“Okay, team!” Margarita bellowed. “We came in fifth last year. That can’t happen again.” She pointed to Lauran, her good friend, who was a blonde in her late forties, same as Kris. The rest of the ladies ranged in age from mid-thirties to early fifties. “And you! You leave out the bar crawl this time, okay?”
“But the crawl is the best part,” Lauran whined.
Several other women, including Kris, agreed and booed jokingly at Margarita.
Margarita rolled her eyes. “Come on, guys. Isn’t it enough fun just to be running together, showing everyone how hot us middle-aged women are?”
Everyone continued lobbing the boos and then began chanting for “boos” the kind spelled with the letter Z. “We want booze! We want booze!”
Several men, dressed like giant beer bottles, wandered by in the enormous crowd and hooted, “We’ll be waiting at stop number one!”
Margarita’s team cheered. It seemed she was the only one who took the competition seriously. Of course, she didn’t drink—she hated alcohol—but it seemed her team needed to have a good time.
“Okay, fine.” She shook her head at her running shoes. “We’ll make one stop. Just one. But then you’d better run your butts off.”
Luckily, this was only a 5K for charity and many of the contestants never crossed the finish line because there were roughly twenty cocktail stops along the route down Highway 1, but her gym could still use the publicity if they won.
“Margarita?” said a deep, deep masculine voice from behind her, sending goose bumps up her spine.
The women on her team froze, staring like they’d just spotted a delicious pile of chocolate behind her.
Margarita turned to find the hottest man ever to walk the Earth. His long brown hair, streaked with ribbons of caramel brown and gold, shimmered in the early morning sunlight. His eyes, a stunning turquoise green, sparkled with the promise of supreme lovemaking. His tall, tall form—Jesus, he must be over seven feet—was perfectly muscled in all the right places, including those rock-solid arms and legs. He was too sexy for words. God, I feel really sleazy for wanting him so much. She’d just slept with his horrible brother, an incident that still boggled her mind.
Margarita’s mouth went dry. “Acan, you came.”
“Not yet. But given your outfit, that might change.” His eyes washed over her body.
She felt her face flush red. Wanting him so much had to be wrong. “Oh, uhh…yeah. I guess I forgot to mention my team’s costume. Last year we were the B-52 Boobers.” They’d worn hats in the shape of airplanes and stuck little cutouts of boobs all over their bodies. “We always run for breast cancer awareness.”
And…it appears to be working well this year. Acan would not stop staring at her boobs. Why the hell had she invited him, again? Yesterday at the salon felt like a giant blur, the only thing she recalled clearly being the mind-crippling lust she’d felt in Acan’s presence. He had all of the strange masculine magnetism of his crude brother, with the unfathomable good looks of a sex god. But Acan was so out of her league, not to mention probably about twenty years younger.
Wait. Out of your league? You’re a hot older woman with the bod of a twenty-year-old. And he is here because I invited him, isn’t he?
Just to be sure, she had to ask, “You’re not running on another team, are you?”
He didn’t reply. His brain was too occupied.
“You can stop staring at my breasts now,” she said.
“Oh. My apologies. It’s simply that I never got to see them.”
Huh?
His eyes snapped up. “Sorry. I meant to say I wouldn’t dream of running on another team.” He glanced around at the nearly catatonic group of women in purple underwear and purple sun hats. “Hello, ladies. Love the outfits.”
From the surprise—and delight—on his face, it dawned on Margarita that he might not have heard of this event. “Acan, I should’ve asked if you’ve run this marathon before or even know what it is.” She’d simply assumed everyone in LA knew it.
“I’m not exactly from around here, but I come prepared.” He started lifting up his black T-shirt and the ladies gasped in unison.
“Oh, God. No, no, no.” Margarita grabbed his hand to stop him from going any further. “You should keep that on.”
He flashed a devilish grin. “Afraid that I might be a distraction?”
