Page 44 of Hercules

Just in time, she rescued him from considering those real possibilities. “What?” A laugh fumbled from her quirking lips. “You mean if we turned back time right now, and we were meeting again at Aphrodite’s table—”

“Things would be different.”

Once more, the zeal beneath his statement—and it was absolutely that, a truth as thorough as if he gave it in an oath-sworn courtroom—had her gaze splaying and her lips framing a nonplussed O. Still Herc grinded on.

“Because I sure as fuck wouldn’t have taken you out to the patio for a polite little chat.”

“Wh—”

But she gouged in on herself this time, as if realizing how absurd she’d be for forming the whole question without a shred of irony.

Because irony was the last thing on Herc’s mind.

And his face.

The features, and meanings, he didn’t want to shield anymore. He couldn’t hide.

For the first time in ten years, he was doing something with actual meaning. Something that felt like the first time he stood before the pyramid of Giza or rode over the edge of Angel Falls…or cradled both his children.

This was big. Heart stopping. Breath stealing.

Important.

She was important.

And if his pathetic existence had taught him so little else, it was the valuable, indelible lesson of beholding the big stuff—and acknowledging it with everything he had. Because tomorrow, it might not be there at all.

Which was why, as soon as the gorgeous girl hesitated, he didn’t allow any other thoughts to intrude. Or stomp.

Or hold him back from sweeping in to capture her lips beneath his own.

CHAPTER 12

Since this insane night began, Lois had been in sheer reaction mode. Not consciously choosing any thoughts or feelings; she was in raw reaction mode only, like a wind-whipped tail on a lion-shaped kite.

So how was this the moment when she grew aware of her full control again? The choice. Stepping fully into this awareness, here and now, with the demigod they called the Lion Man?

Because he’d never been less of that lion.

Despite the solid press of his mouth and the rapid rumble up his throat, that wildcat was nowhere to be sensed. A creature so noticeably absent she actually opened her eyes, avidly searching for even a sign of that savage edge—but coming back without a thing.

No. Not that.

She didn’t pull back with nothing. Far from it.

She had more.

The sight of his tawny lashes, tight against his upper cheeks, as he closed his eyes in fervent concentration. The way a thick lock of his hair fell over one of those cheeks at the same time, but his desire seemed to obliviate his awareness of it. More evidence of exactly how much she suspected he kept holding back, even now, the second her gaze caught the agonized thrum at the middle of his throat.

An agony she yearned to relieve him of. Or perhaps…to take from him as her own.

Oh, God.

Was it a possibility? Anything he’d allow?

Okay, the Greeks were known for some fairly kinky shit—she knew as much from researching a swords-and-sandals TV series pitch once upon a time—but was that only for mortals wanting to forget watery wine and constant civil wars? How did it apply to the deities who didn’t rule over love and sex? Or beyond that, the demigods?

One fact to which she could attest: somewhere along the line, someone had taught the demigods how to kiss.