That doesn’t mean I’m about to confess that truth to Psyche without prompting. Not when this is just another negotiation. “Psyche.” I like the way her name tastes on my tongue. I suspect I’ll like the way she tastes even more. “I have needs.”
“I suggest you get familiar with your hand, then.” She has a stubborn set to her brows that I enjoy far too much. “Or, if you want to get fancy, I’m more than capable of purchasing you one of those toys that mimic your hole of choice.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. “Will you be content with your hand or a little buzzy toy?”
“I have had dry spells before. More often than not in recent months, those dry spells have been the rule rather than the exception.” She shrugs as if it’s a fact of life and not a godsdamned tragedy.
I slide my hands closer to her, pressing my forearms to her hips. She jolts a little, and I raise my brows. “The surest way to have you settle into the idea of me touching you is through exposure therapy. Sex will speed up that process.”
She blinks those big hazel eyes at me. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you just suggested sex with you as exposure therapy.”
“I did.”
“You really have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, so I ignore the question. “I’m attracted to you. You don’t find me overly repulsive.”
“Wow, you really do think highly of yourself.”
“I’m stating facts. Sex is the easiest way to fast-track to the results we want.” The easiest way to get exactly what I want.
Maybe it’ll be just another sexual encounter. Desire, sex, wake up the next morning with that need purged. We never have to do it again; we’re more than capable of sharing the same space without making things uncomfortable. She’s too good at playing the game to do otherwise, and control is never something I’ve had an issue with.
Until now.
“No. Absolutely not. I don’t know what you see when you look at me that makes you assume I’d happily have sex with a man who was set to murder me an hour ago, but I have higher standards than that.” She puts the slightest amount of pressure against my chest. “Back off, Eros. Now.”
I do as she asks, allowing her to push me several steps back. I want her in my bed, but I want her there willingly. “We can’t leave this apartment until you manage not to startle when I touch you.”
“I’ll be fine by morning.” She makes a show of looking around. “Now, do you have a spare bedroom?”
“Psyche.” I wait for her to look at me. I do have a spare bedroom and it’s more than adequate for her needs. But I want Psyche in my bed, and I’ll play dirty to get her there, even if it’s just to sleep. “I meant it about exposure therapy. If not sex, then sleeping next to each other will do in a pinch.”
“No.”
“It’s nonnegotiable.”
“There are plenty of couples who don’t share bedrooms. My mother and her second husband never slept together.”
I raise my brows. “The existence of you and Persephone suggests otherwise.”
She’s so damn cute when she blushes. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Stop trying to distract me.”
“Love match.” I speak the words slowly. “If we’ve lost our minds enough to rush through with a marriage, then it would be strange if you flinch every time I get close enough to touch you.”
“I’ll work on it. We don’t have to sleep in the same bed to accomplish our goals.”
I’m already tired of this argument. “You don’t want to play?” I motion behind me. “There’s the door. I won’t hurt you, but my mother will send someone else. If you want to try your chances surviving the week, you’re more than welcome to.” It’s a bluff. I can’t let her leave. Not when the consequences for both of us are so damn high.
She looks at me like she hates me, but I can live with that, because she turns toward the hallway leading deeper into the house. “Let’s finish the tour of this monstrosity of a penthouse.”
8
Psyche
After seeing the rest of Eros’s penthouse—each room more expensive and sleeker than the last—I finally manage to pry him off me and hide in the master bathroom. It’s just as ridiculous as the rest of the place with a tiled walk-in shower large enough to fit six people with a dozen showerheads in various strategic locations. The tile is rather pretty, though I’ll never say as much out loud. It almost looks like rose quartz, which shines attractively against the slate-gray tile on the floor. The sinks are both a shiny black and deep with faucets that are motion activated. Of course they are.
And the mirrors.
Gods, there are so many mirrors in this place.
I might own more than my fair share of mirrors back in my mother’s home, but this is truly above and beyond. They’re all massive and have ornate framing. Maybe they wouldn’t be so overwhelming if there was literally any other decoration in this place. But no. Just mirrors and minimalist furniture that has me feeling like I wandered into some strange art gallery. It’s attractive and expensive but ultimately soulless.
I’m sure it says something about Eros, but I’m too tired to connect the dots right now.
I brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush he found for me, mostly to give myself something to do, and stare at my reflection in the main mirror in this room. It’s a large horizontal one that stretches across the full length of the counter, the frame a simple black metal that shines against the tile. I sigh. This entire night has turned my plans on their head, but there’s nothing to be done. I know when to roll with the punches, even if this one is a knockout. There’s a way out of this eventually, but the only path forward right now is to marry Eros.
Marry Eros.
I might laugh if I had the breath for it. I knew he was attractive. I have eyes in my head. Of course, I knew he was attractive. Knowing still didn’t prepare me for the force of his personality when he turns all his attention in my direction. He’s not warm—I don’t think he’s capable of true warmth—but the sheer sexuality he exudes is enough to melt all my logic away to base need.
The reason I jump every time he touches me isn’t because I find the contact repulsive. It’s the exact opposite. Every time his fingers brush me or he wraps his arm around me, I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning.
He wants to have sex.
He wants to sleep together.
Being self-aware means I know all my weaknesses with the same thoroughness that I know my strengths. I am smart and savvy and excellent at crafting a public image for myself. I am also lonely and exhausted and not very good at separating sex from emotion. I learned that with my first boyfriend and took the lesson to heart. Hooking up casually might be for other people, but I’ll never achieve it. I get too entangled. As a result, I have to carefully vet anyone I’m interested in, which is why my romantic life has been relatively barren the last year or so. If I can’t trust a person to really be into me—instead of either trying to curry favor with my mother or attempting to use me in some other way—then I can’t afford to sleep with them and have my logical brain sidelined.