Perhaps I shouldn’t spend my free time loitering at Olympus, and perhaps I shouldn’t be drinking expensive whiskey like it’s apple juice. Maybe, instead, I should face the truth, stop being a coward, and just go home. But here I was, still hiding. I was being an utter coward, and I knew it. The image of Lydia Conner, disheveled and breathless as she unraveled beneath my touch on the poker table, was burned into my mind. Her soft, stifled moans echoed in my thoughts day and night, a tantalizing soundtrack I couldn’t silence. The feel of her, wet and impossibly perfect, was imprinted in my muscle memory, a visceral sensation I couldn’t shake, no matter how much I tried to distract myself.
It only got worse when we were home together. Every time I saw her, every time she looked my way, it wa
