God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

“Clothes are overrated. People should thank me for wearing them in public.” He tilts his head to the side. “Besides, we’ve already seen each other naked, so maybe you’re the one who should strip.”

“No, thanks.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Worth a try.”

I reach into the wardrobe’s drawer and toss him a pair of boxer briefs. “At least put those on.”

“Fine.” He throws the towel on the bed and mutters, “Prude.”

“I heard that and, seriously, hang up your towels, Nikolai.”

He rolls his eyes as he slides the boxer briefs up his muscular thighs and snaps the elastic band with a playful tug.

I drape the towel on a clothes hanger. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why do you need to request permission to ask me something?”

“It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Don’t do that with me. I don’t ask permission when I bombard you with questions.”

“You don’t say.”

“Hey! Was that sarcasm? The infamous passive-aggressiveness?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckles, the sound smooth and so joyful, I can’t help the smile that twitches my lips.

“Ask away, baby.”

“Why do you sleep in weird places?”

“I don’t like beds.” He sits on it. “It’s not that I don’t want to sleep in one, I just can’t.”

“Is it because of something that happened?”

“Hmm.” He shakes his head, sending droplets of water everywhere.

“Nikolai!”

“What?”

“Dry your hair.”

“Why? It’ll dry on its own.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and point at the stool in front of the vanity. “Sit down.”

He jumps up and plops down on the seat and grins at me through the mirror as I turn on the hairdryer on the lowest setting, medium heat, and start drying his hair.

“So?” I ask, not meeting his gaze. “You were going to tell me if sleeping in strange positions has to do with a certain incident.”

“Oh! Sorry, I got distracted by how fucking hot you look with your hair messy.”

“Nikolai, focus.”

He releases a sigh. “I started sleeping this way in my teens. It was around the time my episodes began.”

My fingers pause in his hair. “What type of episodes?”

“High energy. Racing thoughts. Uncontainable need for more, more, and fucking more. I had it that day when I fought Kill and beat him to a pulp while you were flirting with Eva.”

“Her name is Ava and I was not flirting with her.” My mind goes back to that time, to when his eyes were red and he looked to be on edge. So I was right to think something was wrong. His gaze was empty and for a moment, I thought he didn’t see me.

“She was hugging you.”

“We’re childhood friends.”

“Still don’t like it.” He pouts like a fucking child and I have to stop myself from smiling at how adorable he looks. Jesus. He’s this big tattooed guy who’s larger than life and part of the mafia, but he still acts this way.

Around me.

Only me.

I glide my fingers through his hair, lingering in every spot a bit too long. “Back to the subject at hand, do those episodes happen often?”

“Not really. I have them under control.”

“You didn’t look that much in control that day.”

“That was because you were being an asshole.”

“Me? What do I have to do with it?”

He strokes his necklace. “Nothing.”

I want to probe some more, but he meets my gaze in the mirror. “Oh, right. I wanted to ask you something as well.”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you not like sex?”

My fingers freeze in his hair and I swallow as I meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“You said you don’t even like sex, but you do with me. Why didn’t you before?”

“Not all of us enjoy the activity.”

“Why not? Is it because you only did it with girls?”

God. I can’t believe he’s the first person I’m telling this. But he’s been so open with me, the least I can do is share something in return. I don’t like the rejected look in his eyes whenever I refuse to answer his questions.

“It’s not that. I never looked at a person, of any gender, and felt attracted to them or wanted to have sex with them. I never got hard by external stimuli unless I forced myself into the mood. The concept of being aroused due to seeing erotic images or watching people fucking is foreign to me. I never touched myself unless I needed to get myself hard for sex. Never liked porn or understood other men’s need to shag all the time. If it were up to me, I’d happily go celibate for years.”

I stop before I say ‘Or I would’ve in the past.’ I clearly missed his touch while we weren’t together.

The thought of being without it again triggers a queasy feeling at the base of my stomach.

“Baby, I don’t want to put a label on you since you hate that shit—I do, too, by the way—but that’s a bit ace. Uh, I mean asexual, if you’ve heard of that term.”