Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I T WAS A COOL night, and the fire provided a blissful warmth, flickering golden flames as they ate the meal Ares had reheated over it, and talked some more about the country. Sofia was interested in its history—she'd always loved history as a subject, and Moricosia was ancient—and the culture. She particularly liked talking about light subject matters—not her mother, or his parents, or anything too deep and real.

It kept her brain free to think about what happened next.

After dinner, they went to the amenities hut together. Ares rinsed their dinner dishes at an outside tap while Sofia got ready for bed.

But not to sleep.

The thought kept occurring to her, running around and around in her mind until she was nervous. Actually nervous. She concealed it, or at least, she hoped she did, but she laboured over every step, seeing herself from the outside, imagining how she looked, sounded, until nothing seemed natural.

Ares peeled the corner of the tent and held it aloft for Sofia to step through. "Do you think you'll be warm enough tonight, Sofia?" he asked, no hint in his tone of whether he wanted her to say yes or no. No hint as to what he wanted at all, so it all came down to Sofia. He was leaving the choice up to her—because they both knew he wasn't really asking about her temperature. If she said no, they'd sleep as they did last night, except sleep was the last thing they'd do.

"I—," she looked up into his eyes, and suddenly, all of the nervousness, the indecision, the uncertainty drifted away. She lifted a hand to his chest, placing her palm there. She could have said something. Like reiterated the rules for what would happen if they did this—lay down the boundaries, so that she could know neither of them would get hurt. But the time for talking had passed. They both understood what the other wanted; she was sure of it.

And so, she pressed forward a little, crushing her hand between them as she pushed up onto the tips of her toes and brushed her lips over his in a silent, but unmistakable, invitation. It was like the igniting of a firework. No, not the igniting of it. That had happened the moment they'd shaken hands at the palace, and every minute since had been a slow yet spectacular ascent into the night sky. This… This contact was the explosion. It spread throughout the heavens, sparks of light and heat, radiant and beautiful; all-encompassing. Because a brush of their lips wasn't enough, and the moment she pulled back slightly, Ares was moving after her, his mouth seeking hers, as if, having had a taste, he wanted more, more, more.

Just a kiss, he promised himself, as he held her hard against his body, which was rejoicing in her nearness, the sweetness of her slender frame, the warmth of her, her fragrance. But it was a kiss that reached inside of him and shifted everything around. He flicked her tongue lazily at first as if he wanted to simply get the feel for her, but then, it wasn't enough. He didn't just want to kiss her, he wanted to be everything to her, just in that moment.

His body was strong and big, and he moved easily, bringing her with him into the tent—him walking, her stumbling a little, both laughing as they tumbled onto the totally insufficient camp mattress with sleeping bags unfurled. But the moment he lay on top of her, the laughter died, and he was kissing her again, swallowing her little panting sounds, tasting them, delighting in them. And his hands, oh his hands. They made a liar of him oh so fast. Just a kiss. Yeah, right.

They found the bottom of her shirt and pushed it, way too soon, way too quickly, up over her body, chucking it across the tent so it hit the canvas wall and dropped to the floor. He barely noticed. He wanted light. More light, so he could see her properly, but instead, he would content himself with feel, his hands moving to her breasts, curious as to how they'd feel. She wore a lacy bra, with smooth patches of silk, that he definitely hadn't imagined.

"Fancy," he said, grinning, despite the way his body was alight.

"You can take the girl out of the palace," she said with a lift of her shoulders.

He laughed.

"I really didn't pack for this," she reminded him, wriggling a little beneath him in a silent demand that he keep going. He didn't need to be asked twice. Dropping his head a little, his mouth connected with the silky soft flesh in the curve of her neck, and he kissed her there, slowly at first, then nipping her with his teeth, and she wriggled, her hands doing an exploration of their own, but mostly settling on his bottom, which she cupped and held close to her. As if she thought he might pull away.

As if he could.

He wanted to fill his hands with her breasts—he'd wanted that since he'd first seen her if he was honest—but in this moment, there was a pleasure in slowing things down a bit, in taking his time to explore and enjoy. In making sure she enjoyed. He reached behind her to unclasp the bra, then slowly slid each strap down her arms, his fingertips trailing over her until her wrists, which he briefly clasped in his hands and held firm at her sides, so she stopped wriggling and let out a small, soft moan.

His arousal jerked in his pants. God, he wanted her.

Her breasts were exposed and all he wanted was to touch them, feel them, nip at them with his mouth, but he was taking some kind of pleasure—or maybe it was penance—from slowing this down and drawing it out, from withholding his deepest fantasy for a time. So, he kissed her instead, bringing his torso down over her body, so he could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest, though how he wished he wasn't wearing a shirt!