Absolutely. What was I thinking telling him to come? She would be tripping all over the place while her boobs jiggled like crazy. Kinda funny in front of a mob of crazy drunk runners dressed as zoo animals, burlesque dancers, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but not so much in front of a man as perfect as this.
Oh God, I can’t believe he actually showed up. And he was so freaking hot. And young. But how could she possibly ever tell him that she’d sort of slept with his disgusting brother for no other reason than he smelled really nice and she’d suffered from a moment of temporary insanity.
He’ll think I’m pathetic. And a little loose.
Wait, Margarita. What the hell is the matter with you, pining for this guy? Did you learn nothing from Mike? He had been a pretty face, skilled at charming women. He’d taught her that a man who worked so hard on his exterior only did so to hide some serious flaws on the inside. Still, look at this guy. It was hard not to drool.
“So it looks like everyone is queuing up. Shall we?” Acan gestured toward the massive crowd closing in on the starting line.
She smiled stiffly. “Sure. Come on, ladies! Time to win.”
Her team sort of just followed Acan like hypnotized sheep in purple panties. She noticed a bunch of women from other teams following him, too.
How odd. It was like they were all in a trance.
As she stood there next to him, unable to do her usual stretching for obvious scantily clad panty-related reasons, she noticed his shoes were untied. Then she noticed they were brand new, the edges of the rubber soles a pristine white. His black running shorts and T-shirt looked new, as well. No spots, stains, pills, or wrinkles.
Had he gone shopping for workout clothes simply to look nice for her? Nah. That would be silly. Just look at the guy. With a body like that, he must be at the gym three or four hours a day.
“Margarita, would you mind if I ask you a question?” Acan said.
“That was a question.” She smiled. “And your shoe is untied.”
“Ah.” He chuckled and bent over to tie it.
“Ohmygod,” a woman gasped behind him along with twenty others. They all just stared at his ass or the bulge between his legs or whatever they were getting a view of.
Oblivious or indifferent, Acan stood and then looked down at Margarita.
“What was it you wanted to ask?” she said.
“I’d like to know why you slept with my brother.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Acan did not have a clue what he’d said wrong, but his question had triggered Margarita’s face to turn ghost white, her lovely plump lips to flatten into a hard line, and her golden brows to crinkle together. Oh hell. Perhaps I should take off my shirt. That will distract her.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “What was that?”
The starting gun went off just as he was about to explain—all right, he was about to lie, lie, lie—that he and his brother had no secrets.
Margarita and her gaggle of horny women friends all took off, and rather than get run over by a few thousand humans in the most awesome clothing ever—oh, look, those ones are dressed like martinis! My people, your king is here!—he began running along, trying to keep up. After a few blocks, Acan felt his lungs beginning to burn while his heart thumped out of control.
“Hey, you okay, sweetie?” said some random woman dressed as a hotdog.
“How,” pant, pant, pant, “much,” pant, pant, pant, “further is the,” pant, pant, “finish line?”
She laughed. “Uh, we’ve only run about two blocks, so you’ve still got a ways! Oh, look, there’s the first r
efreshment stop.”
Refreshments. Thank the gods! He needed water, and he needed to catch up to Margarita, whom he’d lost in the crowd mostly because he was now surrounded by a rowdy group of screaming, groping women who seemed attracted to him like steel bolts to a powerful magnet.
Dammit, I feel my powers spiking. He was setting off the crowd, driving them into a party frenzy. So this is how you want to play it, Universe? He wanted to stay away from the party, so now she would bring the party to him? Such a bitch. He was not negating his duties simply for fun. He had made a vow to his brethren to make things right and take this whole finding-a-mate thing seriously, which was why he needed to find out the reason for Margarita’s expression turning into something resembling a human who’d accidentally stumbled upon a pile of dirty diapers after he’d asked her his very innocent question: He wanted to know what it was about “Belch” that had persuaded her to fuck him. Was it more than simply his godly pheromones and energy, or was there some other quality that intrigued her? After asking that, he then wanted to know what he might do differently to attract women in a genuine manner. Leverage my strengths, improve my weaknesses, but still be me.
