God of War: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage Romance (Legacy of Gods Book 6)
God of War: Chapter 25

Somewhere in the back of my consciousness, I’m fully aware that I shouldn’t be doing this.

I flip her onto her stomach, my hands stroking and rubbing everywhere I can touch.

The last thing my wife needs is my cock nudging against her arse, demanding access inside her or growing rock-fucking-hard at the thought of claiming her. Owning her. Engraving myself beneath her skin.

And yet, apparently, I couldn’t care less about any possible side effects of my inability to stay away.

The scents of roses and flowers and depressingly familiar candy floss saturate my nose until I’m full of her. Her smell, the feel of her soft skin beneath the roughness of mine, the visual of her creamy flesh compared to my tan complexion. The gentle, absolutely ravenous moans she releases as I rip her zipper open.

“Can you stop ruining my dresses?” she mumbles against the pillow, staying completely still as I shove away the blasphemous thing keeping me from her.

“I lack the capacity to be gentle when it comes to you, Mrs. King.” I roll her hair around my fist and lower my lips to her ear. “But you knew that already when you teased me all night long.”

“I…did no such thing.” Her voice drips with forbidden desire and flickering lucidity. She’s so fucking beautiful, I can’t look her in the eye without feeling the burn in my bones.

“Is that so? Did I imagine your hand and legs not so accidentally brushing against my thigh?”

“Hmm. Maybe. Did it work?”

“Do you want it to work?” I run my hand down to her arse, stroking the thong that slips between the crack and then slap the inviting flesh, and she groans, her lips parting. “Judging by how wet and ready you are, I’d say you definitely do. Don’t you know it’s advised to steer clear of murky waters?”

“I was never good with following advice.” She wiggles a little, her breathing growing shallow. “I’m so bad at that. Ask my therapist. Or maybe don’t.”

“Silly, silly fucking girl.” I slap her arse again, and her head slumps forward. “You shouldn’t want me.”

“I could say the same about you. But we’re here now, so do something. I’m a little sore, but I can take it.”

“You can take my cock plowing inside you, huh?”

“Mmm.”

I lick the shell of her ear, something I discovered she loves. A shaky breath rushes out of her as she whimpers, her flesh turning hot to the touch.

And I’m done for.

Fucking finished.

I lose my goddamn mind.

A groan leaves me as I slide a pillow beneath her stomach so she’s settled in an erotic position. With another slap to her arse, I lift up the thong’s elastic band, then let it snap down on her flesh. Her throaty moan echoes in the air, and my dick hardens and strains against my briefs as if her lips are wrapped around it.

I swiftly chase away that impossible image as I unbuckle my belt. “This is going to be fast and rough, beautiful. I can’t slow down or take it easy.”

“Yes, please.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Why do I love the sound of her begging? If she so much as said please outside of sex, I’d let her have anything—my goddamn sanity included.

I shove down my trousers and briefs in one swift go. My engorged cock bobs against my half-exposed abs, precum shining at the tip.

My fingers find her clit and I rub her in methodical circles. She’s so wet, my fingers drip with her arousal and an obscene sound fills the bedroom.

My wife grows pliant, her legs opening farther and her moans turning throatier and deeper.

“Call me beautiful again.” She lifts herself up, her fingers clenching into the mattress.

When I say nothing, she cranes her head to the side, probably to get a look at me. However, I wrap the belt around her throat and hold it and her hair as I shove her face down.

Parting her arse cheeks, I slide my cock against her soaking slit, up and down, in a torturous rhythm that tightens my abs.

Her muffled moans fill the air and she tries to wiggle, to invite me inside her glistening cunt, but I resist.

Barely.

My grip on the belt turns deadly, until I’m sure it’ll snap under the pressure.

There’s nothing I’d love more than to claim her like a fucking animal and watch her blood mix with my cum again, but that sick thought would only make me lose her for good.

So I continue rubbing our juices together, the sound echoing in the air as the smell of her sweet cunt flares my nostrils.

