For a second, I think he’s talking to me, but Meg responds easily. “It’s because you’re a man. No matter what I do, they like to see me as nurturing.”
“Silly them.”
She gives me a sharp smile and then focuses on Jasmine. “Come for me, pretty girl. I have a long night ahead of me, and your pussy clenching around my fingers when you come is going to get me through it.”
I’m blushing again, but it’s not desire. It’s a toxic combination of embarrassment and anger. Meg might not be putting this show on for me—I’m not delusional—but she’s allowing it to be punishment in its own way. I cross my arms over my chest. “By all means, take your fucking time.”
For the first time since I walked up to the table, she lets what she’s really feeling filter into her blue eyes. Anger. Hurt. Desire. “Don’t worry, little Hercules. I will.”
Chapter 17
Meg
The words barely leave my mouth when Jafar intervenes. He catches my wrist and carefully extracts my hand from between Jasmine’s thighs. “That’s about enough of that.” He gives me a long look. “Go deal with your shit, Meg. She’s not your toy to use to prove a point.”
I start to protest that I know that, that Jasmine’s special to me, even if it’s a friendship that occasionally allows for insanely hot fucking. But ultimately, he’s her Dom and he’s right. I might have started this little tease with her at the center of my motivation, but the second Hercules walked up, everything shifted.
Jafar readjusts Jasmine’s dress to cover her breasts. She makes a protesting sound, but he leans down and gives her a quick kiss. “We’ll go to your favorite room in back.”
“The study?” Just like that, she doesn’t seem all that concerned that I left her hanging. She twists to face him fully. “Right now?”
“Yes, baby girl. Right now.”
I scoot out of the booth and move so they can do the same. Something akin to jealousy sours my stomach as Jafar takes Jasmine’s hand and leads her to the door that will take them deeper into the Underworld. They’re headed to the private room designed just like an upscale study, but if I know them—and I do—they’ll allow for an audience. If Jafar is in the mood, maybe even some outside participation. He knows what Jasmine wants, what she needs, and he never hesitates to provide.
“Meg.”
I forget, for half a second, that Hercules stands at my side. A living reminder of how little control I have in my own life, of how little my needs matter. Hades plays his games. Hercules obeys, no matter the cost. Where does that leave me? Scrambling to patch up the heart that Hades keeps shredding, over and over again. Every time he turns away instead of reaching out to me, it’s like Declan abandoning me but a thousand times worse because I was infatuated with Declan. I love Hades. I love him so much I stay despite the tiny cuts he deals out during every conversation, unintentionally or not. I swallow hard, hating the burning in my throat. “Let’s go.”
Another night, another scene with Hades as he draws Hercules deeper. I shouldn’t resent the man walking at my back for holding so much of my lover’s attention, but it’s hard not to feel like they’re leaving me out in the cold. Maybe not physically, but emotionally. I should be used to it by now. Hades and I are too broken. We guard our jagged pieces like junkyard dogs with their dubious treasure. I can’t remember the last time I let myself be truly vulnerable, so I guess I’m as much to blame as he is. That knowledge doesn’t cheer me in the least.
Hercules doesn’t speak until he closes the door to Hades’s public office behind us. “You’re mad at me.”
Mad. Hurt. Too raw to admit to any of it. It’s not fair to be angry with Hercules for being privy to a part of Hades that used to be mine alone. Maybe it’s not even fair to be angry with Hades about it, either. Relationships change. Maybe I’m the one to blame, the one who’s too stubborn and stupid to let go of something that’s no longer working. The one hanging on when it’s pretty damn obvious I’m being replaced.
I sound more tired than angry when I say, “Hardly. You’re being a good little submissive. The best Hades could ask for. Who am I to complain?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
He touches my shoulder. Of course he does. Requesting, always polite to the bitter end. Never grabbing, never demanding. I want to rail against him, but it’s just who Hercules is. I allow him to turn me to face him, and then I can’t help but drink in the sight of him. His body is sun-kissed carved stone, and it’s revealed in all its glory by the tiny shorts that barely cover his cock and ass. The collar around his thick neck thrills me even as I tell myself not to feel that way.