Despite it all, in the back of your mind, you’ll be worried about getting a terrible infection.
All of this is to say, my morning started super weird.
With Cupid still lightly snoring, I slowly wrench myself away from him. His cock flops unceremoniously onto the bed, and I stumble in a daze to the bathroom.
What did I do last night?
I remember, of course. I can recall the entire night in painstaking detail. If asked, I could have given a play-by-play recount. Perhaps because I haven’t stopped replaying it in my mind since I began drifting in and out of wakefulness. Believe me, I did tryvery hardto forget about it, actually.
Not because I regret what happened; the exact opposite.
Because I enjoyed it. Ilovedit. The role-play, the sex, the intimacy of it. I have never felt so confident and content with a sexual partner as I did last night. Or as confused as I am this morning.
And for some crazy reason, I’m in a great mood. Not going to give that too much thought right now.
Instead, I turn the shower on and let my brain shut off. With the water at approximately lava temperature, I stand under the spray and let my skin turn bright pink. After a few minutes, I hear the click of the bathroom door handle. I don’t turn toward the sound.
Arms wrap around me from behind as Cupid joins me. The front of his naked body presses against the back of mine, holding me in a loose embrace. He presses a kiss to my neck. I tilt my head to allow him easier access—out of politeness, obviously. Nothing more.
We don’t speak at all. Almost as if we both know we’re in a dream, or dreamlike state, and neither of us is quite ready to fully wake up. So without saying a word, Cupid reaches around me for the shampoo, urging my head back and lathering it into my hair. He’s careful to keep the suds out of my eyes, and I’m careful to keep my eyes closed so I can pretend this is a fantasy and not real life. Because if it’s real life, then I might have a problem.
The shampoo smells like coconut and hibiscus. His hands in my hair feel like heaven. I let him rinse my hair and repeat the process with conditioner. When my hair is done, we switch—my hands buried in his hair, his face pointed upward, eyes closed. The hard planes of his body glisten under the steady stream. He looks, for the first time, like a Greek god.
Next, Cupid takes the soap and washcloth in hand, scrubbing me clean in methodical, gentle strokes. I do the same for him.
We don’t speak until we’ve both dried off with the hotel’s big, fluffy towels and gotten dressed.
“Play hooky today,” Cupid says, grabbing the hairbrush from my hands and running it through my hair. I close my eyes and relax into the gentle massage of it. I know this will be the first and last time he ever does this, because I did the math.
I don’t respond to his plea. I’m too lost in my own thoughts.
Our three days are almost up.
Cupid visited me on Wednesday morning. We spent most of the day driving to Vegas. Yesterday, I successfully avoided him until early evening. I was so proud of that at first — or had at least convinced myself that I was. But now it’s day three of our deal. We agreed to seventy-two hours. While I don’t knowexactlyhow much we have left in this, I know it can’t be very long.
I know it’s not going to be enough.
This is what leads me to ask: “Does the arrow’s effect wear off after seventy-two hours, or does something need to happen?” I’m looking at Cupid in the mirror as he continues to brush my hair. We make eye contact, and his face seems to shutter.
“What?” he asks disinterestedly.
“The arrow. Will it just…stop working when the time is up, like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage? Or will it take a while to…” I twist my lips as I search for the right words, and land on: “leave my system?”
“Umm.” His gaze looks past mine in our reflection. “That depends, I guess,” he says. “How do you—how do you feel right now?” he asks, putting down my hairbrush and walking toward the bed.
“You know,” I begin, “the usual, I think? For the arrow. All that stuff you told me about, before.” My hands twist in my lap. I stare at them. “The, um, desire thing. A little lust, I guess. I mean, obviously,” I say, waving a limp hand toward the bed. “You saw how I acted last night, which was totally out of character for me.”
I look at him, and he nods, eyebrows knitted together. Am I saying something wrong here?
“And I feel kind of warm, here.” I point to my chest, over my heart. “Like there’s a light pressure…but it feels nice. Not bad like heartburn or anything. Plus, I’m in a weirdly good mood, which is pretty unlike me. So I know your arrow’s working—”
My words trail off as I watch a smile spreading across Cupid’s handsome face.
“Oh, shut up!” I laugh, taking in his expression.
He holds his hands up. “I didn’t say anything!”
“Well, I know what you’re thinking,” I say. “And don’t get your hopes up. When the arrow’s effects wear off, I hope you know I’m notactuallygoing to lose your stupid bet.”