“Eli…oh my God…” she mumbles. “Please…”

I can feel her thighs shaking as she rides and humps my cock. I remain still for a moment, watching her pink cunt sliding up and down my length in jerky, desperate movements that still look sophisticated and innocent.

Christ.

I never knew a pussy could look so fucking erotic, so beautiful that I want to break it.

Which is a goddamn problem, considering my attempts to put her back together.

Though, deep down, very deep in my black demented soul, I do want to break her to fucking pieces.

Maybe I’ll do that after I glue her back together so that she never finds her way out of my orbit.

My cage.

My fucking grip.

I thrust all the way inside her in one go. The sudden motion renders her frozen as a whimper falls from her lips.

Her cunt tightens around my cock, strangling me for dear life. I allow her a second to adjust, my harsh breathing matching her strained pants.

Once I feel her relaxing, I drive into her with collected deep thrusts until she’s entirely slumped over the pillow. “You look so fucking beautiful when you’re being torn apart by my cock, Mrs. King.”

She clenches around me, her throaty soft moans filling the air like a chant—witchcraft whose sole purpose is to dismantle me to fucking pieces.

“You’re the most beautiful when your tight little cunt is being railed by me. You’re dripping for me and taking my cock so well. That’s it, mmm, show me how much you’re mine, wife.”

Her little body rocks back and forth, her arse rubbing against my groin, and I slap it a few times. She releases stuffy long moans and I fuck her harder, deeper.

This is why I shouldn’t touch my wife. Why I abstained for fucking years from claiming her. Not only is it a sure recipe for her mental decline, but she messes up my control, brings down my walls, and turns me into this sporadic entity of unhinged impulsiveness.

I don’t stop when she screams into the pillow or when her body shakes and she milks my cock.

I don’t stop when she shivers and releases small moans.

I certainly don’t stop when she lies there completely spent.

If anything, I go harder and faster. My balls tighten, but I don’t let myself come.

Not yet.

Not now when this could be the last time I fuck her.

I blame my lack of sleep for my unleashed sickness.

“Oh God, Eli.” She tries and fails to look back due to my grip on the belt. “I’m so sensitive…”

“You shouldn’t have provoked me, then, shouldn’t have flaunted yourself in barely-there clothes and offered what’s mine to the public. Now you’ll take my cock as punishment and thank me for it like a good wife.” I slap her arse.

She groans.

“Let me…let me look at you.”

“No.”

“Please…I want to see you.” The desperate lust in her voice almost demolishes the very last of my resolve.

I’d give anything to thrust my tongue in her mouth as hard as I’m thrusting my cock, to own her in irrevocable ways that can’t be undone.

I pull out to the tip and almost flip her onto her back.

Almost.

The image of her frigid eyes and the unattainable void in her expression flash before me and I slam back in her again, tightening the belt so she stops talking.

Then I fuck her like a madman.

I fuck her so raw, she slides back and forth and the headboard hits the wall with loud bangs.

My fingers find her clit and she squirms, fighting the unavoidable, but I tease and circle and press her pleasure button until she trembles around me. Her muffled moans fill the air as my abs tighten, my balls grow heavy, and I come inside her inviting cunt in waves.

The release is even stronger than last night. This is why I’ve kept my distance. I knew whetting my appetite once wouldn’t be enough and that I’d need to do it again and again before I’d ever be satisfied.

Even now, as I watch a streak of my cum sliding down her thigh, I want to restart the ownership process all over again.

As she slumps forward, I release the belt, letting her head rest on the pillow.

I pull out mid-orgasm and decorate her red arse with my cum. She hisses at the contact against her sensitive skin and I part her cheeks, massaging it into the crack and pressing it into her virgin hole.

“We need to prep you so you can take my cock in this tight little hole, Mrs. King.”

“So you can keep fucking me from behind?” Her head is turned sideways, but she’s not looking at me, her lips set in a line. Her face is flushed and dripping with both desire and defiance.

I can smell one of her tantrums from a mile away, which is a good sign, all things considered, but I still shouldn’t feed her drama-prone existence.

