I know she’s using humor to deal with the unexpected turns this night has brought her, but it still irritates me. “I don’t have to marry you, you know?”
“Except I kind of think you do. You don’t seem the type to do anything without a good reason—and it’s not because I was nice to you for fifteen minutes at a party once. You don’t have to tell me, but let’s stop pretending that this is one-sided, yes?”
That’s the problem; I’m not sure I do have a deeper reason for embarking on this with her. Maybe she doesn’t realize what a big deal that moment was because she’s used to moving through life, dealing out small kindnesses on a regular basis. That’s not my world. If I admit as much, she’ll laugh in my face, and I can’t blame her for it. What kind of monster am I that I hesitate to crush a single rose? I don’t like the idea of the world without her bright presence in it. If I want to keep her alive, to keep her uncrushed, this is the only option available to us.
If I were a good man, I would offer to find her a way out of Olympus. Exile is harsh, but she’s a smart woman who will shortly have access to a giant trust fund. She would miss her family, but she would land on her feet. My mother doesn’t give a fuck about anything outside the city limits—not when it’s so damned difficult to get in and out of Olympus—so it’s as foolproof a plan as possible.
Except that puts Psyche right out of my reach, too.
I want her. Want her with an intensity that doesn’t make sense but that I can’t deny. I mean to have her.
I drift after her as she snoops around my place, making cute little disparaging comments about the bold black tile that floors the entire place and the thick dark-red curtains that bracket the floor-to-ceiling windows and the mirrors that populate every room. She even pokes around inside my fridge before giving me a long look. “You have a chef. Interesting. I would have thought you were too paranoid to let many people into this place.”
I prop my hip against the kitchen counter and cross my arms over my chest. “What makes you say that?”
“Your fridge is fully stocked. If you ate out all the time, you’d have takeout containers, or it would be empty. Your vegetables are all fresh, which suggests they actually get utilized.”
All great deductions, but it doesn’t explain how she leaped straight to chef. “And?”
Psyche somehow manages to look down her nose at me despite being a good six inches shorter. “Please, Eros. Someone as high maintenance as you are doesn’t cook for yourself.”
“Someone’s making assumptions again.”
She frowns at me, and even her frown is cute. “Don’t tell me you cook.”
“I cook. I’m good at it, too.” When she keeps frowning at me, I find myself elaborating. “You were right about my not liking people in my space, and cooking is one of the ways I wind down.”
Her frown fades, replaced by a look of intense curiosity. “And the other ways?”
“I work out.” I watch her face closely. “I fuck.”
Her complexion goes a bright tomato red, which is fascinating in the extreme. The only other time she’s looked ruffled is at the thought of her death. That I’ve affected her supports my growing suspicion that she’s just as attracted to me as I am to her.
“That won’t work.”
I blink. “It’s worked just fine for me up to this point.”
“I’m sure it has.” She recovers quickly and waves that away. “Sex is a great stress reliever.”
I push off the counter and stalk in her direction. Slowly. Giving her plenty of time to see me coming and decide what she’s going to do about it. “Do you fuck, Psyche?”
“That’s really none of your business.” Her voice goes a little breathy as I stop in front of her and lean forward, planting my hands on the counter on either side of her generous hips. “What are you doing?”
“Practice.” I’m a godsdamned liar, but it’s as good a reason as any. “You can’t jump every time I get within touching distance. No one will believe that we’re fucking like rabbits if you do.” Every time I say the word fucking, she flinches a little bit. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.
She reaches up cautiously, almost as if she expects me to bite her, and gingerly places her hands on my chest. “There? Can we continue the conversation now?”
What conversation? I can’t string two thoughts together with her hands on me, and she’s not doing anything but planting them on my pecs as if preparing to shove me off her. I fight a valiant battle with my body to keep from reacting like I’m a horny teenager being touched for the first time. I was never this ridiculous, even when I was sixteen. It doesn’t speak well to my sanity that she affects me on this level. We’re in trouble.
Kiss her.
Seduce her.
That will get it out of your system.
I ignore the whispered temptation and try to focus. “What conversation?”
“You can’t have sex with anyone.” Her fingers shift a little against my shirt. “I’m not polyamorous and everyone in my family knows it. They also realize that I’d gut my partner before I stayed with them after they cheated on me. You can’t be with anyone else while we’re married.”
I honestly hadn’t planned on it. Sex is exactly what I labeled it: a tool to help me let off some steam and wind down. I have a good time. My partners have a good time. Everyone has clear expectations. It might sound like I’m a user, but the truth is that I’m no prize and everyone in Olympus knows it. Anyone I try to date has to deal with the mother-in-law from Tartarus, and that’s not even touching on my reputation as her fixer. I’m the guy they fuck, the guy who gives them a ride on the wild side before they move on to safer choices to settle down with. That’s the way it is, and it’s always been enough for me.
That doesn’t mean I’m about to confess that truth to Psyche without prompting. Not when this is just another negotiation. “Psyche.” I like the way her name tastes on my tongue. I suspect I’ll like the way she tastes even more. “I have needs.”
“I suggest you get familiar with your hand, then.” She has a stubborn set to her brows that I enjoy far too much. “Or, if you want to get fancy, I’m more than capable of purchasing you one of those toys that mimic your hole of choice.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. “Will you be content with your hand or a little buzzy toy?”
“I have had dry spells before. More often than not in recent months, those dry spells have been the rule rather than the exception.” She shrugs as if it’s a fact of life and not a godsdamned tragedy.
I slide my hands closer to her, pressing my forearms to her hips. She jolts a little, and I raise my brows. “The surest way to have you settle into the idea of me touching you is through exposure therapy. Sex will speed up that process.”
She blinks those big hazel eyes at me. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you just suggested sex with you as exposure therapy.”
“I did.”
“You really have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, so I ignore the question. “I’m attracted to you. You don’t find me overly repulsive.”
“Wow, you really do think highly of yourself.”
“I’m stating facts. Sex is the easiest way to fast-track to the results we want.” The easiest way to get exactly what I want.
Maybe it’ll be just another sexual encounter. Desire, sex, wake up the next morning with that need purged. We never have to do it again; we’re more than capable of sharing the same space without making things uncomfortable. She’s too good at playing the game to do otherwise, and control is never something I’ve had an issue with.
Until now.
“No. Absolutely not. I don’t know what you see when you look at me that makes you assume I’d happily have sex with a man who was set to murder me an hour ago, but I have higher standards than that.” She puts the slightest amount of pressure against my chest. “Back off, Eros. Now.”