Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

25

The sound of knocking intrudes upon her dream, followed by a door twisting on its hinges. She opens her eyes, rolls over—and tumbles off the bed. Swatting unkempt layers of hair from her face, Love bounds to her feet.

Andrew stands a few feet from her, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, his features a mask of anguish and his eyes bloodshot as if he hasn’t slept since their last encounter. Despite that, his mouth twitches sadly, affectionately, at Love’s lack of grace. His skin is pale from the cold, and that luxurious new coat spans the ramps of his shoulders.

Beyond the glass walls, netted branches quiver in the breeze, the sky a gentle shade of afternoon blue. It appears she has been snoozing all night and most of the day.

Backdropped by the solemn forest light, the mortal drinks in the sight of her. “I lied to you.”

Hello. Good afternoon.

No mannerly greeting. Though, she gives him due credit for the impertinence, for she has crept into more human windows without consent than the wind itself, which is a greater violation.

“Lied?” Love echoes, idling on bare feet.

“Lied,” Andrew confirms, his tone haggard. “I don’t wish I’d never met you. I hate that you’re in my head every waking second, but I also don’t want it to stop. Matter of fact, I’d sacrifice anything to meet you all over again, every day, just to relive that first glimpse of you.”

His inflamed eyes cling to hers. “Love… I’m sorry.”

Andrew’s plea breaks apart like a wrecking ball splitting rock. Instantly, that same cleaved rock wedges itself in her throat. Love has wounded him as much as he has her, yet she crosses her arms to form a shield, protecting her from additional impending wounds.

Nonetheless, she reflects, “Hate is a strong word.”

“People hate the things that hurt them,” he murmurs. “Being unable to get you out of my mind is like being stabbed repeatedly. The sadistic part is that I enjoy it, however torturous. At this rate, I might let you kill me one day.”

“Do not say that,” she whispers.

Absorbing her rigid pose, Andrew’s throat bobs. “I’m about to grovel my ass off now. May I, goddess?”

Love wavers, then nods. “Proceed, human.”

Pushing off the doorframe, he stalks closer and sinks to his knees. Craning his face up to hers, Andrew speaks around a mouthful of gravel. “I’m sorry for walking away that first night in this cottage. I’m sorry for the kiss with Holly. I’m sorry it wasn’t you in my arms. I’m sorry you had to watch it happen. I’m sorry you thought, even for a second, that I wanted anyone but you. I’m sorry for every moment you’re in pain, every second I’m not around you, and every sentence that doesn’t end in your name. I’m sorry for not prostrating myself like this afterward, for waiting twenty-four hours to kneel at your feet. I’m sorry for everything. I’m so fucking sorry, Love.”

Those words chip away at Love’s chest. Her arms fold tighter, as if that will stifle the progress.

“I wouldn’t have kissed her back if I believed you wanted me,” Andrew entreats. “But I couldn’t stop replaying what you said on the street. The memory destroyed me, so I thought if you didn’t care, then it would do no harm to console someone else. She was broken over Griffin, and I didn’t have the heart to push her away. Though, this doesn’t excuse anything. I fucked up. Period.”

Because Love’s tongue has lost its ability to function, he goes on, each confession tearing her world to shreds. “I wasn’t thinking about Holly during the kiss. All I could think about was you. How you didn’t want me the way I wanted you, how that crushed me. I tried to prove I could care for somebody else, then did a spectacular job failing. While it was happening, I was remembering that day in the bookstore with you. I remembered you dragging your finger across the bookshelves and how it drove me nuts.

“I could list countless other incidents that live rent-free in my head like paranormal porn. The way your eyebrows pinch together when you’re annoyed; how your chin lifts when you’re about to brag or argue; how your eyes change from maroon to bloodred when you’re so mad, it turns you on; how your sweet tits rise and fall when you’re riled up. But more than anything, images of you pointing a weapon at my heart like you once did, blushing like you’re doing now, and coming hard like you would if I could really touch you… those fantasies are my undoing. But without your forgiveness, they’ll be my ruin.”

Love’s arms loosen, and the rock in her throat shrinks to a pellet. “I have ruined enough. You aren’t the only one who took actions they regret.”

“It was a piece-of-shit move, giving Holly the wrong idea, offering false hope in exchange for comfort,” Andrew admits. “I apologized and came clean afterward. But then I fucked up again at my house, rubbing what happened with Holly in your face, hoping to make you as jealous as I was about Anger.”

Like any bona fide deity, Love’s spirits lift a fraction. “You were jealous?”

“Violently jealous.”

