Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

11

Goddesses do not clutch their pearls. Neither do they flush like vestal virgins.

Yet under the skirt, the texture of his words reaches everywhere important. Love’s pussy aches, and the points of her nipples toughen, the tips poking through her bodice and slipping into his body. Their hips pass through one another like water yet send bolts of electricity to her clit. It does not matter that they can’t touch, for she feels him against every inch of flesh. To answer his question, an influx of fluid puddles in the rift in her thighs.

Thank Fates, inexperienced deities don’t wear chastity belts. His response would have busted hers open.

Love glowers. “I request a parley.”

The divot in his cheek deepens. Yet after a moment, Andrew nods. “After last night, what changed your mind? You used the word ‘dangerous.’” His expression twists like barbed wire. “Were you lying about this being risky only for me? Are there others like you? Because if anyone comes near you—”

“The situation is no longer dire,” Love fibs. “I’ve never met a human and was being overly cautious. Since then, I’ve had time to rationalize, and I’m curious to know more about you. However, heed this warning: I prefer to speak in riddles.”

He pounces. “Tell me what you are.”

“I’m neither living nor dead.”

“There’s more.”

“Probably.”

“And I may as well be digging for fossils with a fork, for all the details you’re going to spill.” Andrew sighs in mock defeat. “I suppose you’d like a tour inside.”

“That would be nice.”

But what isn’t nice is the destitute feeling that assaults Love the moment Andrew breaks away, taking his proximity with him.

Rounding the structure, he opens the shop door and steps aside, beckoning her to enter first. Fiction has truly made a home in this place. Stepping indoors, Love imagines stories of lost dreams, betrayal and cautionary tales, and a myriad of emotions thriving within the pages. Fear, pity, rapture.

Like yesterday, the matriarch sits on the barstool by the register. This time, she’s pouring over a historical hardcover chronicling the 1940s. The decade is impossible to forget. As with many archers, Love had been summoned to Europe, where the war kept her, Anger, and Sorrow busy.

“Morning, handsome,” the woman greets Andrew without looking up.

The other night, this mortal had sensed an unearthly presence in the shop. This time, Love is prepared in case that happens again.

Andrew, on the other hand, frowns between the matriarch and Love as if expecting them to discern one another. His vigilance doesn’t go unnoticed. The woman’s forehead crinkles like an accordion as she lifts her gaze, then bolts from her chair upon seeing his injured face. “My God. What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Andrew reassures, waving her off when she approaches. “Griffin and I had a disagreement.”

“Shit-faced, was he? I vaguely heard something about that while passing through town earlier but didn’t stick around to pay attention.”

“Not much else to tell,” he evades, then points toward one of the rooms. “Are the bookshelves still that way?”

The woman expels a relieved laugh. “Unless the gods moved them around overnight.”

Love snorts. She might do something like that, but deities generally have better things to do than… oh. That was a joke.

Andrew spends the next hour fixing and reinstalling old shelves as a favor to the matriarch. Love shadows him, content to watch his knuckles and forearms bend, in addition to his toned ass.

Very well. Mostly his ass.

For a while, they don’t speak. The intermission allows him to get settled, though every so often he glances her way as though she might vanish.

Whenever he does, Love cannot help smiling. Yes, I’m still here.

The corner of his mouth quirks, the angles reminding her of a letter written in cursive. He selects books about taboo subjects and shows them to her. As time passes, he also finds thoughtful passages to share, including confessions, revelations, grand settings, and unwelcome memories.

Passion. Death.

Fellowship. Bloodshed.

Aside from the few shoppers who brave the weather, it’s a slow day for the matriarch. Snatching random books, Love relocates them to other shelves, purely to get Andrew’s attention whenever he pretends to ignore her. Yet again, it’s another contest between them, in which he returns the titles to their original locations.

Next, Love uses her arrow to poke an anthology until it’s wobbling close to the shelf’s edge. From the opposite side, Andrew nudges the book back with his finger. Narrowing his eyes between the crevices, he mutters, “I’m warning you, Little Myth. Tampering with reading material is tantamount to blasphemy in my world.”

