Author's Note: Short one this time I know. I've been looking at other Greek mythological figures, otherwise I'd be writing nothing but Hestia tales, but I enjoyed writing this.
88888888888888888888888888
Every time she asks he says no.
Every time they make love they do so in darkness. She's felt him place silk around her eyes, linen strips, once thick scented leather that bit into her temples and wound vice-like around her slender wrists. She's seen shadows in candlelight, a glimpse of shoulder, a knee, but even after two months he still says no.
She imagines hair like jet, so long and sheer it lays twisted atop his head with velvet bands. She imagines soft sunset curls and honey eyes and skin the shade of oak. He's smooth underneath her fingertips but she still has not watched his eyes when he comes inside her; she has not seen his chest rise and fall as they lay in post-coital bliss afterwards.
Her sisters have begun to question. They mention scales and spells and monsters and they leave her wondering about the immortal she has taken to her bed, who rests his head upon her pounding breast before departing each dawn. She wonders if it's right to allow him such liberties with her body, God of Love or no. She's been wondering when it is time to stop asking.