The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 455: Sleeping with a deity – 1

Haryntha’s eyes widened. The firelight caught the sudden flush that rose along her throat. “Jolthar,” she said, her voice sharper than usual, “what are you doing?”

He glanced over his shoulder, completely unbothered by his growing nudity.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he continued to peel away the last of his undergarments, leaving him bare in the flickering glow.

“What does it look like? I’m covered in sweat and whatever that black sludge was. I’m not sleeping next to you smelling like a dead nynthrall’s armpit.”

He turned fully to face her, making no effort to cover himself. The firelight danced across every inch of him—the lean, battle-hardened muscles, the faint sheen of moisture on his skin, the proud, heavy length of him resting against his thigh, already half-hard from the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.

Haryntha stared for a heartbeat too long before she caught herself.

She looked away, then back, her cheeks darkening.

“You could have warned me or at least stepped behind a rock.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jolthar replied, voice low and teasing. He grabbed a strip of clean cloth from his pack and began wiping himself down, slow, deliberate strokes across his chest, down his stomach, and over his arms. Every motion was unhurried, almost performative.

“Besides, after what happened up on that sky vessel, I figured we were past the point of pretending we haven’t seen each other naked.”

She swallowed, the fire popping loudly in the sudden quiet.

“That was… different. We were… alone. The heat of the moment.”

Jolthar smiled as he saw her blushing.

“And now we’re in the literal underworld, still alive, still breathing, still very much interested in each other.”

He finished wiping his torso and tossed the cloth aside, stepping closer to the fire—closer to her. The heat from the flames licked at his bare skin, but the real warmth came from the way he looked at her, eyes dark with open hunger and mischief.

“You kissed me like you wanted to devour me, Haryntha. And I kissed you back the same way. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how your body felt grinding against mine while the wind tried to tear us apart.”

Haryntha’s breath hitched. She didn’t stand, but she didn’t look away either. The divine light in her eyes flickered, mixing with something far more mortal.

“I remember,” she admitted softly.

“Every second of it.”

Jolthar dropped to one knee in front of her, close enough that she could feel the radiant heat of his naked body. He reached out, slow enough that she could stop him, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of her jaw.

“Good. Because I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About how you tasted. About doing it again—right here, on the floor of the Depths, with nothing but your fire and my hands on you.”

Her lips parted, but no protest came. Jolthar leaned in, voice dropping to a velvet whisper that brushed against her ear.

“So tell me, Haryntha… should I proceed with what we started up there?

Should I kiss you again? Should I strip that pretty little gown off your body, lay you down by this fire, and remind you exactly how good it feels when a mortal dares to touch a goddess’s vessel?” His hand slid down her arm, fingers intertwining with hers, thumb stroking her palm.

“I’m right here. Ready. All you have to do is say yes.”

The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows that danced like lovers across the obsidian walls.

Haryntha’s eyes lingered on him far longer than divine restraint should have allowed.

The firelight painted gold across the hard lines of his chest, the faint scars that told stories of battles survived, and the heavy, half-hard length resting against his thigh.

She had seen the forms of gods and heroes across centuries, yet something about this mortal—bloodied, unashamed, and utterly present—held her gaze like a moth to flame. Her breath caught, a soft hitch that betrayed the crack in her composure.

Haryntha, the eternal keeper of the sacred hearth, felt heat pool low in her belly, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the man kneeling bare before her in the heart of darkness.

She should have looked away. Should have invoked some ancient protocol, reminded him of the gulf between mortal and divine. Instead, her fingers tightened around his, and she whispered, “Yes.”

The word was small, almost lost in the crackle of the flames, yet it carried the weight of surrender.

Jolthar’s smile was slow, knowing, and devastatingly gentle.

He didn’t pounce right away.

He rose, drawing her up with him until they stood chest to chest, the heat of his skin brushing against the thin fabric of her gown. His free hand came up, cupping her cheek with surprising tenderness, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“Then we go slow,” he murmured, his voice low and rough like distant thunder.

“No rush. Just us, the fire, and whatever this is between us.”

Haryntha nodded, her divine glow dimming to a soft ember as she let the moment settle.

Jolthar leaned in, closing the distance with deliberate care.

Their lips met again, but this time the kiss was unhurried—a slow exploration rather than a clash of wills. His mouth moved against hers with patient hunger, tasting and inviting her to respond in kind.

She did, parting her lips to let his tongue brush hers, the contact sending a shiver of golden light rippling across her skin.

The kiss deepened by fractions, each tilt of his head and each gentle press of his lips drawing her deeper into sensations. Her hands rose to rest on his bare shoulders, feeling the warm muscle beneath her palms, the steady pulse of life that made him so achingly mortal.

When they parted, both were breathing harder.

Jolthar’s eyes held hers, dark and steady.

“May I?” he asked, fingers brushing the neckline of her gown.

She nodded again, and he began to undress her with the same careful pace. The fabric slid from her shoulders like water, revealing the smooth curves of her body inch by inch—the full swell of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach, the flare of her hips, and the dark triangle of curls between her thighs. The gown pooled at her feet, leaving her bare in the firelight, her skin flushed and glowing faintly with inner power.

Jolthar stepped back just enough to look, his gaze appreciative without a hint of mockery.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, the words carrying the weight of truth rather than flattery.

“Every curve, every line—like the fire itself made flesh.”

Haryntha felt heat rise to her cheeks, a mortal reaction that surprised her.

“You speak as though you’ve seen goddesses before,” she replied, her voice soft.