“That will only provoke me to commit more devious acts,” she replies while they stroll along the cases and speak through the recesses.

“So I asked this already, but I need more confirmation. Are you fucking with me exclusively? Or am I one of many?”

“Which answer do you prefer?”

A beat of silence. “I’m still deciding.”

Love runs her digits across book spines as she walks. “I’ve never been impartial before.”

“And now?”

“I’m still deciding as well.”

“Hmm.” Amber sconces emboss the steep angles of Andrew’s profile. “Meaning, you have a short attention span or a lot of time on your hands.”

Love spins on her heel and addresses him through the shelf. “You’re a presumptuous creature.”

He stops and faces her through the gap. “Does that mean I’m getting warmer?”

Apart from the routine heat in his gaze, Love would not recognize warmth if it blistered her flesh. She’s about to say as much—the latter, not the former—when the matriarch bustles in and crosses her arms. “Hey now. I thought talking to myself was my thing.”

Nonchalantly, Andrew stalks around the shelf and leans his shoulder against the frame. “Author habit. Private joke with my muse.”

“You’ve been holding out on me if your muse has a personality,” the woman plays along. “Don’t just stand there. Be a good host and introduce us.”

Andrew’s eyes flit toward Love. On instinct, she scuttles to the side, hiding herself behind his shoulder, which is an absurd move considering the woman is merely teasing.

Besides, the chance at more interactions with humans is exhilarating. Plus, it will afford her additional insight into Andrew’s life.

Love pokes her head around the man’s bulky form, tiptoeing into partial view with her hands clasped behind her back. “Don’t tell her my name,” she begs Andrew.

He clears his throat and makes a show of introductions, swinging his arm between them. “Georgie, this is… Iris,” he finishes, using the name Love had sarcastically offered last night.

“A female muse,” Georgie observes. “I’ve been trying to guess your mystery woman, and now I understand why I kept getting it wrong.” The matriarch’s welcoming expression seeks out Love but fails to latch on. “It’s nice to meet you, Iris.”

Feeling a surge of fondness toward this eccentric mortal, she curtsies. “Likewise.”

At Andrew’s raised eyebrows, Georgie scoffs. “Hon, we work in a world of stories. My mind’s got no problem having an imagination as radical as yours.” She winks at him, then returns to the register, the rush of meeting her fading too soon.

At Love’s inquiring gaze, Andrew murmurs, “Don’t worry. You could tell Georgie your record player has started predicting your future, and the superstitious dreamer in her would humor you. She’s a widow—used to be married to a playwright years ago. I think losing him made her retreat into fiction.”

Then Georgie’s a devoted believer in fantasy, which is why she’d sensed Love to begin with. It’s fascinating. Yet it’s only intriguing because it’s harmless, because Andrew’s power of sight exceeds the capability of people like that woman.

“You’re lucky to have her,” Love admits. “It’s nice to have someone.”

Andrew leans in and whispers, “Stay here.” He disappears around the corner, then returns with a notepad, writes on a blank page, and angles the message toward her.

Just in case. That woman has ears for miles.

Love wavers. The enterprising mortal has stolen the initiative.

Why can I see you and no one else?

A predictable but not ideal question. To which, she compresses her mouth.

Aww. You don’t know either, do you?

Of course she knows!

You’re as stumped as me. You’re incompetent. You’re—

“You’re rare,” she says. “Only humans who’ve come close to the truth of my existence can see me. I suspect your writing has enabled this in some fashion.”

Disbelief grips his face. Forget how many artists and renditions of mythology have existed since the dawn of human kind, but you expect me to believe I’m the only fucking person who’s ever come remotely close?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she amends. “Of course, some other humans must have gotten near to the truth over the ages. To that, I expect it’s a matter of luck that such a drastic case has been avoided, that those humans never crossed paths with a deity, the same way this planet has managed to avoid being struck by a destructive comet more than once. Consider yourself an anomaly.”

Andrew takes a moment to absorb this, then his attractive hand starts moving again. I guess that’s a compliment.

