After seeing the rest of Eros’s penthouse—each room more expensive and sleeker than the last—I finally manage to pry him off me and hide in the master bathroom. It’s just as ridiculous as the rest of the place with a tiled walk-in shower large enough to fit six people with a dozen showerheads in various strategic locations. The tile is rather pretty, though I’ll never say as much out loud. It almost looks like rose quartz, which shines attractively against the slate-gray tile on the floor. The sinks are both a shiny black and deep with faucets that are motion activated. Of course they are.
And the mirrors.
Gods, there are so many mirrors in this place.
I might own more than my fair share of mirrors back in my mother’s home, but this is truly above and beyond. They’re all massive and have ornate framing. Maybe they wouldn’t be so overwhelming if there was literally any other decoration in this place. But no. Just mirrors and minimalist furniture that has me feeling like I wandered into some strange art gallery. It’s attractive and expensive but ultimately soulless.
I’m sure it says something about Eros, but I’m too tired to connect the dots right now.
I brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush he found for me, mostly to give myself something to do, and stare at my reflection in the main mirror in this room. It’s a large horizontal one that stretches across the full length of the counter, the frame a simple black metal that shines against the tile. I sigh. This entire night has turned my plans on their head, but there’s nothing to be done. I know when to roll with the punches, even if this one is a knockout. There’s a way out of this eventually, but the only path forward right now is to marry Eros.
Marry Eros.
I might laugh if I had the breath for it. I knew he was attractive. I have eyes in my head. Of course, I knew he was attractive. Knowing still didn’t prepare me for the force of his personality when he turns all his attention in my direction. He’s not warm—I don’t think he’s capable of true warmth—but the sheer sexuality he exudes is enough to melt all my logic away to base need.
The reason I jump every time he touches me isn’t because I find the contact repulsive. It’s the exact opposite. Every time his fingers brush me or he wraps his arm around me, I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning.
He wants to have sex.
He wants to sleep together.
Being self-aware means I know all my weaknesses with the same thoroughness that I know my strengths. I am smart and savvy and excellent at crafting a public image for myself. I am also lonely and exhausted and not very good at separating sex from emotion. I learned that with my first boyfriend and took the lesson to heart. Hooking up casually might be for other people, but I’ll never achieve it. I get too entangled. As a result, I have to carefully vet anyone I’m interested in, which is why my romantic life has been relatively barren the last year or so. If I can’t trust a person to really be into me—instead of either trying to curry favor with my mother or attempting to use me in some other way—then I can’t afford to sleep with them and have my logical brain sidelined.
I’ll need every bit of logic and foresight and craftiness I am capable of to survive this marriage with Eros. I can’t afford to misstep in a way that will bring my guard down.
No matter how attracted I am to him.
I close my eyes and straighten. Okay, I’ve made that decision. Now I just need to stick to it. I can do this. I’ve been dealing with strong personalities since I was born; that label fits everyone in my family and all the people I’ve met living in Olympus. I’ll just handle Eros the same way I’d handle everyone else. All it requires is finding the right angle to leverage in order to get Eros to do what I want.
To shift the power of this partnership in my direction, at least a little.
With that in mind, I head to the door and open it… Only to find Eros stretched out on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of lounge pants. I stop short. He was handsome in a tux and perfection in an expensive gray suit. He shouldn’t be able to get better than perfection. It’s not logical in the least, but somehow Eros in lounge pants is so much worse. He’s barefoot.
I stare at his feet. They’re nice feet, I think? I’m not exactly a person who has strong opinions about feet, but this casual vulnerability symbolizes a kind of intimacy that has every alarm in my head blaring a warning. “What are you doing?”
“It’s late. I’m tired.” He pats the bed next to him, the muscles in his arm flexing, which draws my attention to how nice his chest is, which leads me down…
I jerk my gaze away from his hips. “We still have to talk.”
“We’ll talk in the morning. There’s nothing left to say tonight.” I can’t really see his blue eyes from here, but there’s a set to his mouth that tells me this isn’t a battle I’m going to win. Eros pats the bed again, this time in a blatant command. “Come here, Psyche.”
I’m going to spend a significant amount of time sleeping next to him. I suppose it’s logical to start tonight. “Normally I sleep naked.” Gods, why did I just say that out loud?
“Normally, so do I. However, you’ve taken sex off the table for the time being, so I think it’s prudent to keep some clothing in place.”
Prudent. I swallow down a borderline hysterical laugh and pad to the side of the bed. I know it’s all in my head, but the closer I get to him, the thicker the air seems around me. Whether it’s pulling me in or pushing me away is up for debate. I reluctantly undo my jeans. I might be too exhausted to fight him on sleeping arrangements, but there’s one thing I can’t let slide. “Correction: I’ve taken sex off the table permanently.”
“It’s open for discussion.”
“It’s really not.” It can’t be. I slide out of my jeans, achingly aware of how intensely Eros watches me. Getting anything close to naked with a new person is awkward and makes me feel so fucking vulnerable in a way I hate. And that’s with someone I trust enough to get physical with. I brace myself as I look at his face, not sure what to expect. I’ve seen the people Eros surrounds himself with. They are all the peak of what Olympus considers physical perfection. Thin bodies. Flawless skin. Beautiful in a very specific way.
I am hardly that. It’s something that I’m reminded of constantly, especially with the public life I’ve chosen. There’s no escaping the way societal expectations scrape against my reality.
I love my body. I’ve fought so incredibly hard to love my body, even if some days that feels like an ambition instead of truth. I’m still painfully aware that not everyone feels the same.
