The shower was fucking cold.

Of course, it was cold, you pathetic failure of a god, you had it on cold, you idiot, Eros swore inwardly as he stepped out of the shower and began to furiously towel himself dry. The god of love and desire can't get a grip on his own erection over a mortal woman. That was going to be the hottest gossip in his mother's circle if it ever reached her ears.

It was because of this human form he'd taken resident in, he was sure of it. It had to be. How else would you explain such a phenomenon?

You couldn't. Especially not that initial jolt when her fingers had touched his. What the fuck was that anyway? It was almost as if he'd shot himself with his own arrow, not that he'd ever done something that stupid or if such a thing would have worked, but if he were to guess what it would feel like, that might be it.

And he had done no such thing. Still, that one brief touch had done something to him. Then there was that kiss when he'd forced himself into her mind, that tantalizing, daring smile she'd given him afterward that sent an unwelcome heat speeding down his groin, gave him an iron-hard erection that stayed hard after two goddamn hours.

Just because I'm imagining what it would be like to rip that shirt to shreds and spread you naked on my bed...

Mother of the fucking evolution, Eros. He looked down at the bulge under the suddenly restrictive towel. Did you just get rock-hard again after a cold shower because of a memory?

It had to be fixed and fixed immediately, he promised himself as he strode into the walk-in closet. Two parallel rows of black smoke-tinted mirrors joined at the far end of the room by a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirror greeted him. He looked around the human creation for a moment, complimented the interior designer of that estate, and wondered how many positions and with how many women the man was imagining having sex in that 1,500-square-feet closet with enough mirrors—on the ceiling even—to accommodate a live stream of it from every possible angle. He'd had that orgy many times, just not here, not yet, and for some reason hadn't even thought of it until now. At that particular moment, however, he was only imagining one woman in that room—in several positions, mind you.

This isn't helping. Eros dragged a hand through his hair, sighing as he spoke the command to open the wardrobes. The virtual assistant greeted him as all the mirrored-doors opened at once, turned ninety degrees and slid into hiding against the side panels of each cubicle. He looked at the rows of suits and shirts revealed to him, walked back and forth along the racks thinking what might impress a woman like Gianna Moretti.

True, he could have manifested himself in anything he wanted without having to go through this, but there was a point why designers exist, and with gods, their powers did not always include good taste and creativity. Humans, flawed and helpless as they are, could be quite remarkable in the way they live with the limits of their lives, and most of his kind enjoyed passing their time among them—as one of them—immensely.

Despite the hype humans created about immortality and superpowers, both happened to be disgustingly overrated. It was the law of business and economics. The value of any given thing is dictated by demand and supply. Have too much money and everything becomes easy garbage to acquire. A never-ending life is an unlimited supply of years to live in a world where pleasure is not only limited but so undeniably linked to pain and suffering in the first place. Take the fear of death and failure out of the equation, and life becomes an old song stuck on repeat without the option to throw the damn device away.

To him—and to many of his kind—life among humans were the best they could do to entertain themselves. They ended up living among mortals, acquiring stuff like mortals with minimal use of their powers just to make things a little harder and appreciate the result a little more. A lot of billionaires and successful people were his kind, and while they could create money and things out of thin air, it was always more fun to run a business, see how far one could go without power. Of course, the thrill was never going to be close to what mortals were getting with their short lives and other things at stake, but it was good enough to pass the time.

And he had been doing that forever. Had created a small empire for himself with this human identity as an entrepreneur. Had climbed to the top just as other humans had, save for the advantage of having lived forever and therefore accumulated an unprecedented amount of wisdom from observing human behavior. He had not, however, been stirred and shaken so vigorously by a human—a woman to be precise—until that day.

After a few minutes of strolling along the wardrobes, he decided on a classic black two-piece Dolce & Gabbana, single-breasted, two-buttoned jacket with point lapels, and a black silk shirt underneath. Then he called his assistant, the ever-efficient, humanoid-reliable Carla Moore, to set up a dinner befitting Miss Moretti.

"Yes, Mr. Riley. What can I do for you?" Carla, as always, addressed him with an unfailing formality she decided to keep despite his constant requests for her to drop such things. The woman wouldn't have it. Said she had her own rules. Sometimes he wondered who worked for whom.

"I have a date tonight. Would you be a darling and set up something fabulous? At Ginger perhaps?"

"Certainly, Mr. Riley. I'll tell them to cancel other reservations and close for the night, have them set up a table outside with the best view of the city, and get a florist to decorate the area. I believe Chef Marco is on vacation, but I'll see if I can call him in. Would you prefer a five or a nine-course dinner?"

