Page 47 of Hercules

She knew it as soon as she lifted her head again—and realized it wasn’t a metaphor at all.

He was now that stalking wildcat.

The fierce creature with ferocity in his stare and stealth in his moves, climbing onto the mattress directly in her wake as if she were a gazelle he’d tackled to devour.

That was the right metaphor.

Devourment.

There was no better term for what the man did via his next kiss. For the way he prowled his gloriously hard form atop her, stealing the little breath she’d recovered after he slung her into the pillows like the sexiest caveman who ever lived. For the equally primal possession of his mouth, smashing across her lips, her teeth, and the wet corners beyond. For how he approved of her open surrender with a dark, low sound that spoke volumes about the desire he still had in check…the passion he was raging to release.

The lines he was ready to cross.

Cross them, Hercules. Please.

The words were colliding gasps in her head, racing each other to get to her lips. But when she finally summoned enough air to speak, something else took over with resounding reality.

“Oh. Oh.” And then, despite her clinching effort to keep it in, “Oh, my!”

Herc made her earn the exclamation—with his swift swoop of one hand down until reaching the swell of her left breast, forceful fingers at the ready to capture her nipple between his. Also along for the journey: an obvious expertise in exactly how to manipulate the tailored leather that covered her sensitive peak. A sweet, sharp stab filled her nipple, caught between the seam under his forefinger and the fabric under his thumb.

As soon as she keened, Herc pinched again. But his throaty growl took away any breath for another outcry.

“What’d I say about letting you know when, Erastís?”

Surely the man didn’t expect an answer to that. Not after the stupid grin that Lo couldn’t contain after his endearment. Not that she’d be able to go at it with him in fluent Greek, but funny what a girl picked up when researching ancient Athens for the sake of “script authenticity”.

“Lois?” When he joined that to fresh abrasion in her breast, grinding with the whole of his hand this time, she startled to full attention. “Something you want to affirm to me?”

She swallowed. Hard. Goodbye, Paranoid Line Crosser. Hello, Commander Communicate-Right-Now-Or Else.

If only she weren’t so interested in the or else…

“Only that I think you’re a sweetheart too?”

Which, evidently, she was also committed to courting with idiot abandon.

A conclusion that had Hercules’ fast and full buy-in, as well.

She watched, enraptured, as it carved new angles across his face and then continued south, turning his shoulders into textures that matched his batcave walls.

And then…descending further…

Her new gasp was tight but turbulent, all too appropriate for the striations of muscle that torqued in Herc’s thighs—then collided inward. Even through his dress slacks and her leather fashion. Even into the crevice between her trapped legs, held in place by the dress’s demanding tailoring. His arousal was harder and huger by the second, demanding room where there was barely any. Insisting on attention.

Crossing so many lines.

And, though he shifted back by a few inches, looking very ready to barge past more.

“I’m not sure you want to know how I define sweet, little Scribester.”

Even as he threw out a disclaimer like that.

But no.

As Lois raised her stare, she was already revising things.

Disclaimer?