Hotter Than Hell(24)

“Why?” I kiss him again, at the base of his throat. My breasts rub against his chest and his hands snake down to cup me tight against him. He is hard, and I feel a moment of astonishment at how ready I am for him. I hook my leg around his hip and he takes me in one long slow movement. I groan.



“Because I am a monster,” whispers the Minotaur hoarsely, moving inside me with delicious strength. “I have always been so, since the beginning.”



“No,” I murmur, and cry out as he gently squeezes my breast.



“There is a legend native to your age and time,” he says, breathless as he thrusts hard—once, twice—then slows his pace, drawing me out. “The Minotaur in the labyrinth, a beast of sacrifice and blood. Child of a queen and a God.”



I have trouble speaking, thinking. The Minotaur leans against the edge of the hot spring; I move against him, riding his body, and manage with some difficulty to say, “I know that myth.”



The Minotaur grabs my hips, thrusting up, dragging me down. Again and again he does this. I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his neck as we bury ourselves in each other with such force I feel stolen by pleasure, near death with it, as though my heart surely cannot beat one more moment at such a frantic rhythm.



I break first, my body clutching around the Minotaur in such brutal waves that all I can do is writhe, breath rattling with pleasure. I expect the Minotaur to follow, but before my body is done he turns me and thrusts again, still hard, hot, only now I am bent at the waist with nothing to hold on to but his hands on my hips as he pounds into my body with quick sharp strokes, faster and faster, frantic. I come again and again, helpless to stop him, unwilling to stop him even though the pleasure is too much. His hands move; he touches me, stroking, and I am rocked into one final climax that the Minotaur finally joins, his voice rumbling into a bellow.



We drift in the hot water—spent, exhausted—until, finally, the Minotaur pulls me to shore and we lean against each other, breathing hard in the silence of the labyrinth. For the first time in my life I feel truly satisfied—comfortable and safe—though those feelings do not last long. I turn my head, brushing my lips against the Minotaur’s arm, and say, “You were telling me something.”



He kisses the top of my head. “I was.”



“And?”



“And you are not easily distracted,” he rumbles, sighing. “So. You know the myth. You know what else is part of it.”



“Death,” I say. “The deaths of young men and women.”



“That part, at least, is true.” The Minotaur drags in a deep ragged breath. “The king thought to use me as a weapon against his enemies. So he made me a monster. Fitted me with the helmet, took away my name by magic so that I would know myself as nothing else, and then enchanted me into the labyrinth. He wanted fear and so he made it. In me.”



“So you killed,” I say carefully, because to utter those words feels almost as terrible as the crime. The Minotaur, though, makes a low sound—frustration, maybe—and I feel him shake his head.



“I did not,” he says in a hard voice. “Or rather, I did not mean to. The young men who found me attacked with all their fear and fury, and I was forced to defend myself. The girls I did not touch, though I tried to help them. They ran from me. They ran into the darkness of the labyrinth and hurt themselves on the rocks, or were killed by the creatures who inhabit the maze.”



“How long did that go on?”



“Years. Until the king was murdered by his enemies. His death sealed the gate into the labyrinth. At least, that particular gate.”



“With you in it.”



“Forever. Though the king, in a fit of humor before his death, left me one chance of escape.”



“Ah,” I say. “And is that where I come in?”



“If you wish,” he says slowly. “But it will be dangerous.”



“Harpies?”



“Worse.” The Minotaur holds me close. “The king’s own magic.”



I close my eyes. I try to make sense of what he has told me, but it is no use; his words live like a fairy tale inside my head, indistinct, but full of simple truths—a prince, cursed, trapped in the heart of a tangle—and I, the poor woman lured to his aid. A golden goose will be next, I think; mice who talk, or a woman with hair as long as a river.



“Is there light here?” I ask the Minotaur. “Real light? Any at all?”



He hesitates. “There is. It is part of something I would have shown you later.”