12 #2
He rises and falls into step at my side, moving just ahead to open the door for me.
I send a quick text to Persephone, confirming that she’s good with ferrying the dress to me, which she is.
That done, we head back across the river.
I don’t mean to breathe a sigh of relief as we cross the River Styx, but Eros shoots me a strange look when I do.
Embarrassment flares. “I know it’s just part of living in Olympus, but the River Styx has always creeped me out.”
“You’re not alone. It’s a kind of barrier, a reminder of how isolated we are from the rest of the world.
That would unsettle anyone who brushes against it.
” He reaches across the middle console and sets his hand on my thigh.
I stare at it, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Eros just keeps driving, his gaze on the road.
Oh. Right. The whole getting-comfortable-touching-each-other thing. I can’t deny that I’m failing terribly at this goal. It’s not even that I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me. I know he’s capable of it, of course, but that’s not the problem.
The real issue is that every time he touches me, it feels like he’s hooked me up to a live wire.
I can be a great actress when the situation calls for it, but I haven’t managed to act natural a single time we’ve made contact.
It’s something the gossip sites will glom onto without hesitation—some out of spite, some out of curiosity. Neither is good for us.
Or maybe I’m looking for an excuse to take something I most certainly shouldn’t want.
I slowly, hesitantly, place my hand on Eros’s.
It feels like his palm scorches me through my jeans, like his fingers are making imprints against my skin even though he’s not gripping me at all.
I’m achingly aware that he’s a few short inches from the apex of my thighs, and it’s everything I can do not to clench my legs together.
I’ve never been affected by someone like this.
I don’t know if it’s the danger heightening my desire or the simple fact that I shouldn’t want this man, almost husband or no.
“You’re so tense, you’re practically vibrating out of your seat.”
The comment stings. “I’m doing my best.”
His tone is mild. His words aren’t. “Your best isn’t good enough. We have mere hours to make this work. As enjoyable as it is to kiss you every time you start spiraling, you have to be able to handle me touching you.”
A hot feeling flares across my face, but I can’t tell if it’s shame or desire. “I’m aware of that.”
Eros takes the turn to his block and then again into the parking garage. “The offer still stands.”
No need to ask for clarification. There’s only one offer on the table right now, and it’s one I most definitely shouldn’t accept.
I stare down at the way his hand looks on my thigh.
Broad palm, blunt fingers, perfectly maintained nails.
It’s as handsome as the rest of him, but there are calluses on his palm.
A small external indicator that he’s not entirely as he seems.
The heat suffusing my face flares hotter, lower.
It feels like Eros has sucked out all the air in the car, and he hasn’t even done anything.
The only time I’ve felt this discombobulated was when I held hands with Jenny Lee in seventh grade.
Hot and clammy and desperately not wanting to do anything to make the contact cease.
It hadn’t ended well for me then; I’d dredged up all my bravery and leaned in to kiss her, only to discover she was holding my hand as a friend.
Eros doesn’t want to be friends with me, but the sensation of walking a tightrope over a pit of crocodiles is identical. One wrong move, and humiliation will be the least of my worries.
He parks and we climb out of the car. Eros allows me to grab one suitcase, but he takes the other and the lighting equipment.
He’s got a strange look on his face, but I don’t know him well enough to recognize if it’s just a default distant expression or if something’s actually bothering him.
He locks the door to his penthouse behind us and leads me down the hallway to one of the doors we passed the night before.
It opens into a perfectly nice spare bedroom decorated in cool gray tones.
A king-sized bed takes up one wall and there are two doors on the opposite side of the room, leading to a decent-sized walk-in closet and a bathroom that is only slightly smaller than the master bath.
And, of course, there’s a giant mirror in between the doors, reflecting our images back at us.
Eros sets my stuff on the bed, and I follow suit. He turns to me. “You can have the spare bedroom.”
Relief has me weaving on my feet. It was one thing to sleep next to him last night, but I can barely comprehend doing it every night. “Thank the gods.”
Eros’s lips curve, but it’s not a nice smile. “Don’t misunderstand. You can put your shit in the spare bedroom. Make it as cluttered as you want it, but keep it confined to here. That’s the only thing staying in the spare bedroom.”
My relief fizzles out like a deflated balloon.
I want to yell at him, which is precisely why I can’t.
It’s just proving that I’m not prepared to do this all the way.
Damn it. I have to do this 100 percent. I thought I could cut corners, but today’s proven that’s an impossible ask. There’s only one solution.
I glance at my phone. It’s nearly one. “What time is the jeweler getting here?”
“Two.”
“Plenty of time, then.” I walk out of the spare room and down the hall to the master. I’m achingly aware of Eros shadowing my steps, and when I glance over my shoulder, I find his gaze on my ass. Strangely, that gives me the confidence I need to pull my shirt over my head. “Let’s do this.”
He stops short. “I’m going to need you to elaborate.”
I start unbuttoning my jeans. This would be a lot less awkward if he was stripping, too, rather than staring at me as if I’d sprouted a second head.
“You were right, I was wrong. We need to rip the bandage off, and we need to do it now. So let’s trade orgasms and be done with this so we can convince people we’re a real couple. ”