Page 22 of Apollo

The breath-haltingly shirtless one.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The woman said it herself. His point was valid. She did need to bathe. That meant her ready agreement shouldn’t have made it so damn hard for him to turn and lead the way to the nearest chamber in which she could do just that . . .

Except that it was.

Hard.

In too many fucking interpretations of the word.

His mind, dragging through mental molasses from the moment she’d ducked her head for her adorable armpit check. Then his cock, reacting like a toddler with zero impulse control, when she’d reared back with an expression that under other circumstances could be mistaken for an orgasm gasp.

Under. Other. Circumstances.

Ones very far removed from these.

She stank. End of. Honestly, so did he—not an occurrence he’d readily allowed himself to experience since Aristaeus snuck out in his diapers on a quest for rare bees, six centuries ago—and that was the only concern that should be on either of their minds right now.

“Unnnh.”

Except for when she made that kind of sound, in that taut and tormenting way, while staring like he suddenly twisted her pretty neck instead of his dirty shirt.

Or doing other invasive things to her neck . . . with his lips and teeth . . .

More circumstances that belonged nowhere near his imagination right now.

He turned around in full, stopping her by pointedly clearing his throat. It was harder to order his tone to the same line but he managed, “Is there another problem, Ms. Steed?”

More importantly, why did he suddenly care so much about what she’d say to that? Especially as she took entirely too long to do so, filling her pause with a new gawk at his torso that did uncomfortable shit to his throat, his chest, even the center of his gut. Then lower . . .

“Of course not,” she finally uttered. “No problems. It’s your place, buddy. If Naked Happy Hour is your thing, then—”

He took advantage of her hyperfocus on the fake cheer to sweep into her personal space and cinch her free arm by the elbow. Would it have been safer at her wrist? Likely. But was safety something he cared about with this female anymore?

“You’re right. My place.” Shit. Even the tiny existential wandering had done its job on his voice, turning his tone low and guttural. “Which means, naked or not, it’s my job to ensure you’re comfortable here.”

A heavy gulp throbbed its way down her throat. He braced himself, expecting her to follow it by jerking away, but she only murmured, “Wh-Who says I’m uncomfortable?”

Annnd, shit once more. To the power of ten. Especially as he allowed his fingers to explore her joint, a crook of odd softness between the lengths of muscle which defined both parts of her arm. Damn. She was formidable even by Olympian standards. Her physical condition rivalled many of the Acropolis guards. He easily envisioned her with a spear and shield, training alongside Ares and his operatives . . .

Except he wouldn’t.

“You don’t look comfortable.”

Except now he did, especially by allowing himself the semi-suggestive statement. Equally deep parts of his psyche raised their own victory chants as she squirmed and bit a corner of her bottom lip.

“Well, neither do you.”

But she had to go and get not-so-semi-suggestive about that.

You really want to play this game, Monster? Because I invented it.

But was he ready for a fresh go on the game board? At this starting square, with this mortal?

He was no stranger to how they functioned, these human females with their idioms and idiosyncrasies. It was why he still returned to their beds, even after all these centuries. It often felt like returning to a favorite dessert: a small taste of their passions and he was good for a few centuries more.

But Irowen Steed . . . she’d be more than just a spoonful of spice. A world of layers beyond one hot, stolen kiss or an even hotter orgasm.