Page 57 of Hercules

All right, fuckers. Down. Both of you.

He had more important matters to concentrate on. Well, at this moment, only one. Before his erection overruled his nobility on the matter, he manifested it by actually speaking it.

“Right now, I’m only interested in tidily tracking one thing,” he said while withdrawing all the way from her tight warmth. The sooner he separated the beast between his legs from its biggest temptation, the better chance he’d have of retethering the driven dragon. “It’s time to tuck you in. Your exhaustion is palpable.”

Apparently, he’d had the forethought to dampen a pile of washcloths between their second and third rounds between the sheets, and he easily found a clean one to caress her with, using tender swipes. The woman didn’t fight him much on it—physically. Her verbal pluck was something different.

“Wait. Who’s being palpable? That’s a seriously huge word for this time of night. And why aren’t we both palpable? Misery does love company sometimes, pal.”

“You’re a human,” he replied, laying on the gentleness to counter her wiped-out ramblings. “Though resilient and ravishing and amazing, a human who’s had too much of an insane evening.” Thankfully, she seemed to realize she’d lose that point, as well. He pulled his thicker comforter around her, welcoming long-dormant protectiveness as she released a long yawn against his chest. “Sleep well, little Scribester. I’ll watch over your slumber as if that’s my new Labor.”

The vow emanated from places far down inside, which she validated in more ways than just the sleepy dip of her head before settling fully against the pillows. After a few minutes, she nestled deeper into the covers as if her subconscious already knew exactly how her curves would be outlined by the fabric…and how the small tug would expose the tantalizing tops of her breasts. But—damn it—only the beginnings of the lush swells.

To see the rest, he’d have to pluck down the covers a little farther.

Which wasn’t what he’d promised the woman.

She needed her sleep. And he didn’t need this harsher clutch in his crotch.

A half-hour’s worth of gritting adjustments later, his dick begrudgingly accepted the stand-down, and he was able to fully focus on Lois Lance from her blanket line up.

Though the thoughts he faced were just as riveting—if a little more byzantine—than the simple spell of her nude glory.

Who was she, really? This fascinating female with the name from several eras ago, who spoke and moved as if she really could have come from the graceful time when Clark Kent and his ladylove were first created for a planet facing its second world war…though she borrowed as much from modern-day heroines with her bold quips, brazen driving, and frequently bawdy humor.

None of which he was complaining about.

Gods help him, just the opposite.

Her boldness translated into how willingly she craved to pleasure him with her body.

Her brazen side manifested in her infectious joy when he flipped that dynamic.

As for all her bawdy tendencies…

Those were his favorite parts of all.

Good God, mister. I’d make you register this cock as a lethal weapon, but I don’t want anyone else to know about it.

Holy shit. Whatever the hell that move was, let’s stick the back-ten-seconds button on it.

Honestly, I’m laughing because it feels too good. And because you’re about to make me come like a Shinkansen in a very small village.

He chuckled now too, taking care to contain most of the sound inside his chest. If the woman had even half an idea of what feeling too good really was… Though luckily, he was confident he’d gotten her pretty damn close a few times.

For every time but the last one.

He shifted his weight, again taking care to only disturb his side of the bed, as the enormity of that moment hit him once more at full force.

Everything felt just as good as their first three times, except better. Exploding at the same time had been like a dream, the kind of stuff Meg used to read about in the romance novels that were her largest human realm addiction. More than once, he’d gently explained to his wife that real world anatomy, even that of demigods, didn’t operate that way. Erections had inclinations of their own and were, in Lois’s adorable phraseology, like bullet trains headed for helpless villages. The chances of the village self-exploding at the exact same time that the train barreled in? Million to one, at least.

But so were the chances of everything else that had happened tonight.

Even writing it into one of Meg’s novels would border on contrived.

A moping demigod and a starlet’s double walk into a bar together…

Simply laying it out in his mind was a grueling exercise in containing the is-this-fucking-crazy bomb shards. Because right now, crazy was easier to believe than logical dots.