I’m definitely ridiculous.
I tilt my head, smirk. “My original plan was to own Heaven,” I tell her.
Is that a cheap pickup line? One hundred percent yes.
She makes a small sound, entertained, not annoyed. Already better than any other conversation I’ve started tonight.
If I’m honest? I’m rusty.
I usually don’t have to work this hard. Not to brag—I don’t think being the object is a brag—but a lot of girls are happy to say yes to a Pro Soccer League striker. And I haven't been out much lately. I screwed up one too many times here and there, and now the club has me on a leash. Which means this is my first "unapproved" night out in weeks.
So, yeah. Out of practice.
Yet, somehow, she’s smiling at me like I’m worth her time.
That alone is dangerous.
“Mmm,” she says. “Ambitious. I like ambitious.” And then she twirls a blonde lock of hair around her finger, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her lips curl. Slow. Filthy. Knowing.
“I’m more of an Olympus girl, personally.”
I laugh. “Olympus, huh?”
“Yeah.” She leans toward me a little as if she's about to tell me a secret. Her scent hits me and I forget what I wanted to say for two full seconds. Vanilla and something warmer underneath—amber, maybe—a scent that slides down your spine like a hand. “Mmm. Less rules, more fun.”
Her eyes drift down to my chest.
Then down to my abdomen. I silently thank the hours spent at the gym and all the grueling workouts.
I loosen the chain around my neck a bit. I feel like I’m choking. I’m too hot—and not in the fun way. In the way where you can’t breathe.
Her gaze lingers on my throat, my lips, then settles on my eyes. Her tongue barely brushes her lower lip, slow, as if she’s considering biting me there.
I forget English for a second.
“You’d make Venus jealous,” is all I manage.
She laughs, a soft and scandalous sound all at once. “How sweet,” she says. “But actually, I’m Cupid.”
It takes me a moment to realize, because I was staring at her breasts, not her accessories. Then I see it: a small red bow with a matching arrow, golden tip, clipped to her hip.
She pulls out the arrow. Aims. Draws the string.
“Bang,” she whispers.
And lets it go.
The arrow hits me right in the chest.
Cute.
Except when her knuckles brush my ribcage, my heart rate goes insane.
Oh, fun, I think. I’m in real trouble.
But… I try not to think about it.