“Saying your eye color is striking is a compliment. What I’m telling you is a fact. Though, your eye color is indeed striking.”

And which of my books gave me this illustrious privilege of sight?

“I’ve yet to figure that out. The first book has yielded nothing of consequence, and you’ve written quite a few titles.”

I’ll need to double-check my backlist then. How long have you lived in the forest?

“For a long time, and no time at all.”

Is there one of you or millions?

“Yes.”

How amusing is it to mind-fuck me?

“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

We could be allies.

Love falls silent. Allies. Even if his suggestion came with a set of instructions—one, define , two, consider , and three, accept —she wouldn’t know what to do with this alliance. Other than Wonder, no one has ever wished to become Love’s ally before.

What are you hiding?

Andrew can take his pick. Love is hiding the constellations’ true power, supernatural dominion over the human heart, and the laws of immortal destiny. Oh, and a romance novel in her right pocket.

Why are you alone?

This was going so well. She slits her eyes at Andrew.

He lowers the notepad and peers at her. “When we met in the forest, you were by yourself.”

His comment lodges a stone in her throat. “There is only me. I’m used to it.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you don’t wish to.”

“Wrong. My misery doesn’t love company.”

Finally, more information about him. Though, she doesn’t care for his statement. “You’re unhappy?”

“Only when I’m not writing.”

She thinks of the note he’d penned about her in the forest. “You favor fiction over reality.”

Andrew inspects the bookshelves. “Fiction examines the truth from different angles.”

“So you’re a philosopher in your spare time.”

“Another term for it is ‘tortured poet.’”

“Or philosopher. Yet where does the unhappiness fit in?”

The shape of Andrew’s face changes, a surplus of emotions bending his features in the opposite direction of where they’d been a moment ago. “That’s a candid question.”

Love hates what the inquiry does to his mood, but she holds her ground. “And that makes us equal.”

He nods, then strides backward while confessing, “Fair enough.”

Twisting away, Andrew resumes his work on the shelves, the unanswered inquiry trailing in his wake. She wants to know more, to understand the grief lurking in his voice. Except this inclination has less to do with investigating his effect on deities and more to do with healing whatever ails him. Yet however much Love wishes otherwise, his pain is not her responsibility, apart from doing reconnaissance.

She migrates to the romance section, where her fingers slip into her pocket and retrieve Andrew’s book. Despite the theme of deities and a few details vaguely similar to Love’s mythology, the contents haven’t revealed anything threatening. Thus, the key to his sight must reside in a different title.

Intending to return the book, she lifts her hand—

“Searching for a book hangover cure, Little Myth?”

—and naturally gets caught. Sighing, she wheels on Andrew. He’s standing in the doorway, his attention darting between her guilty face and the title in her hand. “You’re a busy thief. At least, now I know why.”

“I was going to give it back,” she testifies. “This is me, giving it back.”

“Did you like it?”

The story was riveting—and arousing. “Adequately done.”

Amusement tilts his lips. “Picky, picky.”

Love swipes the flat of her palm through his shoulder, attempting to mock-slap him, then regrets it as Andrew sucks in a breath. His reaction should make her chuckle, but all it does is inundate her with more temptations, namely the various potential ways to explore his body. A desire that will never be fulfilled.

Andrew glances at his shoulder, then at her. “Take whatever book you want.”

The offer distracts Love, and she grabs the next title she sees. However, this one is not written by Andrew. The cover depicts splayed wings, with interior artwork of Eros leaning over the sleeping mortal, Psyche.

“Not a fan of guys with feathers?” Andrew guesses, registering Love’s frown.

“Not in particular,” she replies.

Eros in Greek mythology. Cupid in Roman myths.

Cupid is a disaster. Love has engaged with countless renditions—though she’s never been able to tolerate all of them—and nearly died of laughter every time, which is better than dying of insult. The dominant image often involves Cupid either wearing a diaper, which is degrading, or wearing armor, which is eerie on a toddler.

