“Go on.” He leans back, paying the kind of attention to me that only he does, intense and a little bit nerve-racking.
“Then Psyche realized she had to return to serve Venus, who put her through terrible trials. But Cupid started interfering—he rescued Psyche from a deep sleep and finally made her his wife.”
His laugh is slow and marvelous, catching.
“Little one, I can’t possibly be Cupid in that story.”
When he lifts his brows in a dare, I realize, he is Cupid to me, mischievous and conniving, but demanding loyalty when he unexpectedly falls for Psyche.
But Saint doesn’t want to be Cupid. He shoots me a look that warns me what will happen if he is. Delicious sex torture?
Oh god.
I wonder how stupid I might have sounded, basically assuming that he loved me. Stupid Rachel.
“Well, your true form, Hades,” I improvise, “stole Persephone and took her to the underworld, where he abused her sexually before they ended up falling in love. You know what always puzzles me?” I add.
“What?” His eyes gleam like glassy volcanic rock.
“Zeus, the most powerful ‘good’ god, was always having affairs on his wife. The ‘bad’ god, Hades, was pretty much obsessed with Persephone, and seemed far more in love with her than Zeus was with his wife. For all his sins, Hades was so much more devoted. I think . . . there’s always something beautiful breeding in the darkness and pain.”
“Is there?” he asks quietly.
I nod soberly. “So no, you’re not Cupid in that story, I guess.” Then I tease, “You’re Zeus and Hades. A saint here,” I touch his heart, “and a sinner here,” I touch his thickening erection.
He laughs softly and pulls me to his chaise, and we lie there, soaking up the sun in silence.
The lake is mostly calm, save for a few Jet Skis passing by, an occasional boat. I think about his father, how calm and rational Malcolm has been throughout this.
“You won’t let him goad you into doing anything reckless . . . will you?”
He laughs. “I’m over reckless.” He shifts his shoulders so he can look at me. “But on my word, he won’t be hurting you. Slowly, deliberately, very subtly, I’ll crush him if he comes near you.”
“He won’t come near me. I’ll leave before then.”
He cups my face in a gesture of male gratitude, and asks, “How are you going to introduce me to your mother?”
I smile. “She already knows you’re not saintly at all,” I tease.
He looks at me quietly, the silence stretching.
“She’s worried,” I admit.
“Is she?”
“She thinks you’re too worldly.”
“That’s a negative against me?”
“And too rich.”
“Really now?” His brows slant thoughtfully.
“She’s worried you’re a player and that you won’t be able to help yourself and play with me.”
His eyebrows furrow even more. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’m underestimated.”
“But she likes you! It’s just that . . . she’s been a victim of what she’s heard. She was rooting for us but it was hard to hide from her that I was so . . . sad.”
He tips my head back; his eyes darken. “You put yourself there. Not me.”
I drop my eyes. “I know. Are you sure you want to? Go?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yeah, I want to.” He moves his hand up to play with a little tendril of hair by my ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m not a saint. But you, Rachel . . .” He trails off as though searching for words.
“I’m not a saint either.” I’m laughing at that. “I’m a sinner,” I assure him; then I smirk a little and playfully push at his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “And you’re my Sin.”
He catches my wrist in his grip, and my laugh fades as he pulls me closer.
The glow of lust in his eyes as he studies me opens up a painful ache in my midsection. I am rabid for him. He’s my Achilles’ heel, the greatest pleasures in my life somehow now tied to his smiles. And right now, I quiver with the knowledge that he wants me.
So many years of being practical, and now I feel my romantic side taking over. I’ve spent every night for almost the past month reliving the ways he’s spoken to me, looked at me. He is unattainable, and yet he’s all my fantasies, all my dreams, put into one single human being, with warm flesh and a thudding heart and a beautiful face with a mouthwateringly muscled body.
“Then Psyche realized she had to return to serve Venus, who put her through terrible trials. But Cupid started interfering—he rescued Psyche from a deep sleep and finally made her his wife.”
His laugh is slow and marvelous, catching.
“Little one, I can’t possibly be Cupid in that story.”
When he lifts his brows in a dare, I realize, he is Cupid to me, mischievous and conniving, but demanding loyalty when he unexpectedly falls for Psyche.
But Saint doesn’t want to be Cupid. He shoots me a look that warns me what will happen if he is. Delicious sex torture?
Oh god.
I wonder how stupid I might have sounded, basically assuming that he loved me. Stupid Rachel.
“Well, your true form, Hades,” I improvise, “stole Persephone and took her to the underworld, where he abused her sexually before they ended up falling in love. You know what always puzzles me?” I add.
“What?” His eyes gleam like glassy volcanic rock.
“Zeus, the most powerful ‘good’ god, was always having affairs on his wife. The ‘bad’ god, Hades, was pretty much obsessed with Persephone, and seemed far more in love with her than Zeus was with his wife. For all his sins, Hades was so much more devoted. I think . . . there’s always something beautiful breeding in the darkness and pain.”
“Is there?” he asks quietly.
I nod soberly. “So no, you’re not Cupid in that story, I guess.” Then I tease, “You’re Zeus and Hades. A saint here,” I touch his heart, “and a sinner here,” I touch his thickening erection.
He laughs softly and pulls me to his chaise, and we lie there, soaking up the sun in silence.
The lake is mostly calm, save for a few Jet Skis passing by, an occasional boat. I think about his father, how calm and rational Malcolm has been throughout this.
“You won’t let him goad you into doing anything reckless . . . will you?”
He laughs. “I’m over reckless.” He shifts his shoulders so he can look at me. “But on my word, he won’t be hurting you. Slowly, deliberately, very subtly, I’ll crush him if he comes near you.”
“He won’t come near me. I’ll leave before then.”
He cups my face in a gesture of male gratitude, and asks, “How are you going to introduce me to your mother?”
I smile. “She already knows you’re not saintly at all,” I tease.
He looks at me quietly, the silence stretching.
“She’s worried,” I admit.
“Is she?”
“She thinks you’re too worldly.”
“That’s a negative against me?”
“And too rich.”
“Really now?” His brows slant thoughtfully.
“She’s worried you’re a player and that you won’t be able to help yourself and play with me.”
His eyebrows furrow even more. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’m underestimated.”
“But she likes you! It’s just that . . . she’s been a victim of what she’s heard. She was rooting for us but it was hard to hide from her that I was so . . . sad.”
He tips my head back; his eyes darken. “You put yourself there. Not me.”
I drop my eyes. “I know. Are you sure you want to? Go?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yeah, I want to.” He moves his hand up to play with a little tendril of hair by my ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m not a saint. But you, Rachel . . .” He trails off as though searching for words.
“I’m not a saint either.” I’m laughing at that. “I’m a sinner,” I assure him; then I smirk a little and playfully push at his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “And you’re my Sin.”
He catches my wrist in his grip, and my laugh fades as he pulls me closer.
The glow of lust in his eyes as he studies me opens up a painful ache in my midsection. I am rabid for him. He’s my Achilles’ heel, the greatest pleasures in my life somehow now tied to his smiles. And right now, I quiver with the knowledge that he wants me.
So many years of being practical, and now I feel my romantic side taking over. I’ve spent every night for almost the past month reliving the ways he’s spoken to me, looked at me. He is unattainable, and yet he’s all my fantasies, all my dreams, put into one single human being, with warm flesh and a thudding heart and a beautiful face with a mouthwateringly muscled body.