“This way!” Hotdog woman and her team of other fast-food-related menu items—a pickle, cheeseburger, fries, and a bottle of catsup—crowded around him and herded him into a tavern. People from the marathon with numbers and team names pinned on their torsos flowed in and out in a steady stream through either side of a double door.
He entered, following the pickle, and someone pinched his butt.
“Hey!” He turned but couldn’t tell who had done the groping. “I am not a piece of meat, ladies! Okay, yes, I am. But not for you.” Several women booed at him. Then someone shoved a paper cup in his hand.
He glanced down at the purple liquid. Punch? Or perhaps some sort of sports drink? He didn’t care. His parched throat and burning body required moisture.
He chugged it down and the crowd from behind urged him forward past more tables of cups filled with punch. He grabbed two more, threw them back and then continued around another set of tables where everyone made a U-turn to head back out the door.
Suddenly, he felt funny. A deep warmth in his chest and a rush in his veins. Oh, hell.
He turned to the sandwich behind him. “Is there alcohol in those drinks?”
“Of course! It’s the breakfast of champions.”
She’s so right, but…oh no. Oh no. Acan stepped to the side between two drinking stations and doubled over. He felt his body stalling like a car that had been given syrup instead of gasoline. His belly began pushing out, his muscle turned to flab, his perfect abs grew a spare tire.
“You okay, sweetie?” said a woman.
Slowly, he stood, his mind not feeling the usual cocktail bliss, but something else. Something dark and sinister.
“Hey! Acan! There you are!” He glanced across the crowded tavern flowing with a steady stream of runners slash breakfast partiers. Oh no. Margarita. He’d never been so unhappy to see one in his life. There was no way to explain his…his…well, his transformation into Belch. Who gives a fuck about that? The evil was spreading.
Panicked, Acan dashed through the crowd, toward the back of the tavern, away from Margarita.
“Acan! Where are you going?” she yelled.
He popped open the emergency exit and headed into a back alley. Godsdammit. She’d seen him. All right. Think. Think. Think. He could not allow her to know that he and Belch were one and the same because she was not allowed to know about the gods. He also needed her to get the hell away from him as quickly as possible. He was not safe.
Acan whipped off his shirt, slid down his shorts, kicked off his running shoes and threw them into the dumpster at his side. His beer belly sort of flopped out and hung over the waistband of his boxer briefs.
There we go. Acan quickly turned away and placed his hands over his crotch, pretending to urinate into a trash can. He didn’t feel drunk—not even close—but he had to convince her he was Belch and get her to leave.
Margarita burst through the door. “Acan, why the hell did you run away from…” Her words faded. “Acan?”
He looked over his shoulder at her and swayed a bit. “Hey, baby. Come for the shoooow?” He slurred his words.
“Belch?”
He pretended to tuck himself away and then faced her, making little circles over his protruding belly. “Hey, I know…you. You’re that CrossFit bitch with the tight pussy.”
Gods, what a terrible thing to say to a woman. It made him feel dirty on the inside.
Her green eyes widened with rage. “You are vile. Where’s your brother?”
“My brother? That fucking uptight loser? Who the hell cares?”
“What is the matter with you?” She apparently did not approve of him speaking ill about himself.
How sweet.
“What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you! Besides the fact that…that…” Think of something horrible. “Besides the fact you’re ooold.” Dammit, leave, woman.
Her lovely face turned tomato red. “Old. Wow. Aren’t you a gentleman? And a picture of physical perfection, I should add.” She stepped forward, her hands fisted.
Why the hell wasn’t she leaving? For fuck’s sake, woman, just go. He had to do something. Something so rude and distasteful that she’d run the other way. “Yeah, baby. I am a vision of perfection. See for yourself.” He yanked down the front of his underwear and let his long cock fall out.
