Chapter Eight
The woman said it herself. His point was valid. She did need to bathe. That meant her ready agreement shouldn’t have made it so damn hard for him to turn and lead the way to the nearest chamber in which she could do just that . . .
Except that it was.
Hard.
In too many fucking interpretations of the word.
His mind, dragging through mental molasses from the moment she’d ducked her head for her adorable armpit check. Then his cock, reacting like a toddler with zero impulse control, when she’d reared back with an expression that under other circumstances could be mistaken for an orgasm gasp.
Under. Other. Circumstances.
Ones very far removed from these.
She stank. End of. Honestly, so did he—not an occurrence he’d readily allowed himself to experience since Aristaeus snuck out in his diapers on a quest for rare bees, six centuries ago—and that was the only concern that should be on either of their minds right now.
“Unnnh.”
Except for when she made that kind of sound, in that taut and tormenting way, while staring like he suddenly twisted her pretty neck instead of his dirty shirt.
Or doing other invasive things to her neck . . . with his lips and teeth . . .
More circumstances that belonged nowhere near his imagination right now.
He turned around in full, stopping her by pointedly clearing his throat. It was harder to order his tone to the same line but he managed, “Is there another problem, Ms. Steed?”
More importantly, why did he suddenly care so much about what she’d say to that? Especially as she took entirely too long to do so, filling her pause with a new gawk at his torso that did uncomfortable shit to his throat, his chest, even the center of his gut. Then lower . . .
“Of course not,” she finally uttered. “No problems. It’s your place, buddy. If Naked Happy Hour is your thing, then—”
He took advantage of her hyperfocus on the fake cheer to sweep into her personal space and cinch her free arm by the elbow. Would it have been safer at her wrist? Likely. But was safety something he cared about with this female anymore?
“You’re right. My place.” Shit. Even the tiny existential wandering had done its job on his voice, turning his tone low and guttural. “Which means, naked or not, it’s my job to ensure you’re comfortable here.”
A heavy gulp throbbed its way down her throat. He braced himself, expecting her to follow it by jerking away, but she only murmured, “Wh-Who says I’m uncomfortable?”
Annnd, shit once more. To the power of ten.
Especially as he allowed his fingers to explore her joint, a crook of odd softness between the lengths of muscle which defined both parts of her arm.
Damn. She was formidable even by Olympian standards.
Her physical condition rivalled many of the Acropolis guards.
He easily envisioned her with a spear and shield, training alongside Ares and his operatives . . .
Except he wouldn’t.
“You don’t look comfortable.”
Except now he did, especially by allowing himself the semi-suggestive statement. Equally deep parts of his psyche raised their own victory chants as she squirmed and bit a corner of her bottom lip.
“Well, neither do you.”
But she had to go and get not-so-semi-suggestive about that.
You really want to play this game, Monster? Because I invented it.
But was he ready for a fresh go on the game board? At this starting square, with this mortal?
He was no stranger to how they functioned, these human females with their idioms and idiosyncrasies.
It was why he still returned to their beds, even after all these centuries.
It often felt like returning to a favorite dessert: a small taste of their passions and he was good for a few centuries more.
But Irowen Steed . . . she’d be more than just a spoonful of spice. A world of layers beyond one hot, stolen kiss or an even hotter orgasm.
Layers.
No, he should call them what they were.
Weaknesses.
Fissures he’d allowed to form, somewhere in his systems and supports, that had made it too easy for Rizon to get in.
Thankfully, it’d only been that greasy demigod, getting away with a small treasure like the lyre string.
But what about next time? What if it was someone smarter, with more evil intent?
What if they took his crown or his bow? Or even Kaw and the team?
Fuck.
He had to step away. Write her off, and right now. She’d served her purpose; they had the intel to find Rizon and Kaw would make that happen. He’d ensure they did the same for her sister, which squared him and her up with each other. Their business was done.
So why did he fling his shirt into the living room and then move in to clutch both sides of her waist, as if he’d decided the opposite?
Why did he move in, making her drop her new clothes at their feet and taking up more of the perimeter in front of her body .
. . even savoring the choppy little breaths from the sweet bow of her parted lips?
Why did her breath still smell like ginger and elderflower and—
Emotions.
Damn it. This wasn’t good.
But so, so good.
A better awakening of his senses and synapses than he’d known in a while. Decades. Centuries? Had it been that long? And why was he even thinking about it when there were much better things to be homing in on now?
Like. Her. Lush. Lips.
“Irowen.”
“What?”
And how mesmerizing they were, merely slamming one syllable back at him.
“You’re also trembling.”
She blinked hard. One more time. With a shudder of her shoulders, as if his rough rasp had roused her from sleep, she shifted backward.
“I’m just cold.” When he bent to retrieve the clothes that slipped from her grip, she groused, “And yes, a hot shower would make me more comfortable now.”
Ah. Okay. This way, then.
It was what he should’ve said. What he should’ve followed through and done.
He’d sworn to be a decent host for her. But damn it, why was decent a missing word in the glossary between him and this female?
Why didn’t he want it to be? What was wrong with him, that his first twinge of attraction in an eon was attached to the human who’d tried to kill him and Herc?
Twisted. Demented. Insane?
And what if it is?
The answer to that was swift—and freeing. Enough to unlock new words from his own lips. Not the ones he’d planned to say, though these were worth a more deliberate delivery. His new grip around both sides of her waist. The direct dive of his gaze into hers.
“More comfortable. Hm. Isn’t that too bad, then.”
“Huh?” Once more, Wen shifted her weight—though not necessarily backward at this go. As she pulled in a shaky breath, her lower rib cage pushed at his knuckles. “Wh-Why?”
“Because discomfort is a damn good look for you, Little Monster.”