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Merry

More comes when Anger’s breath strokes hers. Their outtakes mingle, Merry’s lips stalling beneath his own. Tangled together, they sit inside a planet, a world of their own.

Anger’s mouth clamps shut, his teeth grinding. Despite the god’s restraint, his arms shackle around Merry’s waist, pressing her against him, her body fitting into the bracketed muscles of his frame. She has never felt so held, so possessed, so secured.

Yet the embrace is also strained, drawn to its limit like a wire. Even as this fallen deity clasps Merry, some conflict deters him. It’s both painful and exquisite to behold, how he’s been deprived by others, and still he deprives himself.

Oh, the irony. The God of Anger is hellbent on fate controlling everything. All the while, he strives to maintain control of himself.

Anger stares, transfixed. His gaze clings to hers, demanding and pleading. It’s a stake claimed. And a cry for help.

Merry’s heart sprints. Her head swims with possibilities, for there’s always more to unravel, no matter how long someone has lived, how much they have lost, or how little they’ve been given in the first place.

It’s now or never. This moment won’t come again.

Because life has stolen enough from them, Merry bridges the distance. With cautious movements, she leans up and brushes her mouth against the crook of his. It’s barely a touch, the slightest of gestures. But it has the effect of a bulldozer striking a tower.

Anger shudders. His eyes seal shut.

A second later, they fling back open. His irises flare as though someone has lit a match to them, whereas the pupils blacken like coals. The contrast is astonishing, invigorating, empowering.

The tower crumbles. On a hiss, he grabs her face and runs his mouth over hers. The motion is rough, but the pressure is light. With pent-up urgency, he sketches her lips, shearing back and forth.

A whimper curls from her throat, the contact surreal, a dream manifesting into reality. Although it isn’t a kiss, the rush is akin to bungee jumping off a skyscraper or—

Anger’s teeth sketch her bottom lip. Oxygen drains from her lungs, and the whimper turns into a gasp.

The god husks as though he wants to swallow the noise. Any moment, she’s going to faint. But if she does that, she’ll miss out.

They keep their eyes open, watching one another, his mouth skating along hers. Merry regains consciousness enough to join him, etching her tremulous lips with his, their mouths raking in perfect cadence.

Every pass wets Merry. Her pussy throbs, arousal soaking the fabric of her panties.

When his arms flex around her, a wondrous sensation penetrates her shirt, brimming through the material. The flame tattoos branding his forearms ignite, imbuing her with a strange pressure.

Heat.

Heat from the markings. It permeates her flesh, the novelty extraordinary. It’s lightning and electricity. It’s an eruption, a glowing, stinging sensation. Most of all, it’s like touching the sun.

An astonished sound falls from her tongue, making Anger go still. He inches back, realization glittering in his eyes. Because yes, she feels him.

But how? And why?

They stall, fixating on one another. Anger searches Merry’s gaze, swift and nonplussed, the connection robbing them of speech.

From his reaction alone, it’s evident. No one has ever felt his tattoos this way. The thread is inexplicable but unmistakable.

He had promised to demonstrate heat to her. It should have been difficult to achieve, should have required effort. Yet she has lured it to the surface like a chemical reaction, an elemental phenomenon.

For an instant, Merry fears Anger will rip himself away. Instead, those eyes hood, growing darker as they absorb this discovery. His attention travels from where his arms clutch Merry’s midriff to the rest of her body, twisted and entwined with his.

Her open mouth. Her nipples studding through her shirt. Her thighs straddling the motorcycle, which idles beneath them.

Every place his gaze touches produces a shower of embers. At some point during the trip, her skirt had lifted high, exposing her spread thighs. The way his pupils double in size as they land there causes a flurry across her skin, her drenched undergarments smearing the seat.

Anger’s sensory perception kicks in. He inhales, scenting her reaction, the hard ridge of his cock rising against her ass.

Shit. Oh, shit.

Lowering his head, he presses his mouth to the rim of her ear. “I can think of nothing else but your soft cunt resting on this hard seat.”

The confession soaks into her pores like an intoxicant. For once, Merry can’t formulate a response. Instead, she melts into his torso, offering a silent confirmation to keep going.

Anger unfastens his arms from her middle, scouring his palms over her hips and bracing the tops of her bare thighs. Then he crushes the material of her skirt in his fist. “Have you made yourself come on this bike?”

Blood swirls between her folds, then courses through her limbs. Still, Merry can scarcely utter a coherent word. Yet somehow, she finds the presence of mind to nod.

A low groan saws from Anger’s lungs, the noise honed enough to slice through masonry. “Show me,” he rasps. “Show me how you ride.”

A moment ago, she was about to expire. Now the goddess in her simmers to life, a breathy tease dancing on her lips.