Her compacted wings shift beneath her shoulder blades. Nonetheless, she forces the feathered panels to stay where they are, keeping them tucked from sight. “Then maybe you should write that down. With all the corrupt feelings I’ve inspired, you could write a novel about me. I’d make an infuriating character.”

Sad amusement lifts the corner of his mouth. But upon second inspection of her features, anxiety and outrage tighten his countenance. “Jesus, Love,” he grits out, lunging to his feet and attempting to cradle her face, undiscouraged when his hands only hover through her. “You’re exhausted.”

“It’s temporary,” she evades. “Drama will fatigue anyone.”

“Get in bed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get. In. Bed.”

“Now see here. I’m neither frail, nor will I be ordered about by a mort—”

With a grunt, Andrew snatches a pillow and uses it to shove her backward. The second she lands on the mattress with an affronted yelp, the human sets about coddling Love, disregarding her indignant protests. She gripes and moves to rise, then stalls when he tucks the sheets around her.

Although inanimate objects are the exception, it’s different with clothing. Whatever touches her flesh becomes intangible. Yet a second layer such as this bedding acts as a bridge, the closest they can get to tactile contact, and the sensation halts her tongue.

Andrew registers this loophole as well, his palms grasping her hip and shoulder. The weight and shape of his hands on her body is different from when he’d drawn his pen over her pussy in the bookshop. Fate, she has never experienced anything like this, the stimulation of being held, braced, grasped.

Like magnets, their gazes cling before he eases the tension and releases the fabric. Clearing his throat, he continues arranging the bedding around her.

“So that was new,” he remarks, fluffing the pillow under her head.

“It wasn’t,” she disputes. “Apart from the pen kink, we merely never thought to attempt such a thing.”

“I have. I’ve been thinking about ways to touch you since the dawn of time. But you’re right. Besides the pen, I didn’t believe it would work that easily when it came to pressing our bodies together, or that you’d want me to try.”

“I…” Love struggles to maintain her composure despite the jolt between her thighs. “To that, I would say sometimes the easiest things are taken for granted.”

“There’s no way in fuck I’d ever take the privilege of touching you for granted,” he vows. “If I had the ability, I’d have swept you off your feet and carried you to bed.”

Her eyebrows staple together. “I would have put up a fight.”

His lips tilt, a divot appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

Attraction and desire aside, other feelings sneak into the cavities of her chest. Affection. Shyness. Two marvels rarely associated with her kind.

Gods and goddesses dote on one another in gluttonous, self-congratulatory, and vain ways. But they don’t nurture each other in this manner. Love ventures to make sense of her reaction, blood rushing to her cheeks as she curls into the mattress.

Andrew squats and peers at her. “Sorry about the pillow. I had to get you horizontal. It was the only soft object at my disposal.”

Love nestles into the down. “Next time, I’ll push back.”

“Counting on it.” His fingers float through her hair. “Now sleep.”

She shivers as though he’d tangibly slid a lock behind her ear. “I do not take commands.”

“And I don’t respond to threats. Do as you’re told, goddess.”

Tenacious human. Grinning, Love mutters that she isn’t tired. Even so, the tingles across her skin are either an illusion, the product of wishful thinking, or the result of Andrew’s fingers passing through her hair. With her eyelids growing heavy, she leans into this ghost of a touch until her eyes drift shut.

After what feels like minutes, Love’s lashes flutter open. Darkness enamels the sky, the hemisphere flecked with stars beyond the cottage walls. Flames crackle like balled-up paper from the central pit, the sheet caresses her profile, and Andrew hasn’t moved.

Reclining against the nightstand, he gazes sideways at her, fingers still brushing her locks in a lazy formation. “Better,” he whispers, appraising her visage.

Indeed, she does feel refreshed. And comfortable to the point of indulgent, from the effortless quiet between them to the safety of his presence. This man is spoiling Love, for he makes this cottage feel like more than an outpost.

The spectacle before her is just as luxurious an experience. The mortal has removed his coat, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a marvelous hint of clavicles and muscle, with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Most of all, a languid grin stretches across his mouth.

Andrew’s pupils flicker, his timbre husky. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

The only thing that stokes Love’s appetite is sprawled in front of her, the vision turning her into a cannibal. She longs to feed on this man and drain him of every sound, every respiration, and every drop of arousal he possesses.

