Page 28 of Apollo

Especially now, with the whine that tinged her sweet little plea. An insidious aphrodisiac of sound, like cotton candy woven with rave fest X, housed in the body of a take-no-prisoners badass—

“Apollo. Damn it. Please.”

He sweated like her actual rave partner as she dug all ten fingernails into his shoulders. When she clenched her thighs around his waist with the same feral force, she might as well have slipped him a shot of vodka laced with top-shelf nectar.

The floor tilted. Every color in the room strobed. As she undulated under him again, it was like riding the ocean after Poseidon dipped in his trident. Gleaming and dizzying. Voltaic and hypnotic. He surged and pulsed and buzzed . . .

No.

That was his phone.

“What the—”

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

“Shit. Wait. Th-That’s not the phone.”

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

It was someone at his front door.

“Ignore it.” Irowen was once more the tiny tyrant who’d cracked the whip on eight precision soldiers. He now understood why those boys obeyed like Cleopatra’s own palanquin porters. “If it’s a package, they can drop it,” she blurted. “And the Scouts sell cookies and popcorn online now.”

She was so serious, which gave him room to chuckle. Not hard and not long, but the break his senses needed to help him rock back on his haunches. There, with his cock freshly constricted, he managed a coherent thought.

“Hard to convince any delivery service that an address in Hell isn’t a joke, Monster,” he drawled before pushing to his feet. “Though I wouldn’t put anything past those little girls pushing for the sales patches.”

Her small but acceding groan hit his backside like a dart of disappointment. “All right, all right.” And then something worse than that, as soon as she mumbled, “It’s probably for the best, anyhow.”

No, damn it.

It wasn’t for the fucking best.

But he ground his teeth and stayed his tongue while stomping to the front door. The revolt had to be from his lingering hard-on, not the larger lobes of his brain that acknowledged the logic about her hesitation just fifteen minutes ago.

Fifteen minutes.

Nothing changed an entire interpersonal dynamic in that amount of time. He should know. He’d been alive much longer than that. Nothing took him by surprise anymore, and that sure as hell included all the logic behind their lust dust for each other. It was a cocktail of the primitive basics: fate and danger, high stakes and low lighting, golden arrows morphed into golden cocktails over a small speed dating table . . .

Yearning to kill her and craving to fuck her were along the same damn logic line. This time, the psychological package was just messing with him in different ways.

All right, at least he understood the quagmire a little better now.

Until he got to his front door and yanked it open.

And instead of the Acropolis messenger or booty call demon he expected, there was the one visitor capable of impaling him with equal parts fury, fascination, shock, and rapture inside the same three seconds. But only three.

After that, he found his voice again. And used it well.

“Rizon. What the fuck?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Rizon?”

Why she echoed the syllables as if Apollo hadn’t been as clear as a lighting strike about them, Wen didn’t know.

Bullshit. Of course you know.