Malvor noticed her 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.
Anastasia, to her credit, tried to keep her gaze neutral.
She really did.
But then she made the mistake of looking.
And Malvor grinned.
Then, in the most exaggerated, obnoxious, theatrical way possible, he adjusted himself.
Right in front of her.
With eye contact.
Anastasia made the sound of a dying cat mixed with a deflating balloon.
Malvor beamed.
"Oh, Annie," he purred, "are you okay?"
Something wicked crossed his expression.
And then—
He sang the words to her.
"Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?"
Complete with a dance.
A dance that featured—entirely too much—hip action.
Water splashed. His stupid, stupid speedo clung. The whole scene was an onslaught of smug male ego.
Anastasia dragged a hand down her face.
"You are so obnoxious."
Malvor spun dramatically in the water, winking.
"And yet," he purred, "you're still watching."
"Swim with me, Annie?" Malvor teased, voice smooth as silk.
"No." Deadpan. Immediate.
"Annie Amore, swiiiim-mmm." He dragged out the last syllable in a whine, eyes glinting with mischief.
Anastasia raised a brow. "Amore? Did you finally run out of obnoxious English nicknames?"
Oh. Mouthing now, is she?
Malvor grinned. He could work with this.
"Annie hot cheeks, I am afraid that is a no. But I could speak to you in most languages."
Her brow lifted slightly.
"Oh yes, my lovely, I am fluent in more than fifteen languages. Not including the old dialects of any of them."
"Aren't you just so clever," she deadpanned, still very deliberately not looking anywhere near his hips.
He smacked his lips. "Oh, I am a certified genius. Comes with being divine. My brain actually holds so much more information. It processes faster than yours—"
"Then why do I get you so flustered and out of words?" she interrupted smoothly.
His mouth dropped open. A perfect, stunned O.
Anastasia smirked.
Then, without a single ounce of shame, Malvor strode out of the water, somehow looking even better than before.
She did not look.
Absolutely did not.
And still—his low, knowing chuckle told her he knew she was struggling.
"I am obviously not the only flustered one, Annie-kins," he purred, eyes dark with amusement.
"Fuck you!" she snapped.
His grin turned wicked. "Oh, please do, Annie. Whenever you want, I am available."
Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
She paused.
A thought, unbidden, coiled in the back of her mind.
Had she ever wanted that?
Sex had always been enjoyable enough, but it was just a job. Just an expectation.
What would wanting be like?
Wanting another person?
She was so lost in the thought she didn't notice him moving until he was right in front of her.
Towering. Close.
She startled, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze. Rare for her. At 5'10", there weren't many people who could stand over her like this.
But he had to be at least seven inches taller.
Their eyes met—her bright, electric blue against his golden tan.
And the look he gave her—
Oh.
It wasn't just hunger.
It wasn't just lust.
It was something more.
Something hot and demanding, something possessive.
Like a man who had been waiting for something longer than he cared to admit.
And that thought?
That terrified her.
Malvor stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that she could feel his warmth, the radiant heat of him wrapping around her like something tangible. They were sharing breath now, the space between them so thin it may as well have vanished.
And gods—he smelled sweet.
Like sugar, like caramel, like something decadent and dangerous.
His golden-tan eyes locked onto hers, and for the first time, there was no smirk.
No teasing.
Just staring.
His hand found her waist—slow, deliberate. Warm fingers resting against the curve of her hip as if he had all the time in the world to touch her.
Then his other hand rose, fingertips barely grazing her cheek.
Anastasia didn't move.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't even breathe.
And Malvor… he leaned in.
Slowly.
So agonizingly slow.
His nose brushed hers. His lips hovered right there, close enough that she could feel the ghost of his breath.
And then—
A kiss.
Soft. Barely there. Just the lightest brush, feather-soft and sweet, as if testing the weight of something he hadn't dared touch before.
It wasn't demanding.
It wasn't chaotic.
It was… careful.
And that, more than anything, startled her.
Malvor pulled away—but only barely.
His lips were no longer on hers, but he was still right there.
Close.
Too close.
And gods above, his gaze was doing something to her.
Something new.
Something she wasn't sure she had ever felt before.
He still didn't move. Didn't pull back, didn't smirk, didn't crack a joke. He just stayed—in her space, in her face.
Was he waiting?
For her?
For something else?
The thought sent a strange thrill through her, something deep and uncertain curling low in her stomach.
What did she want?
Without thinking, she curled her bottom lip into her mouth—just slightly. Just enough to taste him, the lingering sugar-spun sweetness of his kiss still on her lips.
Malvor's gaze dropped instantly.
Tracking.
Watching every small movement.
His golden eyes burned, dark and hot, following the way her teeth caught her lip, the subtle shift of her breath, the tiniest tremor in her composure.
He saw it all.
And for the first time, she realized—
He wasn't just waiting.
He was giving her the choice.
A choice.
Her choice.
And she takes it.
Anastasia's hands found his face—his jaw, his hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers as she pulled him back to her mouth.
Malvor let her.
No resistance. No teasing.
Just giving in.
The kiss was deeper this time. More demanding.
She wasn't just kissing him—she was exploring. Testing the feeling, the want curling in her gut, the heat spreading through her chest.
And gods, she enjoyed it.