Eros, she can accept. In paintings and variations of his myth, he’s presented as young but not infantile. He’s strong and impressive to look upon. Sometimes he’s also mischievous—that much is accurate. The myths got a few other facets correct, including her bow and wings, but not the part about Eros being a male.

She turns toward Andrew, intending to change the subject. Except he closes the gap between them. Without warning, his approach urges Love against the bookcases, her ass thudding into the spines, which tremble on impact. His scent is a heady narcotic, the aroma obliterating all other sensory perceptions.

Andrew’s molten gaze slides down her frame. “Are you still naked under that dress?”

Some manner of distressing chemical reaction occurs within Love. Specifically, in the nether regions beneath her skirt. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?”

Those eyes darken to a point where she cannot tell if he’s enraged or aroused. Reaching into his back pocket, Andrew withdraws a capped pen. Flipping it between his fingers, he takes advantage of the loophole regarding inanimate objects, using the hard tip to etch the skirt hem fanning around Love’s thighs.

“Cover up,” he murmurs, half command, half plea.

It sounds as if he’s taking a bite out of something rich, indulgent, and unhealthy. Such a demand, although no one else can perceive her. Love is hardly one to be intimidated, trifled with, or bossed around.

She draws her tongue over the ledges of her lower teeth. “Do it for me.”

Inspiration alights his pupils, their depths glowing like bonfires. The pen sways back and forth along the dress’s rim, teasing the material, so close to the naked lips of her core. Another few inches, and the instrument will reach Love’s clitoris.

Instead of backing away—because Love never backs away—she gets comfortable against the shelves and angles her hips forward, daring him to proceed. Andrew’s mouth curls. Oh, but this mortal knows what he’s doing.

The pen lifts. It traces the pleat of her mouth, exerting pressure until the seam splits, flashing her incisors. Then it moves to a dress strap, hooking beneath the fabric and gliding it down her shoulder, which accentuates the top swell of her breasts. From there, he sketches down Love’s arm, over her ribs, across her hips, and returns to the skirt.

Her pulse is a cannonball, ready to eject from her chest. This time, the pen sneaks under the hem, rides up her inner thighs, and draws a line to the fine hairs of her cunt. Love’s mouth falls lower, the contact drawing fluid from her pussy, shock and delight overriding her better judgment.

A carnivorous noise skids from Andrew’s chest. “Fuck.”

Yes. That word. It’s the most suitable one to describe her own thoughts.

Fuck. Fuck almighty. Fuck me.

The front of his jeans expands, a thick bulge manifesting, in proximity to her folds. Love’s vanity experiences a boost of pride to see him desire her so blatantly. Based on the shallow depths of his breathing, this human wants to heave Love off the floor and tear into her against these shelves.

He would, if it were possible. He’d strap her legs around his waist, pump his upright cock into her wet cunt, and make her come while the titles shake.

Instead, Andrew visibly deliberates how best to penetrate Love with his pen. As he brushes the instrument through the patch of Love’s hair, she clamps her mouth shut. Regardless, a rogue whimper pushes against that barrier, then slips from her throat.

At the noise, Andrew dips the pen’s tip to her slit, grazing along the crease. Forward and backward. Forward and backward. The earthly sensations wrack Love with shivers, chipping away at her willpower. The walls of her pussy ache, the cap orbiting her delicate clit, swabbing it lightly until she feels the ruched flesh inflating.

Stars almighty. Another moment of this, and she will leak down the instrument. Another moment after that, she’ll give herself over to him and condemn everyone in her world.

Clinging to the last vestiges of strength, Love jolts backward, evicting the pen from under her skirt. At the same time, the shop’s front door opens with a ping , further breaking the spell.

With her pussy about to drip all over the floor, Love recoils from Andrew. She does not want his alternative touches, nor to be fondled with his pen, much less to receive anything else from him.

The proof of this must clutter her face, because he breaks out of the sexual stupor and chokes the pen in his grip. Thank Stars, her arousal has not coated the exterior.

She should tell him not to worry. He won’t be rejected by the next female.

Love will make sure of that.