Page 55 of Elysium

“I’ve waited twenty years for you,” he murmured, voice thick with reverence. “And now you sit before me like a goddess demanding tribute.” His hands clenched. “Tell me, wife, what must I offer to earn my place at your feet?”

Penelope exhaled slowly, savoring his words. He was hers.

Finally.

Fully.

She cupped his jaw, tilting his face up to hers, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “You’ve already given me everything,” she whispered. “But I want you to feel it, husband. To know that you belong to me as much as I belong to you.”

Odysseus swallowed hard, his entire body thrumming, about to snap.

“So,” she continued, voice silk and steel, “lie back.”

His eyes snapped to hers, dark with something primal. He hesitated for only a moment before obeying, lowering himself backwards onto the bed, his breathing ragged.

Penelope let the silence stretch, drinking him in, letting him feel every second of this moment. Then, finally, she moved, hovering over him, hands bracketing either side of his face as she looked down at him. “Good,” she whispered, her lips curving. “Now, you beg.”

His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling with the weight of restraint. But he obeyed. He was on his back before her now, hands limp at his sides, waiting.

“Tell me,” she murmured, shifting her weight down onto one elbow. “Tell me how much you want me.”

His mouth parted on a sharp inhale, his whole body shuddering beneath the weight of her words.

“More than breath,” he rasped, eyes dark, wide. “More than my own life.”

Penelope felt her own breath hitch, but she would not let him see how his words struck her. Not yet. Instead, she let her nails scrape lightly down his neck, watching the knot in his throat bob as he swallowed.

“More than the sea?” she teased, her voice a low hum.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “More .”

She tilted her head, letting her fingers trail lower, just ghosting over his collarbone. “More than your kingdom?”

His eyes burned into hers, hands twitching at his sides. “I have no kingdom without you.”

The words sank deep into her chest, warmth curling low in her belly. This was not the man who had fought for Troy or outwitted monsters.

This was not Odysseus, King of Ithaca.

This was not Odysseus, hero of the Trojan War.

Not Odysseus, tricker of gods.

This was her Odysseus - as he truly was.

She cupped his chin, tilting his face further, forcing him to look at her. His pupils were blown wide, his lips parted, his body strung so tightly she thought he might unravel at the slightest touch.

“And what will you do,” she whispered, “to earn me?”

His hands shook.

“Anything.” The word tore from him like a prayer. “Everything.” His fingers dug into his own thighs, his voice wrecked, ruined. “Just tell me.”

Penelope let the silence stretch, watching him, savoring him. He had been gone for twenty years, and now he was here. And more than that… he was hers .

She leaned in, her lips grazing his ear. “Beg for me, husband.”

A sharp inhale. A tremor in his shoulders.

And then…

“Please,” he choked out, voice hoarse, breaking.

It was not a command. It was not a demand. It was surrender.

And gods, it was beautiful.

She dragged her nails lightly, barely, over his scalp, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck.

He whimpered.

Gods. Her breath caught at the sound.

"Not enough," she murmured, her voice soft, indulgent. She pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling the heat of his skin beneath her lips. "Not yet."

A broken sound left him, something between a groan and a plea. His hands twitched at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Penelope," he breathed, his voice wrecked, ruined. "Tell me what you want."

She smiled. Oh, but she was enjoying this.

"I want you to ache for me," she whispered, her fingers drifting lower, tracing the strong line of his throat, down the center of his chest, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his breath. "I want you to suffer for me, as I suffered for you."

His head tipped back, a strangled sound escaping his throat.

"Years, Odysseus," she continued, her voice low and dangerous, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth but pulling away before he could turn into it.

"Years I spent in an empty bed. Years I spent waiting, praying -" Her nails dug into his chest just enough to make him shudder. "And now you will wait for me."

His breath hitched. He tried to move, to grab at her, but she tut-tutted, pressing a firm hand to his chest, keeping him where she wanted him.

"You are not in control here," she reminded him, watching his throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

And then she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Be a good king, husband," she murmured, gently rolling her hips against him. "And beg."

His hands fisted at his sides, his whole body trembling, burning with the effort to stay still, to obey. His breath was ragged, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, his body bowed like a man on the verge of ruin.

"Please," he rasped. " Please, Penelope. "

"Please what?" She cupped the back of his neck, dragging her nails lightly through his hair.

His breath shuddered out of him. "Anything." His voice was hoarse, desperate. "Penelope, please. I burn for you. I have always burned for you."

A shiver ran through her at the sheer devotion in his voice, at the way he surrendered himself so completely.

She had never seen him like this. She had never imagined he could be like this.

A sharp breath tore from Penelope’s lips. Her fingers trembled where they rested against his skin, and she knew that if she waited another moment, if she dragged this out any longer, she would be the one left shaking, undone, at his mercy.

She couldn’t have that. Not now.

So she gave in.

A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips as she tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth to hers.

Odysseus broke.

A guttural sound tore from his throat as he crushed her against him, hands finally, finally grasping at her, palms splaying wide over her back, pulling her into him like he was starving for her.

And he was.

He rolled them over, the firm lines of his body pressing against her.

Penelope gasped against his mouth, her control snapping like a bowstring pulled too tight.

Her fingers curled in his tunic, yanking the fabric off of his frame completely, her body pressing flush against his as if she could melt into him completely.

She might have pushed him to his breaking point, but she was breaking, too.

She felt him smirk against her lips, smirk, the audacity of this man, and she bit his bottom lip in punishment, making him groan, making his hands tighten at her waist.

“Cruel woman,” he rasped, his forehead falling against hers, their breaths mingling in the heat between them.

“Yes,” she agreed, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, her fingers tracing over the rapid beat of his heart. “But I am your cruel woman.”

His breath hitched. His hands slid up her side, reverent, almost shaky. His forehead pressed harder against hers, like he couldn’t bear even the slightest distance.

“Say it again,” he whispered, voice raw.

Penelope swallowed, her own chest heaving, the force of it knocking against her ribs.

She cupped his face, brushing her thumb over his cheek.

“I am yours,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I have always been yours.”

A strangled noise left him, something like relief, something like worship , and then…

And then there was nothing left but heat.

Nothing left but skin, but sweat, but moans.

Nothing left… longing and loss vanishing between their mouths, between their hands, between the whispered promises neither of them would break again.

Nothing left but them .