He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong. I consider this for a long moment, running through scenarios. “You’re proposing going public on my social media.” It makes sense. With a single picture, we can announce our relationship and get ahead of any repercussions from Aphrodite. This only works if all of Olympus buys our love story, and for that to happen, all of Olympus needs to know it’s happening.
“Yes. Mine is sadly neglected.”
It might be neglected, but he has nearly as large a platform as I do. It’s good to be Aphrodite’s son with the face of a god and a mysterious personality to match. But he’s right. If one of us were to announce our relationship to the world, it would be me.
I open my eyes. I’m going through with this. I’ve already committed. Now it’s simply a matter of doing it right. “Okay. Give me a few.”
Eros watches with something akin to amusement as I climb out of bed and move around his room, turning on some lights and turning off others. I use my phone to shoot a few test shots of him, and then curse him inwardly for being so photogenic that every photo looks like it should be in some magazine about millionaire playboys on their off-time.
It takes moving the lamp on the nightstand onto the bed to get the light I’m looking for. It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough. And really, no one expects perfect for the kind of shot we’re creating.
I drag forth what little courage I have left and crawl back into bed with Eros. He smooths my hair off to one side and tugs the strap of my tank top down a little so my shoulder is bare. I almost yank it back up, but we’re going for intimate and a little sexy, so it works.
I angle my phone and snap a few photos, trying not to jump when he kisses the spot where my shoulder meets my neck. “Stop that.”
“Got to make it good for the camera.”
I flip through the pictures. “You’re taking advantage and you know it. That’s a terrible angle to see your face.”
Eros tugs me even closer to him, and then his hand cups my jaw, turning my face to his. “Get the camera ready,” he murmurs, his gaze on my lips.
I shouldn’t. It’s a terrible idea. The absolute worst. But I check the angle of my phone and then turn back to him. I only intend for it to be a quick kiss and snap a few pictures as soon as his lips touch mine.
Eros isn’t content with that. He nips my bottom lip, sharp enough to draw a gasp from me, and he promptly takes advantage of the opening to slip his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like the peppermint toothpaste I used in the bathroom, and he kisses me like this is just the opening battle in what he expects to be a long war.
I melt. There’s no other word for it. I drop my phone and dig my hands into his curly hair, allowing him to deepen the kiss even as a small voice in the back of my mind calls me seven different kinds of a fool.
If he pushed things or went too fast, then maybe reason would have intruded and put a stop to this foolishness, but Eros seems content to simply kiss me until we are both breathing hard and I’m shaking. His cock is a long length against my hip, so hard that I have to fight myself to avoid reaching for him.
When he finally lifts his head and stares down at me with eyes gone dark from desire, he looks almost as shocked as I feel. The expression shifts away almost instantly, replaced by fierce determination. He eases back slowly enough that I have to bite my bottom lip to remind myself that this is fake, that I most certainly cannot reach for him and drag him on top of me to finish what that kiss started. It’s only when he’s a precarious six inches away that he speaks. “Your words say one thing, but that kiss says something else entirely, Psyche. Sex is still up for negotiation and you know it.”
9
Eros
By the end of a sleepless night spent lying next to Psyche, I’m cursing myself for not letting things spin out of control the way we both wanted. She was right there with me, arching to press as much of her lush body against me as she could. It would have taken the slightest movement to tip us over the edge.
I don’t know why I held back. I refuse to examine my reasoning.
I flip through her social media, mostly to distract myself from the temptation to tug the sheet down past her chest and just look at her. She’s too fucking sexy. Being this close and not touching her feels like my blood is simmering with no signs of cooling down anytime soon. Backing off last night was more difficult than I’ll ever admit, especially when her hands started shaking where she gripped my hair and her hips made little seeking movements.
Best not to think about that right now. I’m liable to be walking around with a permanent case of blue balls as it stands; no need to make it worse.
Despite posting the photo so late, it already has thousands of comments and even more likes. The comments snag my attention. I frown, go back to the top, and start scrolling slowly, reading every single one.
What is this shit?
Next to me, Psyche stirs. I note her going tense, but she relaxes pretty quickly once she realizes I’ve maintained the careful space between us. She yawns, her hand covering her mouth. “What’s got that look on your face?”
I grip my phone tightly, enough that there’s a very real danger I’m going to crush the damn thing. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
I almost turn the phone screen to face her but think better of it at the last moment. It doesn’t matter if she’s more than capable of seeing this shit on her own; I’m not going to show it to her. “People are saying some fucked-up shit about that photo.”
“Oh.” Her expression falls a little, but she shrugs it off quickly. “The first and most vital rule of the internet is to never read the comments. That is exponentially more important for anyone who doesn’t fit the traditional views on beauty or is marginalized in any way, but the truth is that even the thinnest, most gorgeous models get people being terrible in their comments. Trolls will be trolls.”
How can she say it so casually? More, how long did it take her to build up that impressive wall between her and the assholes in the comments section? I glare at my phone. “It’s not right.”
“No, it’s not. But you can’t do anything about it, and getting upset over some stranger whose opinion I don’t care about is counterproductive.”
I glare harder at my phone. “Maybe you can’t do anything about it, but—”
Her hand covers my mouth, the light touch scattering my violent fantasies. Psyche gives me a wary look. “I’m sure you weren’t about to tell me that you can find out who these people are and threaten them in some way.”
Since that’s exactly what I was about to say, I keep my mouth shut.