Chapter 9: The Speedo Incident (Her POV)
Malvor did not return until evening. He avoided me completely, an unheard-of feat for a god who thrived on attention. Just to make sure he could keep his distance, he told the house. Not even me, the house, not to let me find him until morning. And of course, it obeyed. Doors would not open for me. Hallways shifted like tides, turning me in circles. Every time I thought I'd caught the right path, the house gently, politely, steered me elsewhere. It wasn't cruel. Not forceful. But it denied me.
And Malvor, for once, was the one running.
I woke at my usual, obscenely early hour, stretching and exercising, before padding to the kitchen. The house hadn't shifted it this time. It was waiting. The coffee pot gleamed like it had been expecting me. Which meant Malvor was still hiding. The house had kept me contained yesterday, like a parent gently corralling a stubborn child. Subtle. Polite. But obvious. It would have been infuriating if it weren't so… Actually, no. It was infuriating. But also hilarious. He was so close to losing it yesterday. I could see the thoughts on his panicked face.
I poured myself a cup, something warmer and creamier this time, not too sweet. Just enough comfort to balance the silence. I took a sip, then set the cup down. "House," I murmured.
A light blinked in response. "Would you take me to a cold room?"
A pause. Then a door clicked open nearby. I smiled faintly. "Thank you."
I stepped through and found winter. Snow blanketed the ground in untouched waves, glittering ice clung to the walls, and the air bit sharp and clean against my skin. In the middle of it all: a roaring fire, a single overstuffed chair draped with blankets, waiting just for me. I laughed under my breath. "Thank you, house."
The fire popped twice, almost pleased. I settled in, sinking into the chair, letting the warmth of the flames fight the cold on my skin while I sipped my drink. It was… nice. Too nice, considering Malvor was off sulking somewhere in his own realm. "He was avoiding me last night, wasn't he?"
Two flickers. I grinned. "Knew it. He's a man-child."
Quick flickers, like the fire was laughing with me. "At least he appreciates you?" I asked.
One flicker. I have learned that is a no. I clicked my tongue. "A shame. A damn shame."
Silence stretched warm and easy. I found myself speaking again, softer. "I assumed whichever god took me would want the same thing everyone else has always wanted. The thing I was trained to give."
The fire flared, as if amused. "But not him." I shook my head, smiling faintly into my cup. "He hasn't even asked for sex."
The flames dimmed, gentler now, as though listening closely. "It's just… different. I don't have a script for this. And the longer I'm here, the more I…" I trailed off, smirking at the absurdity. "The more I enjoy it here."
The warmth deepened. Not just from the fire. From the house itself. "You make it pleasant," I told it quietly. "He makes it… obnoxious. Like an attention-seeking child. Sometimes I want to smack him."
The fire cracked loudly, amused. I laughed. "Maybe he needs it."
When I finally stood, the flames glowed brighter, like they were saying goodbye. "Thank you," I said, and the house felt warm enough to answer back.
But as I stepped into the hallway, stretching, a wicked thought took root. If he could avoid me, then I could pester him. I smirked into my cup. "Take me to Malvor."
A door clicked open. The house obliged. I stepped inside—
And nearly dropped dead on the spot. Malvor was swimming. That was fine. Harmless. Innocent. But he was wearing the world's tiniest speedo. My brain crashed. Who even owned one of those? No one respectable. No one sane. Which meant of course he did. The water gleamed under an artificial sun, light sliding over his skin like he'd choreographed it himself. His dark hair clung in damp, artful strands, his shoulders broad, his chest cut like it had been carved by the universe purely to mock me. And then he stood. Oh my gods. NO!
The speedo was worse standing up. It clung. It accentuated. It left nothing, absolutely nothing, to the imagination. I snapped my eyes anywhere but there, and still his smirk followed me like a curse.
"Ahhh, Annie love dove," he drawled, stretching leisurely, every muscle a personal attack, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Malvor noticed my discomfort immediately. And of course, he preened like a peacock. Chest out. Shoulders back. Abs on full display. He strutted through the water like a man with not a single ounce of shame in his divine body. Because, let's be honest, he was gorgeous. And he knew it. I tried. Gods above, I tried to keep my gaze neutral. But then I looked. I actually looked. I saw the entire overflowing bulge. Gods. I felt my face heat. I just prayed I was not tomato colored.