As if she could read his mind, her hands came between them, finding the buttons that ran down his middle and unfastening them, pushing at the shirt with just as much impatience as he'd shown and grunting at the final stretch, as she pushed the sleeves down and freed him from it.

"Thank God," she muttered, and now her hands ran over his back, tracing lines, digging in a little. He pressed down to kiss her, and almost exploded at the sensation of skin-to-skin. Her breasts, so soft against his hair-roughened chest, her body so warm, so delicate somehow. Now it was Ares who groaned, and he couldn't hold back his need any longer. He moved his mouth from her lips to her chin, flicking her with his tongue before moving lower, to the petal-soft skin of her décolletage, running his tongue over her clavicle and then lower, straight down, until his head was between her breasts and he inhaled her first, before moving his mouth to the left, tracing the line of her with his tongue, slowly, tormenting them both, before he took her nipple in his mouth and rolled it with his tongue, delighting in the way it hardened and changed in his warm mouth. She was crying out, and he bit down on her then—not hard, not intending to hurt of course, so much as surprise—and she bucked her hips, then swore, so he laughed, moving to the other nipple, and subjecting it to the same long, slow torture.

"Ares," she groaned, and he felt like the most powerful man in the world. He loved hearing her say his name. She spoke to him as though he were a normal man and not the king. She had from the very beginning, and it was a heady, addictive feeling to be recognized for this.

"Sofia," he grinned against her and then moved his mouth lower, no longer grinning, but rather breathing heavily with anticipation. The button on her pants was stubborn and he swore as he struggled with it, before finally freeing the damned thing and pushing the offending fabric down her legs. Again, he wished for light, so he could see her properly, but in lieu of that, he could feel. Her legs were smooth and soft, and he thought about how much he'd like to be doing this in a hotel, or the palace, somewhere that he could truly revel in every single part of her, rather than this cramped tent.

"We can stop anytime you want," he said, kissing her stomach just beside her belly button.

"I know," she moved then, planting her feet on the ground and bending her knees, his torso between. He crouched lower, hating the confines of the tent even as he loved everything about this moment. Her underpants felt the same as her bra—a matching set. He didn't remove it straight away. Instead, he felt a kick of heat as he simply nudged them to the side and ran a finger over her seam, her most sensitive, private place. Again, her hips bucked, and she cried out. Her fingers made a screechy noise against the synthetic fabric of the sleeping bags, which she was gripping tightly and then releasing.

He smiled as he kept exploring her there, his finger teasing and mapping, recognizing where she liked to be touched by the way her breathing changed and her body flexed before he couldn't fight his own needs any longer and he pressed his finger inside of her, long and slow, and her muscles spasmed around him in a way that made him know how turned on she was. "You're so wet, Sofia," he grunted, as he felt a hint of his own seed spilling into his pants.

And so was he. So turned on by her, so flooded with need.

"I know," she ground her hips. "I need you, now, Ares. Now."

He made a tsking noise. "You're impatient."

"I'm a girl who knows what she wants," she said through clenched teeth.

"And you're going to get it," he promised. "As much as you want of it, I promise." And then he was sliding her underpants down her legs and replacing his finger with his mouth, holding her at the top of her legs and worshipping her sex with his tongue, tasting her, feeling her reverberations as pleasure built and built inside of her, and then focusing on the one part of her that was most susceptible, driving her wild until she fell apart, utterly and completely, her screams throbbing through the tent and into the solitude of this forest that until then, he'd thought of as utterly his.

Her hands pushed through his hair, as she rode the wave, holding him where he was, but as her breathing returned to normal, her hands were moving, lower, pulling at him, trying to get to him, and then she was sitting up, seeking him with her mouth, kissing him, needing him as he'd needed her. Needing more.

He had been enjoying the slow, torturous exploration but Sofia was impatient now, just as she'd said, and she kissed him hard, her hands pushing at his pants until they were loose and able to be stepped out of. But Ares hadn't taken the time or forethought to remove his shoes—when had she done hers?—so he had to pull away from her to untie them, and he cursed the big, sturdy camping boots then, because it took him at least a minute and it was a minute he would have preferred to be spending in about a thousand different ways.

"At least you know this wasn't a foregone conclusion," he quipped, as he finally got free of them, and his clothes for good measure, and crouched before her naked.

"I know it wasn't. Ares—," she put a hand on his shoulder. "I presume you didn't bring protection?"

Shit.

Of course, he hadn't brought protection. Up until they were about to leave, he'd expected to be spending three days with an old friend. Not this vixen.

"No."

