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Without further ado, here's Eros:
He stopped in the
hallway to pick up his jacket and shirt from the floor—making sure he didn’t
dwell on the memory of her hands sliding across his skin and her fingernails
raking down his back—and shrugged them on, before making sure the door latched
behind him. He buttoned the shirt on his way down the five flights of stairs
he’d carried her up earlier—stupid chit; did she really think he wouldn’t be
able to carry her up five flights of stairs?—and by the time he was back
outside on the street, he looked like nothing had happened.
Or so he thought,
until he walked up to the bar at Dionysus’s and Dion took one look at him and
grinned. “How was it?”
Eros shot him a
dark look. “None of your business.”
“Sure,” Dion said.
“Just tell me one thing. Did you make her keep the shoes on?”
“Fuck you.”
Dion chuckled.
“I’ll take that as a yes. So why aren’t you there, reclaiming your manhood and
sticking it to the bitch?”
Eros felt himself
bristle. “Don’t call her that.”
“Not Annie,” Dion
said. “The bitch who left you.”
Oh. Much better.
“What’s the point? She’ll never know.”
“You could tell
her.”
No thanks. “I
don’t care if I ever see her again. Let what’s-his-name have her.”
“I’m sure he
already does,” Dion said. “Right now, probably.”
Probably. From
what Eros knew about the warriors of Valhalla, they were pretty much only
interested in two things, and spent all day doing one and all night doing the
other. And because the idea bothered him just a bit, even after what he’d just
done himself, he put it out of his mind before it could lodge there and bother
him more.
Instead, he looked
around the bar. “Harry around?” Things had slowed down some in the time he’d
been gone. He couldn’t see Harry anywhere, although Brita was still there,
probably hoping to end the night with Dionysus. The rest of his office staff
had joined her: Iris, the pretty little goddess of rainbows, in a flowing
multicolored chiffon blouse, and Carrie—Carya—goddess of the walnut tree, in a
pair of jeans that would have made Harry weep. Ariadne was over at the corner
table talking to Silenus and—he assumed—keeping an eye on Brita. Or on Dion. If
the Cretan goddess of hunting attempted to go upstairs with the god of wine at
the end of the night, the minor goddess of the labyrinth would probably have
something to say about it.
Dion nodded. “They
left a few minutes after you walked out. Why? Were you gonna hurt him?” He
looked delighted at the prospect.
The thought had
crossed Eros’s mind. However— “No. Annie told me she wants him. I’m gonna get
him for her.”
Dion tilted his
head and contemplated him. “What did you do wrong?”
“Nothing,” Eros
said. “It was before.”
“Before you showed
her paradise. You did show her paradise, right?”
Eros shrugged.
“She seemed to enjoy herself.”
“Not exactly the
rousing confidence I was hoping for,” Dion said, “but it’ll do. So you took
this woman home, and nailed her, and she let you, and even kept her shoes on
while you did—”
“That wasn’t
deliberate.”
“Sorry to hear it.
Even so, what makes you think she still wants Harry?”
“She said she
did,” Eros said.
“Before you fucked
her. And seeing as you’re the fucking god of love, when you fuck someone, they
stay fucked, right? They don’t want anyone else afterwards.”
“Will you knock it
off with the fucking?” Eros was no prude, but there were limits to how many
times he was comfortable hearing the word fuck in a sentence.
“When I’m dead,”
Dion said, and added, “which will be never, since I’m immortal.”
Eros growled, and
Dion continued, “But I’ll stop saying it. You walked Annie home. You took her
upstairs. Knowing you, you probably carried her. She was pretty drunk when she
walked outta here, so she might have needed some help walking. You stayed there
long enough to take advantage of her. She kept her shoes on. Very hot shoes.
Not to mention, you’re the god of love. I think you can assume she’s over Harry
Mitchell.”
“Maybe I don’t
want her to be over him.”
Dion leaned his
elbows on the bar. “Why not? She seemed nice. Nice ass, nice boobs, nice mouth.
Very nice shoes.”
“Are you trying to
make me angry?”
“Why would I do
that?” Dion grinned. “You’re thinking too much, Ros. Just enjoy her.”
He had. He just
didn’t want to do it again. Or rather, he wanted to so much that it was
probably better if he just fixed her up with Harry and was done with it. “You
just said I took advantage of her.”
Dion shook his
head. “You didn’t. You’re the god of love. She would have rolled over for you
even if she hadn’t been drunk.”
Maybe. But the
fact was that she had been, and he’d known it. He’d known she wanted Harry, and
he had seduced her anyway. “I’m scum.”
“No, you’re not,”
Dion said. “You’re a god. The usual rules don’t apply.”
“They should. Just
because I have an unfair advantage doesn’t mean it’s okay to go around seducing
drunk mortals.”
“Oops,” Dion said
calmly, “and here I’ve always thought it did.”
###
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