Page 14 of Hercules

Her recognition of it, way too late.

As many falls in Tinseltown went, everything about it was now an experience in excruciating slow motion—including her dread about how much it was going to hurt, eclipsed only by her horror about how half-assed she was going to look.

Perhaps literally.

Damn it, why hadn’t she protested louder when Natasha insisted on a leather mini dress for tonight?

CHAPTER 5

“Whoa.”

There was no time for Herc to appreciate how his reaction damn near harmonized with Natasha’s. He’d never been a minstrel and wasn’t interested in starting now. Or ever. Meg had even talked him into singing a lullaby for the kids one night. First and last time for that foolish call.

What he wasn’t a fool about? Recognizing a catastrophe three steps ahead of time. The only exception had been succumbing to the spell that had ripped his family away from him—by his own hand. He’d never be caught so unaware again.

Especially not now.

The second he heard the thwonk of her shoe on the brick, one of his made a sharp shriff against the stones with his sharp one-eighty spin.

His exclamation didn’t come until noticing she was following him at a farther distance than he thought. That his original plan to steady her was scrapped for the call to catch her.

A quest he barely accomplished.

She was less than a foot away from cracking open her head when he was properly repositioned to scoop an arm under her. His opposite hand, already hearkening instinct, swooped to cradle the back of her head.

At last, they both came to a stop—in a tangle of limbs and breaths and adrenaline that vividly reminded him of his and Apollo’s prepubescent wrestling matches. All effort, no style.

Except that he never had to fight instant arousal for the Polo Pony.

Or be more mortified that the unexpected…surge…was just as quickly noticed.

“Umm…oh.”

Or acknowledged with a word that was raw, syllabic sex.

Which, through some miracle he had to remember to thank someone for, Herc backed his attention away from. Or perhaps he owed the gratitude to the grip he refused to give up. Not until she answered the words that grated out of him next.

“You okay?”

At first, she only nodded—not a help for his groin, considering the blush her action encouraged across her face. As in all of it, from the sculpted sweeps of her eyebrows to where her neck met her collarbones. Herc didn’t dare a glance beyond that. Cleavage curiosity was not a workable plan when one was dealing with their most prominent erection in years. Well, one they could remember. Only the universe itself had the figure for how many times Meg had visited his dreams.

No dream this time.

Though the dazed wander of Natasha Korra’s stare had him thinking otherwise.

Perhaps…hoping for it.

A dream. It made acceptable sense. Maybe all of it, this afternoon included, was his mind’s way of figuring how to tell Apollo that the big plan hadn’t worked. That the twelve Labors hadn’t fixed a thing. And now, the pop starlet’s appearance was just a bleed from something he’d seen on magazines while passing the press stand on his way to the tattoo shop.

That had to be it. And any second now, she’d turn back into Megaera. The conflict above his neck would be wiped clean by the rightness of everything below his belt. The heat in his balls would be logical. Better yet, if no asshole woke him up, he’d be able to do something about it. Her tiny leather skirt would get bunched around her waist while he shucked these fancy suit pants…

And then…

Hell, yes.

“Oh my God. Oh, no.”

Shit.