He stares at my outstretched hand. Then at my face. Then back at my hand.
"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"
"Nope."
A breath escapes him—almost a laugh. He sets his beer in the sand and wraps his hand around mine.
I tug him toward the others, and his resistance is halfhearted at best. When I stop and turn to face him, the height difference hits me fresh. I have to crane my neck back to see his face.
His palms settle on my hips—warm, rough, spanning nearly the entire width of my waist. My breath stutters. I rest my hands on his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat beneath my right palm.
We move. Barely. More of a mutual sway than anything resembling actual dancing, but his body relaxes and his grip loosens from rigid to something approaching comfortable. I step closer. His fingers tighten reflexively.
"See?" I say.
"Not terrible,” he murmurs
I tip my head back and smile up at him. "You know, for a man named after the king of the gods, you're shockingly bad at this. Zeus was supposed to be smooth, charming, seductive?—"
"Zeus was a serial philanderer who couldn't keep it in his toga."
A laugh bursts out of me.
“Well, you are built like a Greek god,” I say before my brain catches up with my mouth.
His hands flex on my waist. The air between us charges. But instead of pulling away, his mouth curves—just a fraction—and then he laughs. Low, short, rusty from disuse, but real. An actual laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes and transforms his face from intimidating to devastating.
I did that. I made him laugh.
The song bleeds into another. We keep swaying. His thumbs trace absent circles through my jacket, and the sensation sends tingly sparks to my belly.
Over his shoulder, I catch a flash of platinum.
That cut slut—Kandi—stands near the coolers with a red solo cup in her fist, watching us. She's not even trying to hide it. Hereyes are narrow, her painted mouth pressed into a hard line, and the expression on her face is pure venom. When she catches me looking back, she doesn't look away. She holds my gaze and lifts her cup in a mocking toast.
A primitive instinct flares up in me. Not fear or intimidation, like she probably hopes. No, I feel a fierce, clawing possessiveness.
He’s mine. Mine.
The thought pulses through me, however irrational.
He's not mine. I know that. We met yesterday. He's being nice because he was friends with my father. Everything about this is—to use his word—complicated. But my body doesn't deal in logic. My body knows what it wants. And what it wants is for every woman within a hundred yards to understand that this man—this scarred, dangerous, scary but beautiful man—is off-limits.
I turn back to Zeus. He's watching my face, reading something in my expression. His brow creases.
"What?" he asks.
I don't think. I don't weigh consequences or calculate risks or consider all the reasons this is a terrible idea. I rise on my toes, grab a fistful of his t-shirt, pull him down closer to me, and press my mouth to his.
For one horrible second, he's stone—rigid and unmoving.
Then his hands tighten on my waist—crushing, pulling—and he kisses me back with a force that nearly sweeps me off my feet.
His mouth is hot and tastes like beer and needy desire. One hand slides up my back, fingers pressing into the space between my shoulder blades, pulling me flush against him.
And then he lifts me.
When my legs instinctively wrap around his hips, he angles his head and deepens the kiss. His tongue sweeps against mine,and a sound escapes me—a whimper I'd be embarrassed about if I could think clearly enough to feel embarrassment.