With one last slap, I release her. “Precisely.”

I walk to her bathroom and wet a towel with warm water, quickly wipe my cock clean, and tuck myself back in before I grab another towel and go back.

My wife is still in the same position, but her legs are in the air, crossed at the ankles as she stares at the bathroom door.

Her expression is softer now, and some mascara is running down from her eyes, because she cries during sex, apparently.

And she couldn’t look any more beautiful.

“Why do you only touch me from behind?” she asks in a soft voice.

I ignore her and gently wipe my cum from her pussy and then her arse. I do it slowly, reluctant to erase the sign of my ownership from her skin.

“Do you not want to see my face?” Her words crack at the end.

“It’s not that.” I run my fingers over my angry red handprint on her porcelain skin.

“Then what is it?” she insists. “Why can’t we do any positions that involve looking at each other?”

“We’re not lovers. This is only fucking, so I don’t see why we should engage in any form of intimacy.”

She swallows, her face reddens, and I can feel her anger radiating and growing to exponential heights.

But then she flashes me her most fake smile. One that seems only designed for me. She has no problem being like absolute sunshine to everyone else, but God forbid she smile at me.

Though she did tonight, countless times, before I smothered it.

Again.

“You’re right. I’ll take this as an apprenticeship to learn how to please my future lovers.”

My jaw clenches. “You’ll have no future lovers.”

“Says who?”

“The fact that you’re my wife.”

“This marriage is only temporary until I find the love of my life.” She stands up in her full naked glory and hikes her hand on her hip. “Now, run me a bath.”

I have to remind myself that I can’t snap her fucking neck.

And that she’s provoking me on purpose. Her fake sweet smile and honeyed tone give her away.

She’s just fishing for a reaction she won’t get.

I head to the bathroom again and then turn on the faucet to tepid. I add her salts, bath milk, and a dozen other products. I’m checking the temperature when she steps in, leans her head against the pillow, and closes her eyes.

“Anything else, Your Highness?” I ask in a mocking tone.

“A bit hotter would be nice.” She wiggles her toes in the water and releases a long sigh. “More bath milk. The whole bottle, actually.”

I contemplate pouring the thing over her head, but I get distracted by the ethereal view of her pebbled pink nipples peeking through the white surface, slowly being submerged by the water.

“Is that all?” I ask once I’m done.

“Yep, all good. You can join me now.”

“I will not join you.”

She peels her eyes open. “Why not?”

“I don’t like baths.”

“You liked it just fine yesterday when you gave me one.”

“I only did so because I thought you were asleep.”

“And you can’t do it now?” The pain in her voice would move any other man.

She has the ability to turn anyone with a cock into a puppy at her feet.

Lucky for her, I have the capacity to resist her charms when need be.

“No,” I say point-blank.

Her lips tremble and moisture turns her eyes a glittering blue. “You’re such a bastard. I really hate you.”

“Good. It’s dangerous to love me. But you already know that.”

I turn around and leave. As I close the door, a bottle of shower gel crashes against it.

The next morning, I wake up refreshed after I finally got some rest.

Hungry, too, after fasting for about twenty-four hours.

I don’t remember my life before I swore off food, so, in a sense, my stomach is used to surviving on my stash of protein bars or just waiting until I get home. Whenever I’m on a business trip, Sam cans her food so I won’t have to go on an extended fasting journey.

I stroll into the kitchen and pause when I take a quick inventory of the table. Strawberry cake, freshly baked croissants, scones, jam, and clotted cream. The menu is definitely different from my usual granola or scrambled eggs.

Needless to say, I’m a creature of habit. It comes as a form of control. I don’t appreciate any miniature changes in my life.

This is why marrying Ava is no different than inviting a disaster under my roof.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I ask Sam, who’s busy wiping clean some utensils.

“I thought you could use a change.”

“Do you even know me? I don’t like change.”

“Very British of you.” She pauses. “Why don’t you try it? You might like it.”

