Page 85 of Ungodly Rich

“You like it when I don’t,” he replied hoarsely. And then he kissed her.

The kiss began slow, languid, like they had all the time in the world, like it didn’t matter that they were tangled in an armchair, her body atop his. Zeus slid his hands around Hera’s hips, anchoring her in place. Before she’d realized it, he’d tucked a hand beneath her skirt, to settle between her legs. When he slid a finger inside her, she moaned.

It wasn’t fair that he could make her feel like this. It wasn’t fair that their marriage was so fraught, that she loved him and resented him and was addicted to him all at the same time. All those feelings swirled dangerously in her core, making her feel like she would combust.

Hera knew precisely how this would end. She would have Zeus for one overwhelming, intoxicating night, and then she would spend another length of time waiting for him. Wondering when lightning would strike once more. Hoping, and second-guessing, and hating herself for being so damned wifely, sitting around pining for her husband. Craving another jolt that would bring her to this delirious high.

She had more in common with Dionysus than she realized, Hera thought dimly. She was no better than any mortal with an addiction.

Right now, though, Hera couldn’t bring herself to care. She wanted so desperately to fall into bed with Zeus. Ornotbed, she realized as he slid her underwear down her legs. Perhaps they wouldn’t leave the sitting room, wouldn’t budge from this very chair. It was so unlike her, Hera thought, and felt oddly fond of this new version of herself. She liked this Hera: the one who talked back to her husband, who kept secrets from him, who had sex in a chair.

Zeus seemed to like the new Hera, too. So she let him have her, to hell with the consequences.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Julia

Percy would be proud, Julia thought with a satisfied nod at her own reflection. She was wearing a white Staud romper with bell sleeves, which covered her arms but left her long, tanned legs entirely bare. She’d paired it with studded gold hoops, flat blue sandals, and a raffia tote bag that made the whole thing feel more casual, and therefore, more like her.

She and Harry were getting married in less than a month. And to her relief, her new attitude was starting to work: the more she stood up for herself, the more the Ellenes seemed to respect her. Tara hadn’t even protested when Julia announced that she’d called Vera Wang and requested a change to her wedding gown, trading the skirts of floral Alençon lace for simple-cut tulle.

“It’s your dress; you have to love it,” Tara had agreed, and proceeded to invite Julia to a day spa for some “pre-wedding pampering.”

She’s finally warming up to me,Julia had thought proudly. Though for some reason, she hadn’t felt especially relaxed after the massage. Wedding nerves.

She and Harry were about to go uptown to make the very last wedding decision, this time about the cake. The old Julia would have asked why they were flying down a cake instead of using a pastry chef in Georgia, and why this tasting was happening at Bruce and Tara’s apartment instead of a bakery. Now she knew. They weren’t flying down the cake; it would grow stale, even on a private plane. They were flying down thechef.

And of course, when you were an Ellene, you didn’t go to people at their place of work. People came to you.

When she stepped into the bedroom, Harry looked up from where he lay sprawled on the bed, hands laced behind his head. “You look amazing,” he told Julia, and swallowed. “Maybe even a little intimidating.”

Good. That was precisely what Julia had been going for.

It was harder to draw upon that confidence when they stepped into the Ellenes’ entry hall. The penthouse was so painfully lavish, with its sweeping city views and marble fireplaces and custom silk pillows, carefully arranged on sofas that Julia was terrified to sit on.

“Harry! There you are!” Heels clicked on the marble floors as Tara Ellene sailed forward to hug her son.

Julia saw the moment that Tara noticed her and took in her outfit: the designer handbag, the chic romper, the sandals. “Well, don’t you look lovely,” Tara murmured.

“Thank you,” Julia said simply.

What was that saying about speaking truth to power? Perhaps in this case, Julia was speaking money to money. Perhaps she should have started doing it long ago.

“Everyone is already here,” Tara explained, lacing an arm around Harry’s forearm as she led him into the living room. “Frances is in the kitchen now, plating slices of her favorite cakes. Wait until you taste her icing! She is a creative genius….”

Julia didn’t hear the rest of what Tara was saying. Her attention had shifted to a lithe, blond figure rising from an armchair. What wasValentinedoing here?

“I hope you don’t mind that Hector and I dropped by.” Valentine’ssmile faltered a little when she registered Julia’s appearance, but then she gestured to her husband, her voice lowering. “He has such a sweet tooth, he couldn’t pass up the chance to eat extra wedding cake.”

“Hector,” Harry said warily.

“Harry.” Hector echoed his tone, without stepping forward to hug his brother.

Julia’s heart ached at the stiffness of the interaction. Ever since she and Harry had moved to New York, the brothers had danced around each other—exchanging shallow niceties at family dinners or events, quickly turning aside and talking to other people.

She wondered when—or rather if—Hector would forgive Harry for the affair. After all, he’d forgiven Valentine, hadn’t he?

“I’m so glad you could both join!” Julia directed her warm words at Hector, deliberately ignoring his wife. “No way can Harry and I eat all this cake without help.”