“How badly do you want to see?” Merry gusts out.

Anger shoves his mouth against her temple, the reply loosing from him like an arrow. “Please.”

The entreaty stimulates every centimeter of skin, his plea reaching places she hadn’t known existed. On the surface, the place where his tattoos abrade her shirt kindles like flint. Below the surface, blood surges to her clit, the tight bud of flesh prickling. Her body pulsates like something powered by a generator. By him.

And by her. Regardless of what Anger says, does, or wants, Merry’s body has a capacity of its own, the natural ability to rouse itself.

That’s what he longs to witness. How she satisfies and nurtures herself. It’s the most seductive request anyone has ever made.

Countless times, Merry has done this on the motorcycle. Never while someone watched. While deities are rarely private about sex, oftentimes indulging in plain sight, she has always kept this act to herself. But now, she yearns to be seen, to be heard, to be felt.

Merry sinks into Anger’s frame, the back of her scalp landing on his shoulder. She isn’t shy, and there’s no good reason to close her eyes or look away. Not when it’s more enthralling to study his reaction, to relish the need. With her body angled toward him, Merry fastens her unabashed gaze to his. And she rolls her hips.

The folds of her pussy skid lightly over the seat, a tease of movement that wrings a small moan from her lips. Sparks race through her veins. Her intimate skin flutters, the ache intensifying from that single pass.

Anger’s breath suspends. He doesn’t budge, other than to burrow his fingernails deeper. As she grinds her cunt once more, his gaze adheres to hers, the pupils hypnotized.

Against her ass, his cock thickens. The shape and width of him manifests in her head, long and firm and feverish. His crown would be wide and dark, with a slick bead of cum pushing to the surface.

The imagery spurs her motions. Slowly, Merry juts her waist back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Each sinuous glide causes traction, tentative at first, the fabric of her panties abrading her walls. Fluid spills from her pussy, soaking the material as well as the motorcycle.

The engine hums under her, magnifying the sensations, rubbing her so good. Another moan rolls from Merry’s lips, her respirations catching against Anger’s mouth. Maybe it’s that brush of air, the sound of her pleasure making contact with him, or the way her buttocks rock against his erection. Either way, a groan shudders from his lungs, the noise rumbling down Merry’s spine.

Further roused, she accentuates the sway of her hips, gyrating across the cushion. Her walls rut against the leather, and her clit inflates, the sensitive flesh throbbing. This only exacerbates the anguish, the onslaught growing dire, afflicted sounds cracking from her lips.

Merry accelerates her pace, swatting her pussy, writhing atop the motorcycle. Her skirt fans around her thighs, the fabric still crushed in Anger’s grip. Spreading herself wider, she opens herself, knees splaying apart.

This tells him enough. Rasping, Anger draws the skirt high, a breeze sketching her limbs. Although neither of them looks away from one another, it’s effortless to sense the moment he reveals the swatch of lace shrouding her cunt, the stud of flesh at her center pressing into her panties.

Merry climbs her fingers into his hair. She pulls on the roots, destroying the knot he’s made, wanting to destroy everything about him. The gesture tears another groan from him, which deepens as she juts her waist, pitching her ass into the line of his cock.

Like this, she rides them both. The bike vibrating underneath her and the turbulent male grasping her.

Their mouths hover inches apart. Their outtakes rush together, her splintering cries slamming against his growls.

Anger clamps onto her knees and jerks them farther apart. Then his eyes plummet to her cunt, the wet spots that must be saturating her undergarments, and the way she’s flinging her pussy against the oscillating seat.

His eyes combust. “Fuck. I could watch you like this for eternity.”

Merry’s head spins. She wants the same thing, wants him to watch her unravel until the end of their days, wants to hold him entranced, wants the heat from his tattoos, wants to break down this furious god until no layer of artifice exists between them, until all that’s left is the truth.

Yet she whispers while beating her hips, “We don’t need eternity. Just now.”

Because there’s more to life than purely forever. There’s here and now. There’s the moment itself, bright and real, crystallizing into being.

That’s how mortals live. Fleeting. Ardent. With no concept of a century from now, which renders the experience unique. Therefore, stronger and more profound.

“It’s like fire,” Merry whimpers. “Flames don’t last. But while they do, they flourish, consuming everything in their wake.”

Anger unleashes a haggard noise. “And how does it feel for you? This fire?”

“Aggressive, like you said,” Merry pants, his tattoos searing through her shirt. “But also energetic, fierce, and beguiling.”

“Then take it,” the god hisses. “Take it all from me.”

He extends one arm and snares the handlebars. Then he revs the engine, heightening the vibrations against her cunt.

Merry shouts to the heavens, her body quaking. Her lips strain toward his, on the brink of a kiss. But then he pumps his waist against her backside, and a moan splits her mouth.

