Page 36 of Hercules

Like the feeling of this male’s heartbeat under her fingers. Vibrating his ribs.

The fixed force of his azure stare. Vibrating her chest.

And…oh shit…the powerful pulse lower in his body, onto which hers fitted in a downward slide.

Vibrating…everything.

I’m okay. Those were the words she’d intended to say, which still percolated between her tongue and teeth, but had become bizarre nonsense in her mind. Because now, they couldn’t be farther from her truth.

She wasn’t okay, and that was nothing but…amazing.

And terrifying.

And absolutely bewildering.

She wasn’t some trembling virgin. She’d Netflixed-and-not-so-chilled before. Not a lot, but enough. Plenty of times to know what arousal was, and how good an orgasm could feel.

Still…

Wasn’t it all more work than it was worth?

Frankly, her imagination knew a thing or twenty about arousal. And one trip to a well-recommended store in Silver Lake had solved the orgasm dilemma to the point that she could effectively describe what eyeballs in the back of one’s brain felt like. Since then, she’d redirected her existence to professional success and vital life goals.

Vital…

Life…

What?

She’d remember them all in a second. Damn it, she would—just as soon as she disconnected the cords between her crotch and her cranium. The second everything went back to normal, and the machine upstairs took back over for the gears downstairs.

Gears that had never been better lubricated…

“Herc.”

And purring even better, as soon as the sudden serration of his growl permeated all the way into her.

Her head jerked up as if his verbal knife was the real thing and already at her throat. “Eh…huh?”

“It’s just Herc, okay? That’s it.” The aural switchblade was still fully drawn, though its new volume was more like a shaft of light on the steel. Fierce but beautiful. A beauty she couldn’t help but reach for, even if she had to mask it with a cheeky smirk.

“And if I insist on respecting you a little better? To thank you—”

“For what?” His bite was more brutal than his quick step back—though not fast enough to hide the rough breaths that pummeled his lungs. “And girl, you do not want to know how I really define respect.”

As he turned, her senses screamed.

The freaking hell I don’t!

One self-inflicted throat grab later—okay so maybe she was actually trembling—Lo successfully suppressed the words. And was immediately tempted to roll her eyes. As if she’d been even close to truly spewing the confession.

Had she been close?

And why did the potential answer have her lungs threatening to whittle her ribs into toothpicks?

At least she’d have company—or so she had to assume by now, since Hercul—Herc—used her silence to pivot from her with more precision than a melodramatic movie soldier. But for a few more seconds, she forgave him the severity. Battles for self-composure were often best waged in private.

But her campaign was still falling to the whole war.