She knew how to kiss.
It was a skill. Something she had perfected over the years.
But this kiss?
This was sloppy.
This was needy.
This was not controlled.
She needed more.
Malvor felt that shift, sensed the way her fingers tightened in his hair, the way her breath hitched as she pressed closer. He matched her, deepening the kiss with a slow, decadent roll of his mouth against hers.
Her lips parted—instinct, habit—
And he took full advantage.
His tongue slid against hers, teasing, coaxing, claiming, and she melted into it.
A small sound escaped her throat—something unintentional, something real—and Malvor groaned in response, fingers tightening on her waist as he pulled her flush against him.
She should have expected that he'd be good at this.
That he'd be insufferably good at this.
But knowing it and experiencing it were two entirely different things.
Malvor didn't stop.
Didn't think about stopping.
Not until she did.
Not until she broke the kiss, panting, her breath warm against his lips, her chest rising and falling as if she was trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Her hands were still in his hair, her fingers still curled around his face—like she hadn't fully convinced herself to let go yet.
And for once—for once—
He didn't ruin it by talking.
Didn't cut the moment with some smug remark, didn't throw out a joke to lighten the absolute destruction she had just left on him.
No.
He opened his mouth—
Only to press it right back to hers.
Because gods, he wasn't done.
Because he wanted more.
So much more.
And she let him.
No hesitation, no pulling away.
This time, there was no teasing, no playing around. Just taking.
Both of them taking everything.
Malvor wasn't done.
And neither was she.
The moment their lips met again, something shifted—something deeper, hungrier.
Their hands became more urgent.
His fingers tightened against her waist, sliding up her back, tracing the curves he had only glanced at before. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft beneath his touch, and gods—he wanted to memorize it.
Anastasia moved just as boldly.
Her hands roamed from his face, dragging through his damp hair before slipping down his neck, his shoulders—feeling him, learning the exact shape of him beneath her fingers.
He groaned into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it, to taste more—take more.
Her hands pressed against his chest, mapping the firm planes of muscle, the heat of his skin beneath her palms. She had touched a thousand bodies before, but this?
This was different.
Because she wanted this wanted him.
Without realizing it, she slipped into habit.
The urgency faded.
Her movements became practiced, fluid—not in a passionate way, but in a way that was too smooth, too precise.
Her kisses, once messy and real, became controlled. Deliberate.
It wasn't the same desperate, exploratory hunger from before. It was something rehearsed. Something learned.
Her hands, once curious, once seeking, moved with the grace of muscle memory.
Malvor felt the shift immediately.
And he hated it.
He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to stop her hands, gently catching them in his own.
"No."
His voice was quiet but firm.
Anastasia blinked, caught off guard, her breath still uneven.
"Not like this," he murmured, his golden-tan eyes searching hers. "Not the expectation."
Her fingers tensed slightly in his grasp.
"I don't want this."
Her lips parted slightly, a flicker of something—uncertainty—crossing her face.
His grip on her hands softened, but he didn't let go.
"I want you," he said, voice lower now, more steady. "All of you. The real you."
Not the performance.
Not the role.
Her.
She paused.
Wanting him.
But not knowing how to give him what he wanted.
Not knowing how to break the monotony of sex, the rhythm she had learned so well, the patterns she had perfected.
She had always known what to do, how to move, how to please.
But this?
This was different.
And she didn't know how to be different.
So they stopped.
Not with words. Not with a fight.
Just a slow, quiet pulling away.
Malvor exhaled, still holding her hands for a moment longer before finally letting go.
And then—soft, softer than she could have imagined—he leaned in, pressing a single, lingering kiss to her forehead.
No smirk. No teasing. No arrogance.
Just warmth.
Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room.
What in the hells was that?
She sat on the edge of her bed, her pulse still unsteady, her hands still warm where he had held them.
She had thought she knew what he wanted. Thought she understood desire, intimacy, the way people took and gave in equal measure.
But Malvor had stopped her.
Had looked at her like she was missing something.
And that kiss…
Not on her lips, not to stoke fire, not to take.
Just a simple, lingering press to her forehead.
It had been tender.
And that?
That terrified her.
She had never needed tenderness. Never been offered it in a way that wasn't wrapped in expectation.
Sex was easy. It was a rhythm she had followed her entire life.
But this?
This was unmapped territory.
And she didn't know how to navigate it.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the ghost of his lips on her skin.
And for the first time in years, sleep did not come easy.
Malvor walked out of the house.
He had to.
He needed space. Needed the cool night air to shock some sense back into him.
What in the hells was that?
She had wanted him. That much was clear.
And gods, he had wanted her too.
But then she had shifted—just slightly, just enough for him to feel it—and suddenly, it wasn't her kissing him anymore. It was a mask. A performance. Something trained, something practiced.
Something expected.
And he did not want that.
He wanted her.
Her wicked smirks, her blunt words, her knowing glances. Her stubborn way of avoiding his nonsense, the rare and infuriating way she indulged it.
He wanted to see that look on her face again—that brief, fleeting moment where she grinned, truly, freely.
That was what he wanted.
And she… didn't know how to give it.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.
This was not what he had planned.
This was not what he had wanted to feel.
He had taken her to piss off the other gods.
And now?
Now he wasn't sure who had actually won.