Blood of Zeus (Blood of Zeus #1) - Meredith Wild Page 0,7

us.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” someone says.

They could be a mile away, because all I can hear is Maximus’s heavy exhale as he cinches us infinitesimally closer. His hand, huge and warm, is on my waist. His scent, like a summer rain rushing over my senses. Then his voice, breathy and low, is in my ear.

“Fuck.”

It’s barely a whisper. A word I can feel more than hear as I struggle to process the sensory explosion of this much contact. My heart beats excitedly, like it’s responding to a fun new drug designed to keep me amped all night. I brace my palm against the expanse of his chest and force myself into a state of composure. Calm down. Focus.

Except this is more than butterflies. This is a phoenix in flight. The hard hook of attraction that’s impossible to pass off as anything else now. A live wire I don’t want to let go of but desperately need to before he gets the wrong idea.

I steady on my feet and step back slowly. His touch falls away, and I’m almost mournful as I drag my gaze up to his. I’m ready to thank him for his quick reflexes, but the words die in my throat. Suddenly my skin burns as fiercely as the heat in his eyes. Then I realize his earlier slip wasn’t meant to curse the offending klutz who ran into me. In fact, I don’t think he meant to say it at all.

“You all right?” he says, his voice taking on a raspy quality that I can feel on the surface of my skin. And other places.

“I’m good.”

Too good. Buzzing with euphoria good. About to rip his clothes off good.

I should thank him for saving me from the fall. Then I should walk away and take great pains to never get this close to him again.

“Kara. There you are. Seriously.”

My sister’s dramatic drone breaks the spell. Maximus runs a shaky hand through his hair as she sidles up beside us in head-to-toe Gucci.

“It’s a miracle the paparazzi get any pictures of you at all. You find the weirdest places to hide out. You’re nowhere near the action,” she rattles on.

Before I can make introductions, Maximus mumbles something I can’t make out and turns into the crowd, creating distance between us that I’m already conflicted about. A little voice reminds me I’ll see him in class tomorrow, which shouldn’t be such a thrilling prospect. Not after I nearly seized with pleasure from a few seconds of body contact.

I try in vain not to follow him as he finds a place to stand on the other side of the store. The farthest possible spot from me. Wise. I need to remind myself of that at least a thousand more times.

I silently promise to stick with my seat in the back row of the lecture hall going forward. This can’t happen again. He’s too dangerous to the walls of my self-control.

“Come on. Let’s go get a pic—” Kell’s deep brown eyes widen slightly. “Whoa. Do you smell that?”

I swing my gaze back to her. “What?”

Her nostrils flare with a couple short sniffs. “Lust and…” She frowns. “Anxiety?”

I lick my lips nervously. “That’s me. I’m anxious.”

“I know what you smell like, K-demon. That wasn’t you.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She gracefully flips her slick wall of black hair over her shoulder. “Kara, you’re the only one of us who needs to be reminded of it.”

“Okay, well, we’re in public.” I can barely gesture for effect without hitting someone with my hand.

“The public hasn’t called us worse?”

I roll my eyes and breathe out a sigh. “Whatever.”

“So…” Her gaze wanders over the crowd. “Who was Mr. Lusty? That’s not like you to get someone all wound up.”

“It’s no one. He’s my professor. It’s not like that.”

Her pretty red lips form a shocked oval as she spots Maximus. “You’re kidding me. He’s your professor?”

“Yes,” I hiss quietly and turn my back to him, hoping to hell he doesn’t notice the most tolerable of my siblings blatantly pointing and staring at him like an unselfconscious toddler.

“Wait a motherfucking minute,” she says almost breathlessly. “That’s that superhot literature professor, isn’t it? Shit. I tried to get into one of his classes too. I got stuck with some old hag with a hard-on for Whitman.”

“Kell, Professor Ferguson is the poet laureate.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “I don’t even care. On to more important matters…” She studies me closely, as if I have evidence on me. “Are you putting the