Eight

Eros is an insatiable lover. Which shouldn’t be a shock in retrospect. But dang. There is a certain point when you have to do something besides exist in a state of near-perpetual bliss. But this concept does not compute in his mind.

“No work,” he tells me when I try to leave the bed at dawn, and pulls me back beneath the covers to snuggle against his warm body.

As my own is tenderly abused, his heat feels delicious and I am tired from a night of no sleep. Even walking might be outside the range of my abilities at this point. Though his arm has roughly the give of a piece of granite, I lay my head on it anyway and settle my spine deep against his torso. We shouldn’t fit together so easily. He’s too tall. But his long limbs engulf mine and I feel nothing but cherished.

I have become a righteous disciple of the dark side. No work. Not today anyway, even though the salon will be bursting at the seams. I have enough stylists to cover my appointments. The concession is not lost on me and likely not on him either.

We’re doing something new with this relationship now. What remains to be seen.

Eros seems to understand that I require a recovery period without me having to explain that a woman’s body doesn’t magically have the ability to take an alien his size on multiple occasions in rapid succession. After last night, I have little trouble remembering he’s not human.

No man could match his combination of sensuality and sheer talent, not to mention his utter beauty. Naked, he could sell ice to Iceland—in January. I’m incredibly lucky or incredibly stupid to have fallen for whatever is going on here. This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me and I have done little to deserve a devoted refugee from another planet who wants to do nothing all day but turn my insides to molten lava.

We should find something constructive to do before I lose my mind. “We’ll work on your English.”

Eros murmurs in his native language with a decidedly wicked edge, which I’m fairly certain translates into something pornographic. At the tail end of it, he says, “Ice cream.”

I half roll to glance at him. “You want some or that’s one of the words you’re practicing in English?”

He nods. Both, then. I laugh and he nuzzles my throat. It’s like he can’t stop exploring some part of me and while pretty much anything he does gets me going, I need a shower, not round forty-seven or whatever number we’re on.

“Then I have to get out of bed so we can go shopping,” I tell him and shove on his arms to get him to release me, which doesn’t happen. “You eat like a horse.”

It’s not lost on me that he’s hung like one too. Maybe they were trying to breed centaurs on Torvis and ended up with this. I’m oddly grateful for whatever failure they perceived my alien to be because I wouldn’t have him otherwise.

These thoughts are dangerous, so I push them away, though I can’t help but hear his heartfelt declaration of love on repeat in my head. Brunch with my family is in like two days. If I take him with me—a big if—and all goes according to plan, his part of the deal will be done. I can send him on his way at whatever point in the future I think he’s ready to brave the world by himself.

All at once, I can’t imagine him on his own. He’s such a sensual, tactile creature that it would be like asking a bright, eager puppy to live alone in the wild. If I force him to be alone, how long will it take to break his spirit?

Or will he naturally seek out the next woman to love?

“Let go,” I command him and he does, instantly. That part of his genetics or training or whatever is exactly right. If I’m really serious about it, he obeys.

What’s not right about this situation is the gut-deep jealousy that sloshes through me the second I start thinking about my alien with another woman. But that’s bound to happen eventually. There is no way he’ll fade into the background, and women will come to him. In droves. If anything, I’m the one who will be alone.

I take a shower and my mood turns black. This is why I don’t date. It sucks to be so completely unable to enjoy the moment without thinking of all the reasons why this thing is about to go south.

For one, I still don’t fully buy that he’s one-hundred percent as advertised. I mean, he’s beautiful, sensitive and I like him. He’s kind of funny and sweet and did I mention hung like a horse? At some point, everything is going to crash down around me because I’m dumb enough to fall for all of this wonderfulness. Right?

He can’t be what he seems. My life doesn’t work like that.

Eros takes a shower and I pretend I’m not thinking about joining him for pretty much every second of it. Then we go grocery shopping and it’s…interesting. It’s not supposed to be his introduction to the greater world outside of my house, but that’s what happens, and not because I am smart enough to seize the opportunity to practice for brunch with my family or anything productive like that. No, Eros turns it into an opportunity all on his own.

The grocery store sits on the corner of my block, so we walk. The sleepy streets of Olympia have more life than I would expect on a weekday but it’s partly sunny, a rarity, and I only need a light jacket. Eros never seems bothered by the chill and wears his requisite short sleeved T-shirt and jeans. There’s nothing else in his meager cache of possessions and I’m struck again by how little he brought to this world and how little he’s accumulated thus far.

Another plus in his favor—not one materialistic bone in his body.

