Can't Fix Cupid

I fly all the way to the luxury homes of Cameo Shores, right on the water of Newport Beach. I float over Warren Knight’s front lawn, staring up at the floor-to-ceiling windows and white exterior walls. His whole house is slightly rounded, with precise arched lines and meticulous angles on the roof. It’s modern and sophisticated, cold and handsome. Just like him.

My red wings carry me over the manicured grass and rock walkway, past the private gated driveway and the four car garage. The front of the house is extremely private and precise, but the back? The back is my favorite. A beautiful asymmetrical pool takes up a huge portion of the space, and aside from a few plants here and there, the entire backyard is really just a backdrop to the gorgeous view of the ocean.

Sometimes, while he sleeps, I like to come out and hover over the lounge chairs and just watch the waves wash in and out. If I were corporeal and capable of feeling anything, I’d stand out on the shore and let the ocean mist kiss my face.

I float in through the front doors, heading past the huge living room with its rectangular black couch and marble fireplace. I go by the massive kitchen too, the dim light over the sink making the countertops and stainless steel appliances sparkle. Then I head up the stairs, past the four guest bedrooms and bathrooms, all the way to the back to the other side of the house where his private master suite is.

Inside is another fireplace, a gorgeous balcony overlooking the ocean, and a bed that’s so big it makes him look short when he’s lying in it.

The flatscreen TV is on, the volume turned do

wn low as it plays some sports recaps, casting blue-hued light over the space. His black and white bed is perfectly made without a wrinkle or rumpled pillow in sight.

The door to the connecting bathroom is open, and I can hear the water running inside. I don’t hesitate to fly right in. The steam passes through my body as I glide towards the shower, and I get the luxury of seeing his naked self through the slightly fogged glass.

“You’re fricken glorious looking, you know that?” I tell him, as I perch on top of his marble countertops between the sinks.

I wish he’d turn more of the lights on in here. It’s a bit too shadowed for my taste. If I could, I’d flick all the lights on so that I’d have a better view of his delectable body.

Warren pours some soap into his hands and starts scrubbing at his dark hair, and I watch as suds crawl down his back, slipping over his toned body in the sexiest way ever.

“I just wanna bite your bun cheeks,” I admit to him.

I admit all sorts of embarrassing things to him. I’m able to say it all out loud because I know that he can’t judge me since he can’t hear me. It’s very therapeutic.

I sigh and pretend to lean against the mirror behind me as he continues to wash. “I tried to shoot a Love Arrow at this fifty-year-old woman at a wine mixer yesterday,” I tell him glumly. “It took nine tries to even get a single arrow to appear in my quiver—and that’s not a sex euphemism, either. Nine tries!” I shake my head in frustration. “My partner’s arrows appear as soon as she uses one. But mine? Mine never refills.”

To prove my point, I motion over my shoulder, where my quiver rests between my red wings. “See? Empty. Always fricken empty. I just don’t get it.”

He groans in response.

“So then, when I finally get one stinkin’ arrow, what do I do? I miss! I shot it out and accidentally hit her little dog that she had hidden in her purse. She had to leave her date early because the dog hopped out and started humping people’s legs. It wouldn’t stop, and that little guy was fast. I think the woman got banned from the restaurant.”

He makes another noise.

“I know, right?” I tell him. “Needless to say, she didn’t get a second date, but I think her dog mated with a light pole, so I guess that’s something.”

When Knight makes another noise, I finally snap out of my own story and sit up. “Wait, can you hear me?”

I immediately zoom over to the shower. As I’m passing through the body wash on the stone inlay, I realize he’s not making noises of affirmation for my story. He’s making noises because he’s jacking off.

I’d be disappointed, but…it’s a sexy fricken cock.

“Oh!” I say, my eyes honed in on the way he’s fisting his dick, stroking in long, slow movements.

“You always do it slow like that,” I muse, standing under the rainfall spray with him.

When I manage to look up from his impressive erection, I peer at his face. His eyes are closed, and he has his other arm stretched out in front of him, his hand braced against the wall. His head is hanging down, and beads of water are drizzling from his dark hair and chin, falling to the floor in steady drips. I wish I could lean forward and lick the water right off him.

He groans again, and I’d bite my lip if my teeth wouldn’t go straight through, because the sound is so damn sexy.

His abs glisten with water, and the last remnants of soap slip between the muscles of his V before licking down his manhood and dropping to the tile floor. I envy those damn soap bubbles.

While I continue to ogle his body, he continues his steady stroke. Base to tip, slowly, slowly, slowly—like he’s purposely holding himself off. Then up and over the head, his thumb dragging roughly over the tip, before he goes right back down, his fist tight, gripping himself harshly.

I’m so turned on, which I don’t think should technically be possible since I don’t have a body with feels, but watching him like this? It makes me feel more real than anything.

I lean forward and exhale, trying to give him an added dose of Lust, but of course, no pretty pink mist comes out.