Page 34 of Apollo

She watched, trying to acknowledge every careening feeling in her brain and bones, as Apollo arranged an assortment of bathing accessories atop the vanity. Next to those, he slid a bath sheet that, even in its neatly folded state, looked big enough to dry an elephant.

Between amazement that someone would use all that stuff and jitters about needing a coding degree to operate his shower, she attempted to officiate the raging war between her logic and libido. A lost cause. The two refused to see any common ground.

In sanity’s defense, she had to keep taking rational breaths. Kaw’s recon team was doing their best, but unless they won the probability jackpot and spotted Genny through an unguarded door or window, they all had to wait until Ito appeared in the open again. Only then could they grab the bastard then torture—errr, coerce—him into disclosing where he was imprisoning her.

Until then, it was best to just wrap the rampaging thoughts around other subjects . . .

Other than the things her lecherous lusties churned at her. But holy shit, those carnal beasts meant it. From the bathroom lighting gilding the top of Apollo’s head to the contrast of his feet against the cobalt blue tiles and every inch of his shirtless self between, she was sharply, painfully aware of every element she’d fought to forget since first laying eyes on him. All those calibers were so strong, she’d even forgotten the chandelier tines having a special mixer with her digestive system . . .

That was very much then, girl. And this is a now you have to keep under control.

“Think you’ll need anything else for your shower?”

“You mean the kitchen sink, perhaps?”

She managed to accent the line with a chuckle, but barely. How was she expected to churn up witty banter after his strange, soft rasp of a query, especially with him leaning his graceful limbs so gracefully against the vanity.

Her throat was instantly parched. Her limbs, fumbling and heavy. And why had her voice sounded like she’d smoked a pack a day for the last hundred years?

Because holy shit, he was a masterpiece.

Even more so as he slid one of those flawless feet closer to her. The other.

Funny thing about those feet. His stupidly stunning body was connected to them. And now, consuming more and more of her personal space with its excruciatingly close sinew. And angles. And heat. And—

“You need the kitchen sink too, Little Mothra? I’m happy to go fetch it for you.”

And then that voice.

Its baritone, reaching into her like some angel’s chant from a medieval poem or prophetic proverb . . .

Or an ancient god’s ballad.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere,” she croaked, though the sound seemed from far away. She could barely pry her eyes open, with vision clouded by the same spell he’d cast over her senses. In the green depths of his eyes, she beheld the endless verdancy of his homeland. In the carved lines of his physique, she saw more than muscled perfection. She comprehended his resiliency and strength, his determination yet also his obligation. The wonder of what he was, but the weight of who he was.

So many layers seen by so few.

Because he’d deemed that it be that way. Because trust was no longer an easy word for someone like him. A being like him.

So breathtaking yet so faceted. Complicated. Unsure of how to balance himself anymore, always exchanging so much of his brilliance for his responsibilities, all the roles he had to play.

She knew how that felt. Being a different person for every occasion, whether the weight was welcome or not. It got exhausting. Grueling.

What would happen if they agreed to set themselves free? Even if just for a few minutes?

Only two questions, but they felt like two thousand. Still, she welcomed all of them. Let them flash right up from her spirit and across her gaze, as well. She watched, entranced, as Apollo’s stare ignited with the same defined lights. The golds inside his greens, like dragons dancing with fireworks. Hope flirting with so much danger . . .

Danger . . .

Danger.

“Are you sure, Monster? Because if I stay . . . ”

She bit into her bottom lip, which really only made her want to do the same to his. “Shit,” she whispered.

Just . . . shit, shit, shit.

Because he hadn’t been wrong. If I stay. It meant more than the surface value of the words, and he knew it. One more sweeping stare across his face and she knew it too. But could she deal with it?