All the same, there’s more to be said. The shame of what she has done to Andrew overrides her selfish, carnal impulses. Love sits up, the sheet spilling around her hips. “As I said, you’re not the only one at fault. What I did to the note, the words I spoke, how I behaved on the street, then at your house.” She swallows. “Forgive me? I meant none of it… and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for every vile utterance, every confession I’ve kept from you, and—”

“Love, you could commit a thousand felonies, and it won’t change how I feel about you.” Andrew drops his hand. “I don’t know how much of the kiss you saw, but it didn’t last long before I stopped it. Even so, I was imagining your mouth the whole time, which was the only vision that got me to participate, which pissed me off because let’s face it, you’re pretentious and entitled.” A disarming expression softens his face. “You’re also fierce and protective. You’re sensitive despite your antics, and you long for connections with others, even if you won’t admit it. You have a hard time saying you’re sorry, but when you do apologize, it’s sincere. We haven’t had much time together, yet I’m one hundred percent attached to your laugh, your voice, and each vicious word you say.

“I thought I’d have a choice with you, that I’d be able to walk away if you broke me. Except your proximity is a million times more potent than anyone I’ve ever known, like a drug I can’t stop overdosing from. I would rather be near you, see you touch everything but me, than be holding any other woman. That’s how much you’ve wrecked me. It’s all you, Love.”

Fates have mercy, Love’s head spins. How she wants to declare something equally profound, to fill his heart with the same declarations, yet she finds herself inadequate to the task. Nothing she expresses will measure up.

With Andrew gazing at Love this way, she had better not swoon. That would be outdated, undignified, and humiliating.

Her voice carries through the space. “I like you too. Very much.” Yet at the bland statement, she mutters an oath. “I fear I’m not as proficient as you in sentiment.”

His features are reverent, as though her response has ignited his universe. “Where you’re concerned, I don’t give a fuck about prose. All I want is your honesty.”

“I see. Then my reply stands.”

“Glad to hear it. So let’s talk about this.” Andrew raises his former black coat off the floor, then withdraws a leaflet patched with a glossy strip of tape. “And this.”

“I did my best to fix it,” she professes. “I never wished to defile your words. I brought them back to you one night.”

“While I slept,” he deduces. “I dreamed you came into my room. Your hand stroked my face, then halted beside my mouth. At one point, I think you almost touched my heart. You have no idea how much I was anticipating that, even while unconscious.”

Remembering how she’d made a fist above his heart, and how she’d forced herself not to trace that spot, Love ventures, “So you enjoyed the dream?”

“If you had woken me up, I would have shown you just how much I enjoyed it.” His voice thickens like syrup. “I might have even let you use the point of your arrow to draw blood.”

“You were furious with me. Yet I took liberties.”

He lowers the items. “Fury can be an aphrodisiac.”

Her laugh comes out nervous. “Stop.”

“If we could touch, the last thing you would do is tell me to stop.”

Those destructive words curl around her knees like smoke. He’s right. No longer worn out, she’s enticed to experiment beyond their limitations, to snare his hands and guide them over her body.

Low. Deep.

To have his palms sketch her skin. To have him intensify the pressure, firmer and harsher. To have his fingers bend, slip through the wet clamp of her cunt, pitch them between that tight slot.

Andrew’s pupils glitter as if aware of her thoughts. Love cannot help the pleasure of witnessing him on edge, viewing the effect she has on this human. Like a fever dream, she imagines him manipulating the textile along her breasts, nipples, and navel. Then over the apex of her thighs, easing the ache in her pussy until she drips through the material.

From the torched look on his face, similar visions dominate Andrew’s mind. A low noise skids from his lungs, enhancing the illicit fantasy.

As she sweeps aside the sheet and crawls to the mattress edge, Andrew rakes his eyes over Love’s silk camisole and shorts. Chucking aside the leaflet and coat, he wastes no time mirroring her gesture, moving toward her on all fours, then rising to his knees. The position is equally sacrificial and assertive, a pose that few gods manage to perfect. Yet this human succeeds without trying, putting every promiscuous deity to shame.

This is reckless, forbidden, and unpardonable. But as she aligns herself with his torso, Love couldn’t care less. Let the celestials and every Dark God condemn her for this crime.

This felonious moment, she will take from him. This fleeting pleasure, she will give to him.

Matchmaking can wait. Love has several more days, then she’ll bind Andrew to another. Until then, let destiny grant her this time with him.

“I think we would kiss now,” Love pants.

“I know we would,” Andrew rasps. “I’d have seized your mouth before you finished that sentence.”

“Then let us imagine that.”

“Fuck imagination.” He swipes his mouth over Love’s, his lips passing through her own and ripping a gasp from her lungs. “Didn’t I say, I crave honesty?”

“You did,” she utters, her skin pebbling, her head fogging.

“Then give me what’s real,” he urges, slanting his mouth along hers. “Give me that stubborn mouth of yours.”