He thought for a time. Five would be a quicker dinner, which would get them moving somewhere else sooner, then again, it might take more time to impress Gianna Moretti. "Make that nine."

"Live music?"

"A violinist would be perfect."

"Wine or champagne?"

"Champagne. Do we still have those '95 Clos d'Ambonnay?"

"We do," she replied. "Car?"

"Get the Ferrari, no, the Lamborghini." She'd appreciate a little more aggressiveness in a man, wouldn't she?

From the other side, Carla made sure he heard a sigh that usually indicated the inefficiency of his instructions. "Which Lamborghini?"

Fair enough. After all, he had five. Or was it six? "The Aventador SVJ roadster. The bronzo zenas." There. Just in case he had other colors. That ought to be clear enough.

To his relief, she made no signs of agitation after that and hung up with a promise to get it all done within the hour—which she did. He didn't think Hermes himself could do it, to be honest.

He was just finishing his glass of pre-dinner cognac when his head of security came, looking confused and irritated at the same time. "Mr. Riley," he said, frowning, "there is a request for landing on our helipad from Miss Gianna Moretti. Are you expecting a guest, sir?"

Eros blinked. "Right now?"

"Right now, sir."

He nodded, still wondering, in truth, what the hell was going on, but his men didn't have to know that. "I am," he lied. "She can land."

He put down the cognac and headed outside to the helipad, above which a jet black Sikorsky S-92 Executive was already hovering, waiting to land.

When it did a few minutes later, the door opened and out walked Gianna Moretti, stepping off it on her four-inch black satin stilettos, wearing a Greek-goddess style chiffon halter dress with a neckline that plunged down close to her belly button, the skirt parted on the right side in a slit that ran up as high as her hip, revealing almost the entirety of her long, lickable right leg every time she lifted it. Her jet-black hair was pinned up loosely on purpose, leaving a few strands out of place and dangling around her face and the nape of her neck to draw the eyes. It did the job, even though his eyes were really too busy staring at the sides of her breasts peeking out from the top of that dress imagining how they'd fit in his hands and having a rock-hard erection over it.

Some women, he thought, knew better than a goddess how to grip a man—or in this particular case, a god—by the balls for just showing up. And this one fucking showed up in a $17 million bird. So much for the plan of taking her flying. His wings didn't come with reclinable leather seats after all.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, tucked up a corner of his lips. "How impatient of you. I was going to swing by to pick you up."

She raised a brow, threw a glance at his Lamborghini parked in the driveway and gave him an expression of pure insult. "I have drivers, Eros. You don't have to swing by to get me. And where is the parade of elephants and exotic acrobatic dancers trailing behind your golden chariot? You disappoint me immensely."

This woman... "I'm a god, Gianna," he said, pursing his lips, "not a fucking backstreet boy with some magical household trinkets. How did you find me?"

She rolled her eyes at that. Damn, those thick, thick lashes are really long. "Oh please, Eros Riley? It isn't hard to find a guy who can afford an Aeternitas Mega 4 matching your description even without you keeping your real name. Although, I didn't have to search as far as I thought. Turns out my secretary has your picture all over her phone, along with that prince, what's-his-name, who just got married to that common village girl. I think she also knows everyone you've dated in the past ten years. You look good in that blue swim trunks, by the way. Get in. We're running late." She threw a thumb at the chopper behind her.

Still trying to come to terms with all that thrown at him at once, and without giving him an opportunity to defend himself, Eros decided to deal with only the last thing that came out of her mouth. "The reservation is in an hour."

She was, he realized, already turning back to walk up the stairs to the helicopter and only turned over her shoulder to answer the question. "Oh, we're not going to Ginger."

That was news. "Okay. Where then?"

The smile that appeared on her lips in answer to that reminded him of his mother when she was about to entertain herself fucking up some mortal souls and gods alike.

"Carl's engagement reception, of course. You're my plus one for the night. Are you coming, Your Royal Highness, or do I have to roll you a red carpet?"

***

A/N: So, you thought this was going to be another bad boy billionaire seducing an average income shy virgin story? Not gonna happen in my world.

To those not reading Obsidian, this is me having fun without a filter due to my need to destress. I am a much, much more respectable writer than this, I assure you (well, what do you know, I'm not constipated all the time after all lol). Do vote and comment so I know it's worth taking time out of Obsidian writing this crack XD

The Lamborghini Aventador SVJ Roadster in Bronzo Zenas. (Between the man and the car, I pick the car, yes).

The Sikorsky S-92 Executive

And, of course, the 1995 Krug Clos d'Ambonnay ($3,000)

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