"Come here," I say, and tug her across the few inches that separate us.
She comes willingly, her body fitting against my chest like she was designed to be there. My arm wraps around her, and my hand rests between her shoulder blades. She tucks her faceinto the hollow of my throat, and her breath is warm and shaky against my skin.
I hold her. That's all. No wandering hands, no pushing for more. I just hold her while the fear she's been carrying leaches out of her.
I'll absorb it. I'll carry it. And I'll fucking destroy the source of it.
Greg Bowman is a dead man.
Chapter 9
London
His heartbeat thuds against my ear—constant, strong, anchoring me to the present.
I ripped open a wound I've kept sealed for years. Laid it bare for this man I barely know but somehow trust more than anyone I've ever met. And he didn't flinch. Didn't pity me. He pulled me closer and made a promise that sounded like a vow.
And every nerve ending in my body is alive, electric with awareness of him—the heat radiating from his chest, the weight of his arm across my back, the roughness of his large palm resting between my shoulder blades.
His thumb traces a slow line along my spine. Up, then down. Up, then down. A lazy rhythm that sends warmth pooling between my thighs.
I've never been held like this. Never been touched with this kind of care. And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have more—more from him, moreofhim.
I’ve never had sex before. Not out of some moral stance or purity pledge. I just never met a single man who made me feel safe enough to be so open or vulnerable.
Mom and Greg's house was populated by men who looked at me the way wolves eye a lamb—hungry and calculating. Friends who came to the house, the dealers who lurked in the living room at all hours, they stared. Some of them tried to do more than stare.
Every male in my orbit was a potential threat and I got good at ducking, dodging, and making myself small and invisible.
But Zeus…
His hand moves higher, fingers threading into the hair at the base of my skull, and a shiver tracks down my spine.
Zeus makes me feel protected, but beneath that is something else—a strong sexual pull, magnetic and relentless, that’s been building since the first moment I saw him.
I want him. I want this man with a ferocity that scares me.
I shift against his chest, tilting my face up from the hollow of his throat. His jaw is above me, sharp and shadowed with scruff. I press my lips there—just below his ear, where his pulse beats strongly.
His breath catches. His hand stills on my back.
"London." A warning.
I press another kiss to his jaw. Then his neck. My hand flattens against his chest and slides upward, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath cotton.
“Don’t push me away," I whisper against his skin. “I want you.”
His body goes taut.
"You've had a hell of a day." His voice is rough gravel. "A hell of a week. You don't need to?—"
“Stop. I’m not doing this out of some need for comfort." I pull back enough to meet his eyes. In the dim lamplight, they're dark and burning. "I'm doing this because I want you, and you're the first man I've ever wanted."
His nostrils flare. His hand tightens in my hair—not pulling, holding. "You sure?"
"I'm sure." I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth. No hesitation. No fear. "I'm choosing you, Zeus.”
“Christopher,” he says. “My name’s Christopher. Chris.”
