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“You say that as if you’re dead serious.”
“Very much alive, and entirely serious, yes.”
“Okay, maybe I do need to sit down.” One hand on her forehead and the other clutching her towel, she takes a few small steps toward the bed and sits on the edge, unaware that doing so shifts the towel even higher up her hips.
The low lighting in the room casts enough shadow to prevent me from truly seeing between her legs. Thank the gods for that.
Her hand drops from her head to her lap, where she adjusts the towel, maximizing what little shielding it provides. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything, Natalie. Not now, not at any time. I’m here for you, to give you whatever you need. As your mate, I do mean that literally, so never feel shy or awkward to tell me what I can do for you.” I wait for her to look up at me. “I’ll never pressure you to do or feel anything. I promise you that.”
“Okay,” she says in that soft voice that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and never let go.
“I’ll be in the kitchen whenever you’re ready to eat.”
There are no defenses shuttering her expression. Her eyes swim with questions and emotions, her lips forming only the faintest smile. “I’ll be there soon.”
Nodding, I leave her alone in the room, fighting every instinct to do the opposite.
Six
NATALIE
Despite my earlier comment about using all the hot water, it didn’t run out during my shower, even though it may have been the longest one I’ve ever taken. I’ve always done my best thinking in the shower. Not this time. There’s too much crowding my brain. I can’t imagine how shriveled I’d be after a shower long enough to sort through everything I’ve learned since arriving.
My texts to Ro didn’t prove helpful, either. She answered my first message immediately, relieved that I’m awake, mentally sound, and sticking around to be her maid of honor. As soon as I changed the subject to Constantine’s “you’re my fated mate” confession, the conversion changed. Ro sent a big-eyes emoji, followed by a shrug emoji, said we’d talk about it in person tomorrow, then ghosted me.
Talking tomorrow would be fine if I weren’t bunking here. Sure, I could hide out in my bedroom for the rest of the night. I don’t have to join him in the kitchen. I’m hungry, but I’m not going to die if I go without eating for one night. If I didn’t want to seem totally rude, I could text him and say I’m going to bail on food because I’m exhausted. A reasonable excuse.
That’d only buy me tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday. It’s possible he doesn’t work on the weekend, or he took the day off to be a good host. What am I going to do if he’s out there in the morning? Hole up in my bedroom until Ro finds time to come rescue me? And rescue me from what? Someone who seems perfectly nice and totally accommodating?
Not just nice and accommodating. He’s a hunky Minotaur who thinks I’m his fated mate. I may not feel the certainty of a fated-mates bond, but I do feel something. And lots of it. Attraction like I’ve never experienced—for a man who’s not human. I knew there was a spark from the first time we talked on the phone. Our easy connection was a turn-on, even without knowing what he looked like. With each call, each minute spent talking, the connection grew. So did the sparks.
I came here planning to act on those sparks if opportunity presented. To break out of my overthinking mode and have some sexy-times fun during this two-week break from my plodding life.
Well, opportunity has certainly presented. Constantine didn’t make a move on me, but the “you’re my mate” thing should be an open invitation to get down to it.
Except I don’t think it is.
I’ve never met a human male who’d balk at a quick fling with a predetermined expiration date. No-strings-attached, commitment-free sex is every human man’s dream.
But Constantine isn’t human. The concept of having one true, fated mate in a lifetime sounds like it has more strings than a marionette. More than a harp. Heck, a marionette playing a harp. And getting caught up in all those strings could make disentangling myself very difficult. Also, it wouldn’t be fair to him.
So, decision made. No finding out if Constantine is massive all over. My body is going to have to keep on jonesing. I didn’t pack my vibrator out of fear I’d be selected for some random luggage inspection. Maybe there’s a sex-toy shop in town. That’s a question I’m sure Ro will be happy to answer tomorrow. Tonight, I’m going to be a friendly houseguest. It’s the least I can do.
Determined to appear more uninterested than I truly feel, I opt for sweatpants, a baggy hoodie, and fuzzy socks. No makeup. Hair in a loose, basic braid. This is the head-to-toe version of granny panties. If I were asked to label this look, I’d call it “man repellent” or “the attraction vaccine.”
It’s a short trek down the hall to an open-concept kitchen, dining, and living room area. Just like the guest room, everything in here is light, airy, and noticeably oversized. Monster sized.
Constantine is leaning over a large, granite-topped island, focused on a flat-screen TV on the opposite side of the living room. The Sports Network. Apparently, some things are universally “guy,” no matter their species.
His rapt attention on the highlight reels gives me a moment to check out this new-to-me backside view of him. He’s still wearing the blue button-up shirt, only now the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are the thickest I’ve ever seen. There’s something about a man with solid arms and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Constantine wins this category by a landslide.
Maybe the clothing here is magically enhanced, too. It must be, because the way his shirt is stretched taut across his unbelievably wide back would be too much strain for normal material and stitching. His long, dark hair lies in neat, shiny waves that end in a tidy line at shoulder-blade level. I shouldn’t want to touch it, but tell that to my fingers, twitching at my sides.
There’s a subtle V shape to his upper body, but only because his shoulders are so damn wide. He’s definitely not thin at the waist. He’s deliciously thick. The kind of body that could give protection or the world’s best cuddle.
With how snug his jeans fit over what is undoubtedly a solidly muscled butt, the belt he’s wearing must be for fashion, not function. And it works. It all works. So well, in fact, I’m a heartbeat from sneaking back to my bedroom to make use of my fingers and one of the extra-fluffy pillows while I mentally undress him in private.
