Slowly, she rose up and then sank down on him. Fully joined, she could feel every inch of him inside her, and for one breathless second, they both went still, savoring the sensation. Then she started moving.

Piers slowly exhaled. His eyes grew heavy-lidded. He watched her from under a gleaming, pleasure-hooded gaze, touching her breasts as she slid on him. He tugged on her nipples, lightly at first and then with a hint of roughness that brought Sophie to the brink of orgasm. She held off, keeping the hot pulse from exploding inside her too quickly. Piers took over rocking her. He threw his head back, eyes closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling. The fire-bright pressure mounted. His grip tightened, and he pulled her hard against him. Sophie gasped. She clenched all over, and release pounded through her. Piers joined her with a groan, his hard throbbing adding to her pleasure.

“Wow,” she murmured. Breathing as if she’d just run a marathon, Sophie sank down against his chest and nestled her forehead into his neck, careful of his shoulder. She kept making little noises she couldn’t seem to control and didn’t want to. She couldn’t stop kissing him. Chest. Neck. Jaw. Mouth. Piers wrapped his arms around her.

“Sophronia mou.” He sighed her name this time, a low, satisfied rumble.

She smiled. She didn’t mind when Piers used her full name, and the way he rolled the r made her shiver.

They stayed all tangled up in each other for a long time, the room dark except for the city light streaming in through the window and the eerie blue glow of the Shard of Olympus. Piers’s stomach eventually growled.

“I’ll order room service.” Sophie tried to motivate her muscles to move. They felt like jelly.

“Meat,” Piers said.

She grinned, reaching for the menu. “You got it.”

CHAPTER 7

Piers had two words to describe Sophie. Incredible. Terrifying. Her idea to visit a museum filled with works from what she called “Classical Antiquity” and find sculptures of ancient Greek gods, especially Athena, seemed solid. A good place to start, anyway. If nothing about the ice shard’s behavior or any of the statues gave them a hint as to how to return the shard to an Olympian, they’d try a museum with more modern interpretations of Greek mythology.

He shook his head. What he called reality, she called mythology. What he called every-day life, she called ancient civilization. It was enough to make a man feel old and senile.

And what manner of idiot had decided to call important houses of knowledge Met and MoMA? They sounded like names you’d give pets, not places.