chucks them aside with his feet. After hitching one of her legs over his waist, Envy balls her hand with his and extends their arms above her head. His other palm covers her cheek, and her free hand molds over his taut bottom.

“Not done,” he swears, then thrusts again, filling her to the brim.

“Oh,” Sorrow cries brokenly, arching off the ground. “Oh, Fates.”

“That’s right. Let me in. Open for me.”

“I will. Just don’t stop.”

Envy nods and renews his efforts. His length whips into her, the snap of his waist slinging her along the ground.

The glide of his skin on hers is a delicious relief. His abs rub her navel, and her breasts skate across his pecs, and their groins twist. The motes swirl as Sorrow and Envy cling, naked, and damp, and incomprehensible.

Their moans harden. Their tempo quickens.

Envy’s depth turns shallow, probing a spot that wrings a shout from Sorrow. Her hips slant with his, both of them laboring to reach that zenith, the abrasion inciting a riptide of sensation. He knows what she likes, and he learns more of what she likes, and he steals it from her, and then he gives it to her.

Their fingers squeeze above them, then fall apart. He grabs her face, and she grabs his backside.

She could keep him here forever, but it’s impossible to keep him here forever, because she’s not going to last forever. This is too good. All of it is too good, but still, it’s scarcely over.

Envy’s barreling inside, and she molds around him. His impending orgasm thrills her, an intoxication buzzing through her veins.

Deities can go at it for hours. A human would have fainted by now.

Yet Sorrow’s not far off. When Envy’s pelvis grazes that small nub at her center, it sends a burst of pleasure from her toes to her skull. The result is inebriating, like she’s drunk on lust.

Is this sex? Is this lovemaking?

Neither applies, because what they’re doing to each other has no definition. None that she can fathom. Likely none that would do it justice, blending this much pleasure and pain—an emotional fusion that assures her they won’t be the same when it’s over.

When it’s over much later.

Sorrow is utterly fine with this. In fact, she’s fairly certain the effects they have on each other are not merely magnetic, but persevering. This relentless mating shows no end in sight, which is bliss and its own form of punishment.

Beads of water splatter the rocks. The half-light illuminates patches of flesh.

He mumbles against her lips, but she can’t hear the words, because her mind has been reduced to the place where they’re joined. All senses—sight, sound, taste, touch, smell—tapers to the merciless slot where she meets his thrusts.

Yet again, their foreheads press. His dilated pupils consume her, and she can’t seem to satiate herself with the image of him. This archer whom she’s hated, and befriended, and slept with. This archer who pitches deeply into her, his face tensing on the cusp of release, holding out as if to say,You, first.

The God of Envy, who pleasures everyone and pines for no one. That very god, pleasuring her and pining for her.

Her toes curl. Her knuckles curl.

Sorrow cries out, the torrent erratic and directionless. Envy grinds out his own climax, the influx washing through the grotto.

The noises stack high. They jolt, suspended for a movement.