CHAPTER 191: OFFERING TO THE DIVINE (R-18)

My mouth met Ortega’s. Not hard, not asking, but taking. Slow, deep, possessing. Her lips parted, tongue meeting mine with equal ferocity. A low growl vibrated in her chest.

Ortega’s mouth was hot, fiercely responsive, but the tension in her jaw, the rigid set of her shoulders beneath my hands, screamed resistance. My thumbs continued their slow stroke along her jaw, not soothing, but mapping.

My eyes flared, highlighting the micro-tremors running through her thigh muscles where she knelt, the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, the clenched fists resting on her thighs. It wasn’t fear; it was a fortress, walls thick with pride and control, desperately wanting to be breached but refusing to crumble.

"This isn’t just taking, Ortega," I whispered against her lips, pulling back just enough to see the defiant fire in her dark eyes. "This is surrender. Let it go."

Instead of forcing her, I shifted. My palms slid from her face, down her neck, over the strong slope of her shoulders, and finally settled on her hands where they rested on her thighs. I wrapped my fingers around hers, not forcefully, but with undeniable presence.

My thumbs pressed into the centers of her palms. The Eye pulsed – intense nerve endings, a direct line. I circled the pressure points there, hard and deliberate, a strange, grounding counterpoint to the fire building between us.

A sharp hiss escaped her, but her fists unclenched slightly. Her gaze faltered, dropping to our joined hands for a split second before snapping back to mine, the defiance now mixed with something else – startled vulnerability.

"Good," I murmured. I brought her hands up slowly, deliberately, placing her palms flat against my chest, right over my pounding heart.

"Feel that? That’s the rhythm of you breaking through me too." Her fingers flexed instinctively, nails scraping lightly against my skin. I held her there, letting her feel the heat, the life force pounding into her palms.

My mouth descended again, slower this time, exploring. I traced the full curve of her lower lip with my tongue before delving inside, not to plunder, but to explore the velvet heat, to match the rhythm of my breathing to hers.

I inhaled sharply; she did the same. I exhaled slowly; a ragged gasp followed her. It was a hypnotic pulse, a shared breath becoming a shared heartbeat.

The Eye guided my free hand, not to her core, but to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in the thick, dark hair there.

I applied gentle, steady pressure, not pulling her closer, but anchoring her, grounding her in the moment, in the intense intimacy of the kiss, in the connection point where her hands met my chest. The other hand remained clasped around hers, a constant, warm pressure on her palm.

Ortega shuddered, a full-body wave this time. The iron control in her shoulders began to melt. Her kiss deepened, no longer just fierce, but hungry, seeking. Her tongue stroked mine with newfound urgency, a silent plea replacing the defiance.

Her hands, still pressed to my chest, curved, fingers splaying wide as if trying to absorb more of me, more of the heat, the rhythm.

I felt the change rippling through her, the crack spreading through the fortress walls. The Eye confirmed it – the tension coiled low in her belly wasn’t defensive coil anymore; it was gathering tension of a different kind, winding tighter, spiraling downwards towards release.

Her breath hitched against my mouth, becoming shallower, faster.

I pulled back just enough to speak, my lips brushing hers. "Let it fall, Ortega. Let everything fall but this feeling." My thumb pressed harder into her palm, a sharp, grounding jolt. My other hand tightened slightly in her hair. "Just us. Just now. Surrender the fight."

Her eyes, dark and liquid, locked onto mine. The last vestige of resistance flickered, then died, replaced by a raw, desperate need.

A sound escaped her, half-sob, half-groan, as her body finally yielded the fight, leaning into me, into the kiss, into the shared breath and the pulsing point of contact on her palm.

Three women, offering themselves up, glistening under the warm light, their bodies flushed and waiting.

*

The scent of sex and oil hung thick in the air, a physical weight. Victoria sprawled against the dresser, boneless but flushed. Anya leaned against the wall, thighs still trembling. Ortega lay on the rug, chest heaving, sweat-slicked skin catching the low light.

But the lethargy was an illusion. Passed through like a storm front. One by one, their eyes lifted. Found Eros. And the emptiness he’d left behind wasn’t exhaustion. It was an ache. A void demanding to be filled.

Victoria pushed herself up, swaying slightly. Her dark hair clung to her neck and temples. Her lips were swollen, bitten raw. But her eyes... they weren’t soft anymore. They were wide, black, burning with a feverish intensity.

She took a shaky step towards him, then another. Her voice came out rough, torn.

"Eros." It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration. "Enough tasting. Enough... playing. I need you inside me. Now."

Anya pushed off the wall, hair a tangled halo. Her movements were lethally graceful, predatory. She didn’t walk to him; she closed the distance with silent intent until she was within inches.

Her silver eyes, usually cool analytic instruments, blazed like molten metal. No tremor remained. Only a coiled power humming for release. She looked him straight in the eye, her voice low, sharp, cutting through the haze.

"You showed us your mouth, Eros. You showed us your hands. Show us your cock. Fuck me. Hard." She didn’t blink. "Don’t make me ask twice."

Ortega rose with contained, powerful grace. No flush of shame. No hint of surrender. Her dark eyes, intense and unreadable moments before, now held a stark, primal hunger that mirrored the others but was colder, deeper, infinitely more dangerous.

She didn’t approach quickly. She took her time, each step deliberate, radiating command. When she stood before him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, her gaze held his.

Her voice wasn’t rough. It wasn’t a plea. It was steel wrapped in velvet. A verdict.

"You have taken us apart with your mouth, Eros. You have mapped our skin with your hands. Now rebuild us. With your body." A pause, thick with unspoken power. "Fuck us. All of us. Until we forget our own names. Until we only know yours."

He stood utterly still in the center of the room. The air crackled with their collective demand, a palpable force pressing against him. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. His gaze swept over them, taking in Victoria’s feverish need, Anya’s cold fire, Ortega’s terrifying certainty. He saw the way their bodies leaned towards him, not in submission now, but in claiming.

The challenge hung heavy, thick as the scent of their release.

His own eyes, dark and unreadable as polished stone, blazed with a newfound intensity. Not the focused heat of the Eye mapping skin, but the abyssal depth of unleashed intent. The predatory stillness broke.

A slow, deliberate breath expanded his chest.

He didn’t speak a word. The silence was his answer. The slight shift of his weight, the tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze dropped pointedly from their burning eyes down the lines of their sweat-slicked bodies, lingering on the curves and hollows he’d already conquered and now intended to possess.

The dance floor was clear.