“Are you serious? You’re well aware of my disregard for sweet things.”

“Very contradictive, considering you married the sweetest girl.”

I pause. Sam continues wiping away as if she didn’t just drop a bomb.

“Did you just call Ava sweet?”

“She is. Not my fault you’re too blind to see it.”

“Who are you and what have you done to the emotionless Sam I’ve known my entire life?”

“I’m not emotionless. I’m selective. Like you. Now, sit down and eat. And before you ask, I made nothing else and will not be making anything else.”

I narrow my eyes, but since I’m hungry, I do sit down and prepare a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

It tastes different, and I think it’s a bit burned, but I chase away that thought. Sam would never burn anything.

“Did she take her medication last night?” I ask after I finish two scones and a croissant in record time.

“For the second time, yes. Is there a reason why you didn’t check on her yourself?”

“She was mad at me.”

“A pattern, apparently.”

“Apparently.”

The real reason is that I needed to put some distance between us. Ava has always spun around my orbit, even when she thought she’d quit me. I’m the addiction that streams in her blood whether she likes it or not, so I can’t give her any fucking ideas.

She’s my responsibility, my wife, and my property. I meant it when I said I could give her anything but love.

And if she keeps demanding that, she’ll be the only one who gets hurt.

Her mind can’t afford to be hurt.

“How do you like the food?” Sam asks as I swallow a portion of the cake.

“Aside from being sickeningly sweet, it’s acceptable.”

“Then you better show proper gratitude.”

“I pay you as gratitude, Sam.”

She shakes her head. “Follow me.”

Repressing my perplexity, I go with the short woman to the adjoining sitting area.

My confusion slowly clears when I find my wife lying on the sofa, snoring softly while wearing a dirty pink apron. Flour smudges her cheek and three of her fingers are wrapped in plasters.

Sam’s voice carries in the air. “She woke up at the crack of dawn with me and insisted on making you breakfast as long as I’d say I was the one who did it. She burned the first two attempts, but she kept trying to perfect her creations. She begged me not tell you who made the food, because, and I quote, ‘I hate him right now.’ End of quote.”

My lips curve in a smile as I sit on my haunches before her and stroke the plasters on her delicate hands. Hands that weren’t made for cooking or any chores. Ava is her papa’s spoiled princess and the apple of her mother’s eye. Not only that, but she’s adored by her grandparents and was tended to since a young age; therefore, she didn’t even consider learning how to cook.

And yet she chose to make me breakfast.

“If she asked you not to tell me, why did you?” I speak to Sam, but my entire attention is on my wife.

“I find it unfair to take the credit for her effort. Especially since she woke up early despite being the opposite of a morning person. Which is why I believe you should thank her properly.”

“That will only give her ideas.” I reluctantly release her and rise to my full height. “She can’t afford ideas.”

“You’re underestimating her strength.”

“I’m willing to gamble on underestimating instead of overestimating her. We did it before and she ended up in the fucking hospital.”

“It’s different now. Both of you are.”

“Still no.”

Sam sighs. “She’s a good kid, Eli. She cares and she has no qualms about showing it. I know you think she’s only sensitive, but I believe you’re overlooking her hidden strength and stunning self-awareness. She might not break if you tell her the truth.”

“No,” I let out in a clipped tone.

“She’ll hate you if she finds out in a different manner. Time is not in your favor.”

“She already hates me, so I don’t see the problem with that.”

“How come you’re smart in everything but excruciatingly obtuse when it comes to her?”

“I’m not obtuse, I’m realistic. She’ll never know and that’s final.”

I take one last glance at my wife’s form that rivals Sleeping Beauty’s.

Sam is right. Time is not in my favor.

Every day is a tick drawing Ava closer to her next episode that, according to Dr. Blaine, will be worse than the last.

The last being that she’ll forget everything.

But even if she erases me again, there’s no escaping me.

I’ll claim her again.

And again.

I’ll carve my name beneath her skin so deeply, she’ll find me in her dreams.

And her nightmares.

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