That was all the invitation he needed. His grin turned feral. And then, in the most exaggerated, obnoxious, theatrical way possible, he adjusted himself. Right in front of me. With eye contact. The noise I made was… undignified. Somewhere between a dying cat and a balloon losing air.
Malvor beamed like he'd just won the cosmos. "Oh, Annie," he purred, wicked amusement curling through every syllable. "Are you okay?"
And then, he sang. "Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?" Complete with dancing. Hip-heavy, water-splashing, speedo-clinging dancing.
I dragged a hand down my face. "You are so obnoxious."
He spun in the water like some demented aquatic ballerina and winked. "And yet," he purred, "you're still watching."
"Swim with me, Annie?" His voice was silk and sin.
"No." Immediate. Deadpan.
"Annie Amore, swiiiim-mmm." He dragged the word into a whine.
I raised a brow. "Amore? Did you finally run out of obnoxious English nicknames?"
He grinned wider, sharp as broken glass. "Oh, Annie hot cheeks, not even close. I could use every language ever spoken. Fifteen fluently, not counting the dead ones."
"Aren't you clever," I muttered, very deliberately not looking anywhere near his hips.
He smacked his lips. "Certified genius, darling. My brain processes faster than yours—"
"Then why," I cut in smoothly, "do I get you so flustered and out of words?"
His mouth actually dropped open. A perfect stunned O. I smirked. Victory. Then, without a flicker of shame, he strode out of the pool. Water cascading, muscles cut by golden light, that ridiculous speedo clinging worse out here than it had in the water. I refused to look. Absolutely refused. I had already made that mistake. His low chuckle told me he knew I was struggling. "I am obviously not the only flustered one, Annie-kins."
"Screw you!" I snapped.
His grin turned lethal. "Oh, please do, Annie. Whenever you want. I'm available."
My mouth shut so fast my teeth clicked. And then… the thought slipped in, uninvited. Had I ever actually wanted that? Sex had always been a job. An expectation. Sometimes enjoyable, but never mine. Never about desire. What would it feel like to want? To truly want? Did I want him? The thought lingered too long. I didn't notice him closing the distance until his shadow fell over me. I looked up.
Gods. He was taller than me by far, towering, radiant, warm. That is rare for me. I am 5'10. Average height for a man. Most men meet me eye-to-eye, not from above. His golden-tan eyes caught mine, no smirk, no jest. Just hunger. No. Not just hunger. Something sharper. Possessive. Demanding. It terrified me. He stepped closer. Too close. His heat wrapped around me thick as danger. He smelled like melted sugar, spice, and chaos. My breath caught in my throat.
I forced my gaze to stay on his face, his face, not the shameless display happening beneath that traitorous speedo. But then he stepped closer, water sliding off his skin like the realm itself worshiped him, and something in me faltered. My eyes dipped. Just for a fraction of a second. To his lips. Malvor froze. Not in fear in recognition. His hand hovered near my cheek, fingers trembling, not touching, not daring. Before I could second-guess it, I leaned in. Barely. A breath. A tilt of my head that closed the distance he'd been afraid to cross without permission. His breath hitched. His fingers brushed my skin, feather-light, asking, not taking. Gods help me… I didn't pull away. I leaned in deeper, my breath mixing with his, the smallest, quietest yes I'd ever given in my life. Every kiss before this had been something I gave away. This one… felt like something I might be taking for myself.
Malvor kissed me.
Soft. Barely there. Just the lightest brush, feather-soft and sweet. As if he were testing something he had never dared touch before. It wasn't demanding. It wasn't chaotic. It was… careful. That startled me more than anything. He pulled back, but only slightly. His lips no longer touched mine, yet he was still right there. Close. Too close. His gaze pinned me in place, golden and hot, and it was doing something to me I didn't have words for. He didn't move. Didn't smirk. Didn't joke. He just stayed. In my space. In my face.