Her gaze zeroed right in. However, instead of wincing or showing disgust, lust twinkled in her green eyes. Uh-oh. Had he not been vulgar enough? Offensive enough? She really needed to prude up a little.
Acan decided to go for broke, saying the most horrible thing he could come up with. “Why don’t you suck it?” He reached for his dick and sort of wiggled it at her.
Her face twisted with abhorrence. “What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I just like having my dick sucked.” True. However, he would never say that. At least not sober. Which instantly made him realize how he’d spent the last ten millennia acting like such an immature, vile prick. He’d told himself it was what the people wanted—wild, uninhibited, and racy behavior. But had they? Or had he just been acting like a fool, the jester. The drunken idiot who provoked a laugh?
Fucking hell. What the fuck is the matter with me? He put himself away. “You should return to your race now.”
“Love to,” Margarita said. “Where’d your brother go?”
Stoked by his self-perpetuated anger, Acan felt that darkness seeping in. “What do you want with him anyway?”
“He’s running with us.”
“Why?” he growled.
She didn’t reply.
“Tell me, Margarita, what it is about him you like so much?”
She blinked her eyes up at him. “He’s not a complete barbaric imbecile like you.”
Oh yes he is.
Acan stepped closer, leaving only an inch between them. “And yet you wanted me to fuck you. You still do.” He could see it in her eyes. The eyes never lied. Unless you were Cimil. Her eyes were allergic to the truth. “Tell me, Margarita. Just why is that? Why is it that at this very moment, you’re wondering why you can’t get the image of my cock out of your mind and you still feel angry that I left you hanging? Orgasmless?” He bent down, placing them nose to nose. “Aching for me?”
Margarita’s green eyes were barren of all emotion save one. Lust.
She inhaled deeply. “What the hell is that smell?”
Margarita felt intoxicated by this man’s delicious, masculine scent—sweet and light with a hint of something exotic. Not quite a flower. Not quite woodsy. Just…natural and so, so addictive. Yet she knew that the smell wasn’t producing a false desire. No, quite the opposite. This intoxication made her want to lower the barriers, the apprehension, and dispel the fear keeping her from her true desire. As she inhaled, all inhibitions flew out the window.
I feel drunk. And I feel like…like I want to do wild and crazy things. Especially with him. But why? He spoke like a man who’d been born in a barn and raised by a pile of porn magazines. But dammit, if she wasn’t feeling hot and throbbing down there and little reckless.
“What the hell is going on?” she muttered to herself.
“That would be your body’s hormones spiking in response to sexual desire. And right now, your body is telling you how much it wants me inside you.” He pinched her chin, gazing down at her with those turquoise green eyes. They were so beautiful. So hypnotic. “I’m a generous man, Margarita, and I’ll help you out.” He chuckled with a hint of sadistic delight. “If you answer one question: tell me exactly what you find attractive about me.”
What a strange question. Where was he going with it? Who cares?
“Shut up and fuck me,” she blurted out involuntarily.
His eyes twitched with hatred or anger or something she couldn’t quite interpret.
“Fine.” He bent his head and covered her mouth with his, his warm, silky tongue sliding inside. Their tongues danced wildly as he moved her back between two large stacks of pallets and wooden crates pushed against the wall. The rough cool brick scratched at her skin as he raised her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Again! But she couldn’t help herself. This man, despite being physically unfit and foulmouthed, somehow rang her bell.
He wasted no time freeing his cock and pulling the crotch of her panties aside. As he kissed her hard, his breath and intoxicating scent filling her lungs, she felt the tip of his shaft enter. He then placed his hand on her ass and thrust hard.
Fuck. She broke their kiss, wincing.
“Relax,” he told her. “Just like last time.”
Margarita exhaled and loosened her muscles, allowing him to slowly ease his way in. She wanted him deep; she wanted him all the way.
“That’s right,” he said in a low, sinful voice. “Just like that.”
GOD OF WINE (The Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Book 3) Page 9