Page 369 of The First Taste

Hurrying myself into the tourist clothes, I don’t say another word.

Persephone for her part turns her back to me and changes quickly. I only see her naked back for a half minute. And when she takes her panties off, she makes sure to use the hem of her fluorescent t-shirt to hide her shapely ass from my view.

It doesn’t stop me from taking in her miles and miles of long, toned legs though. She whips around as soon as she pulls up the shorts, her cheeks burning.

Seeing the clothes in her hands, I point to the trash can. “Hurry. Our ferry leaves soon.”

She heaves her old clothes into the bin with a silent sigh on her lips. I toss her the smaller flip flops, strapping the larger sandals to my feet. And then we leave the bathroom, putting on our neon tie-dyed hoodies in unison.

Once we get on the ferry, Persephone curls up in the seat beside me, leans her head against my arm, and promptly falls asleep. It’s an odd feeling, the sensation of being trusted.

But twice this morning now she has clearly trusted me. Once when she actually turned up with an overflowing tote bag of items from the gift shop. And again now as she wordlessly slips into a doze while she rests against my body.

For a second, I just stare at her. People filter in and out of the seating area we are seated in; aside from the shelter of the high-backed seats, absolutely anything could happen to her.

But I’m here, so I know nothing will.

I raise my arm, settling it around her shoulders, and urge Persephone toward my lap. She lets me pull her down and her head finds a comfortable-enough spot on my right thigh.

Her hands ball into fists and rest on my knees, the right one eventually unclenching. She looks like a Venus in repose. Her face seems etched into marble by some incredibly talented artisan. Her dark hair swirls in waves around her face. The perfect bow of her lips parts as she is pulled deeper into sleep, her face wrinkling in the echo of a frown every so often.

God, she smells heavenly, like lemon and lavender and just a hint of freshly baked bread. I lean down for a moment to press my nose into her hair, inhaling deeply.

My cock stirs, excited when she turns over in her sleep and brushes it through my shorts ever so gently.

I find myself moving, shifting, adjusting this way and that to make her more comfortable. Taking her trust seriously, I mostly keep my gaze turned outward, studying every single person who strolls by.

But Persephone keeps distracting me with the shift of her warm body against my own. Her sweet scent beckons as I study her finely hewn face.

What would it be like to kiss her lips? To brush back her dark locks and pull her close, tasting her perfect full mouth? To draw a gasp from her lungs, bruising her upturned lips?

The temptation to wake her, to find out by jamming my mouth against hers and feeling the flutter of her pulse racing as I grip her neck is almost too much to bear.

I look out as the ferry begins to pull away from the dock. A muscle ticks in my jaw. My cock stirs again.

Damn Persephone.

She might not even realize what she’s doing. But I recognize the signs all too well.

She is laying her spell down all around me, not caring if I become enchanted. I stare out the window at the waves breaking against the shore and grit my teeth.

I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

But I just might let her sleep on my lap for a few more minutes…

Persephone

“Lass.”

My eyes flutter open, focusing blearily on the dashboard of the 1967 Ford Mustang. It’s painted this slick cherry red color and the engine is super loud; when we first climbed into it, I fished the manual out of the glove compartment to find out what kind of muscle car Hades had gotten to transport us up the French coast.

Hades is in the driver’s seat and he presses a button to roll the roof of the car back, shining bright light on my sleepy face.

I yawn. Outside the car, the coastal French countryside is flying by in swashes of sand-colored khaki, dashes of brilliant green peppered with yellow, and a fat palette brush of deep ocean blue. I sit up and rub my eyes. Ahead of me is the road, climbing up and rocketing down the hills outside Monaco. The road twists and winds like a snake and the car flies down them at a breakneck speed.

In the distance, I can see the clash of the coast with the ocean and the distant wink of what I think might be a large city.

“We’re almost to Monaco City,” Hades rasps.