Page 35 of Touch

Andrew glances at his shoulder, then at her. “Take whatever book you want.”

The offer distracts Love, and she grabs the next title she sees. However, this one is not written by Andrew. The cover depicts splayed wings, with interior artwork of Eros leaning over the sleeping mortal, Psyche.

“Not a fan of guys with feathers?” Andrew guesses, registering Love’s frown.

“Not in particular,” she replies.

Eros in Greek mythology. Cupid in Roman myths.

Cupid is a disaster. Love has engaged with countless renditions—though she’s never been able to tolerate all of them—and nearly died of laughter every time, which is better than dying of insult. The dominant image often involves Cupid either wearing a diaper, which is degrading, or wearing armor, which is eerie on a toddler.

Eros, she can accept. In paintings and variations of his myth, he’s presented as young but not infantile. He’s strong and impressive to look upon. Sometimes he’s also mischievous—that much is accurate. The myths got a few other facets correct,including her bow and wings, but not the part about Eros being a male.

She turns toward Andrew, intending to change the subject. Except he closes the gap between them. Without warning, his approach urges Love against the bookcases, her ass thudding into the spines, which tremble on impact. His scent is a heady narcotic, the aroma obliterating all other sensory perceptions.

Andrew’s molten gaze slides down her frame. “Are you still naked under that dress?”

Some manner of distressing chemical reaction occurs within Love. Specifically, in the nether regions beneath her skirt. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?”

Those eyes darken to a point where she cannot tell if he’s enraged or aroused. Reaching into his back pocket, Andrew withdraws a capped pen. Flipping it between his fingers, he takes advantage of the loophole regarding inanimate objects, using the hard tip to etch the skirt hem fanning around Love’s thighs.

“Cover up,” he murmurs, half command, half plea.

It sounds as if he’s taking a bite out of something rich, indulgent, and unhealthy. Such a demand, although no one else can perceive her. Love is hardly one to be intimidated, trifled with, or bossed around.

She draws her tongue over the ledges of her lower teeth. “Do it for me.”

Inspiration alights his pupils, their depths glowing like bonfires. The pen sways back and forth along the dress’s rim, teasing the material, so close to the naked lips of her core. Another few inches, and the instrument will reach Love’s clitoris.

Instead of backing away—because Love never backs away—she gets comfortable against the shelves and angles her hipsforward, daring him to proceed. Andrew’s mouth curls. Oh, but this mortal knows what he’s doing.

The pen lifts. It traces the pleat of her mouth, exerting pressure until the seam splits, flashing her incisors. Then it moves to a dress strap, hooking beneath the fabric and gliding it down her shoulder, which accentuates the top swell of her breasts. From there, he sketches down Love’s arm, over her ribs, across her hips, and returns to the skirt.

Her pulse is a cannonball, ready to eject from her chest. This time, the pen sneaks under the hem, rides up her inner thighs, and draws a line to the fine hairs of her cunt. Love’s mouth falls lower, the contact drawing fluid from her pussy, shock and delight overriding her better judgment.

A carnivorous noise skids from Andrew’s chest. “Fuck.”

Yes. That word. It’s the most suitable one to describe her own thoughts.

Fuck. Fuck almighty. Fuck me.

The front of his jeans expands, a thick bulge manifesting, in proximity to her folds. Love’s vanity experiences a boost of pride to see him desire her so blatantly. Based on the shallow depths of his breathing, this human wants to heave Love off the floor and tear into her against these shelves.

He would, if it were possible. He’d strap her legs around his waist, pump his upright cock into her wet cunt, and make her come while the titles shake.

Instead, Andrew visibly deliberates how best to penetrate Love with his pen. As he brushes the instrument through the patch of Love’s hair, she clamps her mouth shut. Regardless, a rogue whimper pushes against that barrier, then slips from her throat.

At the noise, Andrew dips the pen’s tip to her slit, grazing along the crease. Forward and backward. Forward and backward. The earthly sensations wrack Love with shivers,chipping away at her willpower. The walls of her pussy ache, the cap orbiting her delicate clit, swabbing it lightly until she feels the ruched flesh inflating.

Stars almighty. Another moment of this, and she will leak down the instrument. Another moment after that, she’ll give herself over to him and condemn everyone in her world.

Clinging to the last vestiges of strength, Love jolts backward, evicting the pen from under her skirt. At the same time, the shop’s front door opens with aping, further breaking the spell.

With her pussy about to drip all over the floor, Love recoils from Andrew. She does not want his alternative touches, nor to be fondled with his pen, much less to receive anything else from him.

The proof of this must clutter her face, because he breaks out of the sexual stupor and chokes the pen in his grip. Thank Stars, her arousal has not coated the exterior.

She should tell him not to worry. He won’t be rejected by the next female.

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