He takes in the town with his typical alertness and curiosity, asking what is questions as we walk. The town is equally curious about him. Every head turns in our direction and since he’s holding my hand, it’s not like I can pass him off as anything other than what he is.

Mrs. Danvers, my next-door neighbor, sweeps her porch like she does every morning because that’s how she gets her gossip. She pauses, one hand on the broom handle and her radar fully engaged. “Hi, Penelope. This must be your new man I’ve heard about.”

“Sure is. This is…John,” I call out and keep walking or we’ll be here all day. She can come by the salon anytime if she’s low on gossip, which she does at least twice a week. Odd that she hasn’t jetted over already if the news of Eros’s existence has already made rounds.

Eros smiles at Mrs. Danvers. “Penelope wife.”

A strangled sound growls from my throat. I have purposefully not mentioned to anyone that we’re actually married. Why did I not clue in my clueless husband that it’s only a green card marriage, which means it doesn’t count?

Too late. Her ears perk up. “Congratulations. I didn’t know it was that serious.”

“We eloped,” I explain hastily and drag Eros farther down the sidewalk. “It was a surprise to us too.”

She waves as we move out of earshot but there’s no way the gauntlet is over. I give my mom fifteen minutes to call. Maybe ten if Mrs. Danvers isn’t feeling so chatty. Fine. The status of my relationship with Eros might have come up at brunch and now it’s not a secret. I can still manage this situation.

The grocery store teems with moms pulling small children by the hand. I have my own charge, who sticks near me without comment as I pull a cart from the tangle at the front of the store.

As soon as he works out what I’m doing, Eros wrestles the cart from my grip and insists on pushing it. “Take care of Penelope.”

Just when I think I’ve got this all figured out, he surprises me yet again. Here I thought that was a euphemism for sex and if it’s not, that means he genuinely intends to do the whole devoted husband bit.

Slightly agape, I follow him. “Curious if you have any idea where you’re going?”

He smiles. “Ice cream.”

Well, that pretty much sums it up. “You have a one-track mind.”

Thank God.

He finds the ice cream without much trouble. Why would I ever assume he’d be bad at navigation? He hits all the right notes on my body as if he’s got a map in his head. No reason to assume grocery store aisles and family brunches will trip him up. I start to relax. Maybe this can be my life.

Eros loads up the cart with about fourteen pints of ice cream before I can blink. I put a restraining hand on his arm as he goes back for more.

“Sweetie, we can’t buy that much ice cream.” I put back twelve of them.

He quirks a brow. “What is?”

“Because it won’t fit in my freezer for one. And the correct way to phrase that question is why not?”

“Why not?” It rolls out of his mouth and I have an instant dirty fantasy of teaching him to say things that are not safe for the grocery store. “For two?”

How can he make me laugh while I’m in the middle of a filthy porno scene in my head?

“For two because we have to eat more than ice cream. Meat, fruit, I don’t know. Cereal maybe.”

I have a bad moment when I realize I don’t have those things in my pantry already due to my own crappy eating habits. A lot of times I eat at the salon when the girls order pizza or get sandwiches from Buddy’s. I need to do better, especially if I’m going to teach Eros how to people.

“Ice cream good.” He gives me a sly once-over that has sex games written all over it. “Show Penelope.”

Oh, I’ll just bet he could too. But I can do one better than that. We have a brunch to go to that he needs to be ready for. “Maybe we’ll make a deal. You learn some phrases in English and I’ll show you how to eat ice cream in a way I guarantee you’ll never forget.”

Intrigue blasts across his expression. “What is?”

“No spoilers.” The cereal aisle has literally no shot at holding my attention so I dump some Lucky Charms and Frosted Mini-Wheats in the cart on top of the ice cream. I am so not in the running for mom of the year. “What kind of meat do you like?”

Eros shrugs. “Penelope take care of Eros.”

Yeah. I can do that. He’s steak and potatoes all the way. I add both to my growing pile, thrilled I’ve got something in the cart that doesn’t have enough sugar content to put a moose into a coma.

When we get home, Eros starts getting handsy scarcely before we clear the door, crooning in my ear about ice cream and other stuff that sounds delicious but I can’t know for sure since it’s Torvian or whatever. Man, the combo of English and his native language does such a number on me that I almost leave the ice cream in the pantry.

Can’t forget that. I grab the pint of Cherry Garcia and a spoon, walking backward toward the bedroom as I hold it out for him to see. “You coming?”

