Page 26
I swallow.
“So the God of Wrath has never been kissed?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Well, that explains your personality.”
His mouth twitches.
“Does it?”
“Absolutely. Three thousand years without a kiss? I’d be furious too.”
A low laugh rumbles through his chest.
The sound vibrates against my palm.
I smile.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Your sense of humor. I was beginning to think they forgot to carve one.”
His hand rises toward my cheek, then stops.
“May I?”
My breath catches.
I nod.
He brushes a damp curl behind my ear.
His fingertips linger against my skin, impossibly gentle for a man whose hands could probably crush concrete.
“You are very soft,” he murmurs.
I try for a joke.
“That’s what happens when you moisturize.”
His eyes darken.
“I like it.”
I should move.
Really.
Instead, I stand there with my palm pressed against the chest of a god who looks at me like I’m the first beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Which is ridiculous.