Waiting. For me. For something else. I couldn't tell. But the thought sent a strange thrill curling low in my stomach. What did I even want? Without thinking, I caught my bottom lip between my teeth. Just slightly. Just enough to taste the lingering sweetness of him still on my mouth. His eyes dropped instantly. Tracking. Watching every tremor. For the first time, I realized, he wasn't just waiting. He was giving me the choice.
Mine. I took it. My hands lifted on their own. His jaw. His hair. Silken strands slipping through my fingers as I pulled him back down. Malvor didn't resist. Didn't tease. He let me. The kiss was different this time. Deeper. More demanding. Not practiced. Not careful. This was messy, needy, and real. A hunger I didn't recognize until it was spilling out of me. Gods, I enjoyed it. I knew how to kiss. Knew it as a skill, perfected like everything else I had ever been trained to do. But this? This wasn't skill. This was wanting.
My fingers clenched in his hair. My breath hitched as I pressed closer. He met me there, matching my urgency, deepening the kiss with a slow, decadent roll of his mouth. My lips parted instinctively. He didn't hesitate. His tongue slid against mine, teasing, coaxing, claiming. I melted. A sound escaped me, small, unintentional, real. Malvor groaned, pulling me flush against him.
He was good at this. Infuriatingly good. And I should have expected it. But knowing and experiencing were two different things entirely. I didn't stop. Not until the kiss broke on my ragged breath. My forehead brushed his as I tried to catch air, my hands still tangled in his hair like I wasn't convinced I could let go. He didn't ruin it. Didn't cut the moment with a joke. Didn't try to twist the heat into humor. No.
He kissed me again. Hungrier. Deeper. His hands urgent now, sliding up my back, mapping curves he had only dared glance at before. I pressed into him, fingers trailing down the lines of his shoulders, across his chest, learning him by touch. He groaned into my mouth, tilting his head to take more, taste more. I had touched countless bodies. Perfected a thousand responses. But this, wanting this, was terrifying. Terrifying, and addictive.
And then, without realizing it, I slipped. Habit took over. My urgency softened into rhythm. My kisses became too precise. Practiced. My hands moved the way they always had. Not real. Not messy. Performance. Malvor felt it instantly. He broke the kiss, catching my hands in his own.
"No." The word was quiet but solid. I blinked, startled. Breath uneven. Legs slightly wobbling. Pulse hammering in my ears. A familiar panic flickered. Had I done it wrong? I should know what he wants.
"Not like this," he murmured, eyes searching mine. "Not the expectation." My fingers twitched in his grasp. He held them tighter, though gentle.
"I don't want this," he said. His voice was low, steady. "I want you. The real you." The real me.
My lips parted, but I couldn't speak. How? How was I supposed to give him that? I knew how to please. How to arch, how to moan, how to look up through my lashes at the right moment. I knew how to be wanted, how to be used, how to deliver satisfaction like a script drilled into my bones. But this… gods, this was different. This wasn't a role. This wasn't routine. I didn't know how to be this. So we stopped. No fight. No words. Just a quiet, slow unraveling back into ourselves. He held my hands a moment longer, as if anchoring me, then softened, releasing me. Softly, impossibly softly, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. No smirk. No arrogance. Just warmth. The gentleness stung worse than rejection. I fixed my tangled shirt as he slowly walked away.
I sat there on the edge of my bed, pulse stuttering in my veins. I rubbed my wrists. My hands still felt warm where he had held them. My skin still carried the ghost of his lips. I thought I knew what he wanted. I thought I understood desire. Intimacy. The exchange of give and take. But Malvor had stopped me. He had looked at me like I was something else entirely. Like I was missing something. That kiss on my forehead, tender, reverent. It terrified me more than any cruelty ever had. Because sex was easy. Sex was math. Rhythm. Expectation. Training. I had learned to anticipate every touch, to mold myself to fit the needs of others. My body was a temple offering. My worth, measured by performance. But this? This wasn't performance. This was unmapped territory.
What did he see in me that I couldn't? What did he want that I didn't know how to give? The truth clawed at me: I didn't know who I was when I wasn't serving someone. I didn't know what I liked. What I wanted. The thought left me restless. My body ached with unfinished tension, my mind a storm of questions. I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the echo of his touch still haunting me. For the first time in years, sleep did not come easy.