After a short debate with myself, I take off my sweater, leaving me in a tank top and panties. As I refuse to sleep in a bra, I wrestle my way out of it without removing my shirt.
There’s nothing else to stall with, so I finally look at Eros.
He’s staring at me as if he wants to consume me bite by bite, savoring each morsel. Every muscle in his body is locked, and there’s no mistaking the hard length pressing against the front of his lounge pants. Lust. It’s pure lust, and it’s so strong it feels like it’s filling up the room between us.
I cannot, under any circumstances, let him touch me again.
I clear my throat. “Scoot over.”
“It’s a king-sized mattress. There’s plenty of room.” He has that mild tone again, and the only verbal sign that he’s affected is a slight deepening of the timbre. “Stop arguing and get in my bed, Psyche.”
The only thing worse than sliding beneath those blankets is standing here and letting him devour me with his gaze, so I obey. For a moment, I foolishly assume that Eros will sleep on top of the covers and give us the illusion of separation, but he stands long enough to peel back the comforter and sheets and climb into bed next to me.
This is a bad idea. Correction: this is such a terrible idea that bad doesn’t begin to encapsulate it.
Tomorrow…
I shoot up to a sitting position. “I have to make some calls.” Anything to prolong the need to turn off the lights.
He moves faster than I anticipate, looping an arm around my waist and pulling me back against his chest. “Stop.”
I freeze. Holy shit, I can feel his cock pressing against my ass, and that’s not even getting into all the bare skin shifting against my bare skin and, gods, it’s been so long since I touched someone like this. Surely that’s why my body is strumming happily in this new position even as my mind screams danger ahead. “What are you doing, Eros?”
His breath ghosts against the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Instead of making those calls, we’re going public with our relationship.”
“We don’t have a relationship.” I don’t know why I’m arguing. This is the plan, after all.
“We do now.”
I close my eyes, but that only makes the spell his proximity weaves stronger. He’s still got his arm around me, which means his forearm is pressing against my breasts and, gods, my nipples are pebbling beneath my shirt. “We talked about this. There’s no way my sisters will believe our relationship, especially if we go public before I tell them I’m, ah, in love with you.”
“What they believe matters less than the perception we present.” Did his lips just touch my skin? I can’t be sure. All I know is that I’m fighting back shivers.
“It will never work. It’s hardly even a plan.”
“You’re arguing simply to argue and you know it. You’re more than capable of handling Persephone and the rest of your sisters in whatever way you see fit.” He shifts, his arm rubbing against my breasts ever so slightly. “Besides, your sisters wouldn’t do anything to put you in danger, so they’ll play along until they have a chance to talk to you face-to-face.”
He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong. I consider this for a long moment, running through scenarios. “You’re proposing going public on my social media.” It makes sense. With a single picture, we can announce our relationship and get ahead of any repercussions from Aphrodite. This only works if all of Olympus buys our love story, and for that to happen, all of Olympus needs to know it’s happening.
“Yes. Mine is sadly neglected.”
It might be neglected, but he has nearly as large a platform as I do. It’s good to be Aphrodite’s son with the face of a god and a mysterious personality to match. But he’s right. If one of us were to announce our relationship to the world, it would be me.
I open my eyes. I’m going through with this. I’ve already committed. Now it’s simply a matter of doing it right. “Okay. Give me a few.”
Eros watches with something akin to amusement as I climb out of bed and move around his room, turning on some lights and turning off others. I use my phone to shoot a few test shots of him, and then curse him inwardly for being so photogenic that every photo looks like it should be in some magazine about millionaire playboys on their off-time.
It takes moving the lamp on the nightstand onto the bed to get the light I’m looking for. It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough. And really, no one expects perfect for the kind of shot we’re creating.
I drag forth what little courage I have left and crawl back into bed with Eros. He smooths my hair off to one side and tugs the strap of my tank top down a little so my shoulder is bare. I almost yank it back up, but we’re going for intimate and a little sexy, so it works.
I angle my phone and snap a few photos, trying not to jump when he kisses the spot where my shoulder meets my neck. “Stop that.”
“Got to make it good for the camera.”
I flip through the pictures. “You’re taking advantage and you know it. That’s a terrible angle to see your face.”
Eros tugs me even closer to him, and then his hand cups my jaw, turning my face to his. “Get the camera ready,” he murmurs, his gaze on my lips.
I shouldn’t. It’s a terrible idea. The absolute worst. But I check the angle of my phone and then turn back to him. I only intend for it to be a quick kiss and snap a few pictures as soon as his lips touch mine.
Eros isn’t content with that. He nips my bottom lip, sharp enough to draw a gasp from me, and he promptly takes advantage of the opening to slip his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like the peppermint toothpaste I used in the bathroom, and he kisses me like this is just the opening battle in what he expects to be a long war.
I melt. There’s no other word for it. I drop my phone and dig my hands into his curly hair, allowing him to deepen the kiss even as a small voice in the back of my mind calls me seven different kinds of a fool.
If he pushed things or went too fast, then maybe reason would have intruded and put a stop to this foolishness, but Eros seems content to simply kiss me until we are both breathing hard and I’m shaking. His cock is a long length against my hip, so hard that I have to fight myself to avoid reaching for him.
When he finally lifts his head and stares down at me with eyes gone dark from desire, he looks almost as shocked as I feel. The expression shifts away almost instantly, replaced by fierce determination. He eases back slowly enough that I have to bite my bottom lip to remind myself that this is fake, that I most certainly cannot reach for him and drag him on top of me to finish what that kiss started. It’s only when he’s a precarious six inches away that he speaks. “Your words say one thing, but that kiss says something else entirely, Psyche. Sex is still up for negotiation and you know it.”
