Page 25 of Hercules

He flashed a fast glare at Apollo, relaying that he was counting it. Just as quickly, he turned his attention back to the beauty named after the world’s most intrepid reporter.

Ms. Lance’s nervousness still showed in a fine sheen across her impeccable skin. Whatever reasons she had for her ballsy masquerade, it was clear that none of this was on her preparedness list for the night.

Preparedness.

Before he could check the action, Herc’s jaw descended beneath an anvil marked epiphany.

The word connected him to images. A bunch of them.

A face he should have committed better to memory at this point, since he’d seen it in so many paparazzi snaps during his research dive on Natasha Korra while Apollo picked out suits for him. But fifteen minutes on his phone in the Saks dressing room was more a wade than a dive. He’d learned enough to know that the little starlet was named after a distant Moscow relative, had read all the British classics in manga form, and could best be wooed with wordy flattery and strong negronis.

He also knew that she never carried anything herself. Not when the paps were hovering, at least.

Not her purse or clutch. Certainly not any shopping bags, wardrobe changes, or makeup kits. Not even a leash handle, if she was out and about with her two Schnauzers. And that was a lot, considering the dogs had nearly as many social media followers as her.

But none of it touched Ms. Korra’s well-manicured hands.

It was all handled by her assistant.

The young woman who always wore an intense expression behind the fringe of her dark auburn bangs. Who always set her bow-shaped lips into all-business determination. Who probably would’ve had the world thinking she was Natasha’s little sister, with their curiously similar faces and figures, except that she was always bogged beneath the bags or behind the dogs…

“Thank you for the upvote,” he offered now, to that exact assistant. “But I’m sure you have valid points of your own, personal assistant Lois Lance.”

The tender tone was a strange departure for him; even the woman herself conveyed the conclusion with a sharp whip of her head and a full douse of her whisky stare. That was before his own gaze followed the spread of her fresh blush…once more, all the way toward her deep V neckline…

And suddenly, savoring the moment never sounded like such a good idea.

What would it hurt, right? If only for a few special seconds…

Moments that were demolished as fast as he considered them—from the second a massive wind hit from the direction of the front door.

The gust freed his hair from its tie and plastered Lois’s dress against her wobbling body. Even Apollo got out an aggravated grunt, though he stood at the best angle for his hair to blow straight back. The remaining blood patches in his lovely pony locks were whisked free, turned into red confetti against the original Monet hanging in the entrance to Herc’s reading den.

The gale ended as fast as it had struck, ending with an angry whomp. It sounded like a door being slammed, though the boom wasn’t loud enough by half to drown the sound that emerged next.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

Very high heels on his unforgiving stone floors.

At a pace maintainable only by a pissed-off giraffe or a very determined goddess.

Though Herc didn’t rule out either—anything was possible in the underworld—he betted heavily on Aphrodite.

To whom he was also resolved to write a thank-you note.

Her tumultuous approach meant Lois’s matching retreat from the living room—until she was pressed all the way up against him.

Fuck him.

This time, in all the best ways.

The warmest, softest, let-me-play-Tetris-with-your-cock kind of ways.

“H-Holy Shit. Wh-what’s happening now?”

So much for soft and warm vibes. His poor little houseguest screamed it with the lungs of a horror movie heroine.

“Hey. Hey.” So it was definitely time to step up as the horror movie boyfriend, wrapping his arms around his trembling damsel from behind. “It’s all right, Super Scribe. It’s all right. It’s just my sist—”