With strong and steady motions, Anger thrusts his cock against her ass, all the while making the engine roar. Both forces drive her cunt harder against the seat, the effects thunderous, Merry convulsing inside and out.

That’s how she knows. He’s not doing this for himself, but for her. This god is striving to enhance her pleasure, to elicit more stimulation.

He pumps his cock, jetting her forward. In tandem, she veers ahead, bucks her ass backward, and skids her wet pussy over the seat. As she writhes, the brunt of his hips rocks Merry’s clit into the motorcycle, the tremors inciting another erotic round of pleasure, only harsher, swifter.

Merry hollers, “Oh, Stars!”

“Not them,” Anger seethes, striking faster. “Me.”

Yes. Him.

His free arm slings around her waist, pinning her down, the better to piston his erection, which broadens in size. Merry’s eyes roll to the back of her head. Releasing her grip on his hair, she snatches the handlebars for leverage. Her palm folding over his knuckles, her digits fitting between his, their fingerless gloves rustling together. Leaning steeply over the fuel tank, Merry charges against the steel frame, her pussy undulating, chasing the bike’s purr, riding it hard and fast.

Her head arches, hair falling into her face, moans blasting from her mouth. Each cry amplifies in the courtyard, syncing with Anger’s growls.

His cock hits the cleft of her buttocks, the pressure escalating along with their pace. His markings simmer into Merry’s flesh, the temperature migrating, spreading through her blood.

Merry splays her thighs farther still, tilting her clit in just the right manner, every strike plying her with delirious pleasure. She’s drenched, seeping into the leather and the bulging front of Anger’s jeans. Her skirt flaps around her waist, rucked up to her hipbones, her panties in full view to Anger from behind.

They work themselves into each other, colliding above the bike. Her knees clench, enabling Merry to hurl herself with abandon. As she launches between Anger and the motorcycle, sweat trickles down her tailbone and the gap of her breasts.

Anger straightens, boots flat on the pavement, anchoring himself to pound her even rougher. It feels less dominating and more like encouragement. He’s boosting her stamina, fortifying her motions, urging Merry to show him more, to give herself more.

She heaves across the seat, driving herself quicker, panting through the motions. It’s never been like this. Ferocious. Feral. Yet she likes it, enjoys the difference between doing this alone and with him.

Anger whips his hips, nothing but a thin layer of fabric separating them. The outline of his cock stuns Merry, from the broad head to the heavy sac brushing her ass. Stars almighty, she’s about to rupture.

Her lungs empty, cries falling from her tongue, the noises tensing along with her cunt. Anger must sense her impending spiral, because he hisses and doubles his efforts, hauling his waist and urging Merry to do the same.

Finally, her eyes weld shut. She lurches into the seat, reeling her hips, grinding her pussy. The ache crests, tenses, then erupts. A fusion of heat spills from the slit her thighs and spreads to the edges of her being. Behind her eyelids, celestials burst into white flames, and her scream breaks into pieces. She comes against the bike, against him.

Her body convulses, muscles shattering, rippling against his cock through the panties, an influx of arousal saturating his jeans. Only then does a satisfied growl tear from his chest, shredding through the courtyard.

Hunching forward, he buries his face in her nape, his waist lapping as Merry rides out the pleasure. Only when she slumps does he cease moving. Hair is plastered to Merry’s cheek, her legs are shaking, and her lungs are depleted.

The heat is still there, but milder. It must be warmth.

Merry savors the difference, the press of Anger’s body behind her, and the way his limbs bolster her. She fumbles for the ignition switch, turning off the bike, then pants into the motorcycle. Any second, she’ll muster the strength to move.

But that second passes, and she’s still limp. Humming, Anger hoists Merry upright and nestles her into his chest, strapping his arms around her midriff, resuming their original position.

Respirations heavy, they stay like this for what could be hours or minutes. Then Merry turns, and he cups her jaw at the same time, craning her gaze up to his. Stars, how those mesmerized eyes burn into her soul.

He shows no interest in moving, in severing this tether. That is, until Merry smiles and brushes a finger across the seam of his mouth.

It’s the prelude to a kiss.

Yet like a punch to the gut, Anger freezes. Lucidity cuts through his hooded gaze, the impact a splash of ice water.

Or at least, that’s how it appears with mortals. As if they’ve experienced a shock to the system.

A similar disturbance cleaves through his features. Confusion. Dismay. Remorse. The god is so stricken, he fails to hide it.

With a self-loathing hiss, Anger tears himself from Merry’s arms. Two iron panels rip from his back, the sound like a thwack, his wings flaring wide. The motorcycle rattles as he launches skyward, a gale of wind trailing in his wake, the force of it battering Merry’s hair in her face.

By the time she sweeps aside her locks, he’s gone.