I can't. I can't think at all. I'm drowning in him. In the heat of his body, the grip of his hands, the low growl that vibrates from his chest into mine.
Somewhere nearby, someone wolf-whistles.
Zeus breaks the kiss.
His forehead presses against mine. His breathing is ragged, matching my own. His hands haven't released me—one on my hip, one between my shoulder blades, holding me like he's afraid I'll evaporate.
I open my eyes and find his already open. The fire reflects in his irises, turning brown to molten gold, and what I see there is a war—desire and guilt and something fierce and aching fighting for dominance.
"London." My name on his lips is half plea, half warning.
"I'm not sorry," I whisper.
His jaw works. His grip tightens for one more breath. Then his hands slide away, and he sets me back on my feet. The cold rushes into the space between us.
He looks wrecked. Torn open. He drags a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping to the sand before lifting to meet mine again. I see the words forming—the reasons we shouldn't, the excuses he's about to list.
"Don't." I hold up one hand. "Don't ruin this. Please.”
His mouth closes. He watches me for a long, charged moment. The fire pops and sends embers swirling skyward. Music plays. People laugh and dance around us, oblivious. Lord knows, some couples are doing much more than kissing out here in the open under the starry sky.
Zeus shakes his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.” And then, as though he’s ready to turn himself overto the grim reaper any time now, he smiles—a full-on panty-melting smile.
And I fall hard and fast for this man they call Zeus, king of the gods.
Chapter 8
Zeus
The door to my room clicks shut behind us, and the quiet hits like a wall after hours at the lake.
London stands in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, her jacket still carrying the scent of lake air. Her lips are swollen from our kisses. One kiss turned into two turned into…well, I couldn't have stopped if my life depended on it.
I move past her to the armchair, grabbing the spare blanket draped over its arm.
"Zeus."
I stop.
"Don't sleep in the chair tonight." Her voice is small but steady. "Please. Lay with me."
My grip tightens on the blanket.
"That's not a good idea," I say without turning around.
"Why not?"
Why not?Because I’m a scarred, damaged, mean motherfucker and you’re a sweet young woman with your whole life ahead of you. Because if I get in that bed with you, I won't ever want to leave it. I'll want to touch you, taste you, burymyself so deep inside you that neither of us remembers why this is doomed.
"I'm not the kind of man who lays next to a beautiful woman and keeps his hands to himself."
Silence. Then, she softly replies, "Maybe I don't want you to keep your hands to yourself."
Christ.
I turn. She's standing by the bed, those gorgeous eyes fixed on me with an openness, a vulnerability that breaks down more of the walls I’ve built.
"I'll make you a deal," I hear myself say.