Her groan was one of disbelief, but then, she moved closer to him, her lips brushing his shoulder first, then dropping to his chest, running over him, flicking him, just as he'd done to her. Her hands went another way, one coming between his legs and wrapping around his length, so she gasped a little in his mouth as she explored his size fully.

"Oh my," she murmured, pulling up to kiss him properly, her tongue flicking into his mouth as she pumped his arousal in a way that was extremely dangerous, all things considered.

Her mouth moved to his earlobe, which she teased between her teeth.

"I have a contraceptive device implanted," she murmured there. Words that were a balm to his soul. "And I've never had unprotected sex, so I'm safe. Just FYI."

He groaned, turning his face so he could claim her mouth with his own.

"And you?" She asked, hurriedly, needily, hungrily, as her hand continued to move over him, and he could hardly think straight, much less talk.

"I'm safe," he promised—a fact he knew because he underwent medical tests every year, for a whole range of things. "But I cannot risk a pregnancy."

"Believe me, that's the last thing I want, ever. I've used the device for years…"

"But with condoms too," he reminded her.

"Yes. But…God, Ares…" she whimpered. "I want to feel you…"

He wanted that, too. He wanted that like he couldn't possibly explain, but there was no way he'd taken even the smallest risk of pregnancy until the time was right, and the woman was right. The thought did something weird inside of him, making him wonder: who would be right?

"Not now," he said, the devastation like a blow to him. "Not yet," he said, as if that was somehow better.

She made a groaning noise of discontent, and he could only laugh, soft and gruff. "Believe me, I feel the same way."

"I doubt that."

"Why?"

"I just—really—really want this."

He kissed her hard then, so she fell back a little onto the sleeping bags. "I really, really, really, want this too." And though it was playing with nuclear-sized flames, he pressed his tip to her sex, tormenting them both with what they couldn't have. She cried out and he stayed there, wondering how bad it would be if he were to just drive into her once, so they both had that fulfillment and at least knew what the other felt like?

But it wouldn't be enough, and he doubted he'd be able to stop, so he pulled away from her, in utterly the wrong direction, and instead returned his fingers to her sex, and then his mouth, and then his fingers, making her come again, and again, and again. And between each of her explosions, he moved to her breasts, pleasuring them in a way that was driving her wild, and that gave her scant time to recover before he was driving her to yet another orgasm. He couldn't have said how long he kept her in that state of sensual euphoria, only that he was as addicted to making her feel good as she was to coming. He knew he could have kept going, too, but it was Sofia, in the end, who shifted, moving to sit at first, to kiss him, as she had before, and then pushing at his chest. She wasn't strong enough to move him by force, but he lay back against the sleeping bag, which was warmed by her, and smelled like her.

And now it was Sofia's turn—to draw her tongue down his body, flicking his flesh, his chest, his abdomen, tracing lines with her fingers as her mouth went lower still, lower. He didn't really have any concept of what she was planning to do until her tongue landed at the base of his cock, and began to trace a line to his tip, along his thundering vein, so he growled because it was too much, and nowhere near enough.

"It's a shame you only get to do this once," she said moving her mouth over his tip then. Her warm, moist mouth. He fought an urge to buck his hips. This was her show. She lifted away so she could say. "I better make it good for you…"

Good for him? Hell, he'd never felt better than this. He was cresting into the heavens. He was a shooting star. A volcano—lava and ash. He was man and mortal but at the same time, he was a God in the heavens. She had done that to him.

"Believe me—," he started to say, but then, she'd put her mouth back over his tip and this time, she kept going, taking him to the back of her throat, so he could no longer speak, think, do anything but feel. She moved slowly at first, which was a torment, but he supposed he deserved it after how he'd played her body. Then, blessedly faster, she moved her hand to his base and squeezed there, until he was balancing on a precipice, and he knew he had to find words to tell her.

"Sofia," he groaned, "You need to stop."

She did, immediately. "Why? You don't like it?"

"Are you kidding me?"

She laughed softly. "Then what are you doing?"

"I'm about to come?—,"

"Good," she purred. "That's kind of the point. Speaking of which…" And her mouth was back on him then, her hand too, and what little control he had ebbed away.

"I'm—I can't—," Stop, he finished mentally, as his seed began to spill and then fire from him in a wave of heat and power, and she kept her mouth over his length, swallowing in a way that was more erotic than anything he'd ever known. His hands rested on her blonde head, lightly, so she could move as she wanted, but he needed to hold on, to reassure himself she was real, in a way.

"Oh my God," he groaned, as the waves that had been like a tsunami ebbed a little, and he was once more Ares. "Sofia…" but he didn't know what to say. What could he do in response to that? It was one of the most perfect moments of his life; why ruin it with words?