He streaks after me and lifts me into his arms so fast that I squeak out a laugh, but then he throws me down on the bed, crawling up the length of my body like a sleek, starving jungle cat. I shiver as he deliberately removes the pint and spoon from my hands, setting them aside on the comforter. I’m about to insist they be moved to the bedside table, because given the look on his face, there is a real possibility the ice cream will be soup before we remember that it’s there and I don’t want it to drip on my comforter.

I forget whatever I didn’t want to forget as he claims my mouth in a ravenous kiss that is half tongue and half teeth catching my bottom lip, as if he can’t decide which one he likes better. I like them both.

I fall instantly into the swirl of Eros beneath my skin and grab onto it with both hands. There is a small part of me constantly braced in case that mystical connection somehow doesn’t materialize. I wait with baited breath to be disappointed each time he touches me and I’m not. It’s magic and I crave it.

“I want to learn you,” I murmur against his mouth and push on his shoulders until he rolls aside. I follow, landing almost on top of him but not fully because he’s so effing huge. It’s like climbing a mountain and I do it eagerly, straddling his groin until we’re notched together.

His brows lift as he stares up at me and I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a breathtaking sight as my alien between my thighs. I cannot wait to get started on his English lessons. I need him a whole lot more naked for that.

To his credit, he helps as I strip him out of his shirt. I couldn’t have lifted him and I appreciate that he’s humoring me.

“Repeat after me,” I say as I hover over his pectoral muscle. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he rumbles back dutifully and I lick the flat disk of his bare nipple. He groans and his eyelids flutter shut. That was much more of a reaction than I was shooting for. I do it again because it turns me liquid to watch him squirm.

“How are you?”

He repeats it and I trail down his torso with little nibbling bites. God, he tastes amazing, like male sugar and spice. I unbutton his jeans and lick down the V of flesh. He’s not wearing underwear. How did I not know that? Maybe he doesn’t like it or it doesn’t fit but either way, yay.

I find the prize I’m looking for. He’s already hard and huge and I trace the tip just to watch him pulse beneath my fingers. He lifts his hips for me as I slide off his pants and now we’re talking.

The ice cream is going to get put to use after all and it’s now a great consistency for what I have in mind. He levers up on his elbows to watch, sucking in a breath as I drizzle a little cold ice cream down his length. I have to scramble to think of anything else relevant to teach him before brunch because all I can think about is licking the ice cream off.

“If someone asks you what you do for a living, you say, ‘I’m between jobs.’ Repeat, please.”

“I’m between jobs,” he says perfectly and swallows the last syllable as I drag my tongue over his flesh to catch every drop of ice cream. He groans and rolls his hips, pushing himself between my lips. “Penelope…”

Whatever else he might have said is lost as I take him into my mouth. Not all the way because that would be impossible, but at least half. He spits out something garbled and grinds against my tongue and I love how he gets into it.

I back off and smear more ice cream across his tip with my finger, which he watches with a hooded expression. As touchy-feely as he is, my alien likes his visuals too. I’m happy to give him one. I kneel between his legs and hold him aloft like a popsicle, then do my best to put him over the edge.

He’s nothing but scorching steel against my lips as I nibble at the ice cream, and then suck it all off in one fell swoop, shoving him deep in my throat to get at it. His hips swivel in that sideways rolling motion he used on me last night, and it’s so hot to watch him do that as he’s pushing into my mouth.

I take more of him, more than I thought would be physically possible. I’m so turned on right now that my panties are soaked and I’m the one squirming. Achy and needy, I slide a hand beneath my clothes to try to ease some of the fire down below as I’m pleasuring him.

All at once, he pulls out of my mouth and reverses our positions, stripping me with brutal efficiency. His head hovers between my legs, his breath hot on my bare center. “What is?”

Of course he’d ask that. I tell him the clinical name, a few funny euphemisms and one really naughty phrase. That’s the one he likes. He repeats it and immediately puts his money where his mouth is, treating me to one long lick.

I nearly come apart. My back arches and I cry out, so of course he does it again and then tries my own trick of drizzling ice cream through my crease. Delirious with sensation, I thrash against the pillow as he licks me clean, murmuring things that I have no chance of interpreting. I suspect I’m being given a lesson in Torvian dirty sex talk.

I am an instant fan. Honeyed heat spreads through me and I come lightning fast with his tongue firm against me, lapping it all up. As I float down from the ceiling, he crawls up next to me and starts doing something equally wicked with my nipples and more ice cream. God, he’s a quick study.

I don’t think we’re going to have any problems at brunch.