Page 36 of Apollo

“Apollo. For fuck’s sake!”

Then that one, erupting from her with the same violent deprivation. Even as the man simply drawled his out like—

—damn it—

Like a bratty frat boy toying with his pet lizard.

Except she’d never known any college kid who could move their hips like this. And their tight, alluring ass. And their powerful, pulsing thighs. Shit on a magical Greek shingle, were his knees involved in the motion too? They had to be, considering how he lunged and rolled, alternately teasing yet stroking, spinning her senses higher yet lower . . .

Until her head fell back, her mouth fell open, and another scream ripped her larynx apart—only to be swallowed by another of this man’s wet, wonderful kisses.

At the same time, he clutched her backside with renewed purpose. With that leverage, he upended them both. Her world wheeled up and over until she stared down at this ruler of the cosmos, instead of up. As if that stopped the god of the sun from incinerating her like that brightest star, with his gaze aglow and his hands afire . . .

Literally?

She shook her head with sharp purpose. Blinked her eyes with the same hard intention. But as soon as she refocused on the places where their bodies melded and their stares twined, the blazing brilliance was still there in Apollo’s energy.

The man really was burning at her.

Burning for her.

“Apollo,” she husked, the syllables scratchy and dazed. “What’s hap—”

“It’s okay.” He sounded just as parched but twice as desperate. The hot pressure of his fingers confirmed her impression. He was urgent with wanting her, and Wen reveled in her surety of that truth. She rocked her head back and hissed as all ten of his digits seared her buttocks, bringing pain that was tolerable but memorable.

But permanent?

Oh God, how she hoped so.

How else was she going to commemorate the only lover she wanted to remember? To be real, the hookup who wasn’t even that yet. But weren’t semantics often just that? Was sweaty-and-naked the necessary rubric for sliding over the relationship tag? If so, did that also mean she couldn’t believe in this magic yet either? That she couldn’t lean down and press her chest to his gleaming golden one, and feel the cosmic cadence of his heart? That she couldn’t seal her lips atop his and not think she now knew the taste of ultimate decadence? Opulence wasn’t a palace on a hill or a buried treasure in a valley. It was his mouth rolling against hers with knowing carnality. It was his hands, once more bracing her hips to help with her suggestive slides along the glorious bulge in his slacks.

It didn’t take her long at that pace before he gave up new brilliance from his gaze. The sight was close to blinding, but she didn’t care. Her retinas didn’t feel so vital anymore.

Okay, death by god sex might be a real thing.

If so, what a way to sacrifice for the cause.

“Hey. Irowen. It’s really okay.” Clearly, he misinterpreted her wobbly gasps as fearful confessions. “This is simply what you do to me, Sweet Monster. I promise, neither of us is going to explode.”

“Hold up.” She clarified the injection with a sarcastic smirk. “Isn’t that the general idea?”

His own sly smile, adding to the wattage of his eyes, actually did threaten to implode her—from the inside out. This male and his damnable, diabolical allure . . . honestly, it’d coax a she-lizard into a mongoose den.

And she had to go there with the metaphor game.

At a time like this, when he studied her face as if reading every one of her thoughts. When whatever he saw only intensified his grin. Oh, and then the brutally awesome grip to her hips . . .

Just before he coaxed her into a quicker ride along his cock.

“Oh, fuck,” she exclaimed, not even minding the rough chuckle to which she was treated in return.

“As you said, Miss Steed, that would be the current mission goal, hmmm?”

She twisted her lips with mirth but took a second to form a worthy comeback. He’d given her some good material to play with there, after all. Only now, she didn’t want to play that way. Not with the friction of their clothes doing blissfully nasty things to her sex. Not with how Apollo’s reaction began to match, with his lips parting, his neck straining, and his biceps bulging every time she cleared the crest of his arousal.

Holy shit.

In flipping their positions, her lover had elevated his generosity to match his beauty. She now had the best view in the house. An aerial shot of this god, in his ascending arousal and glory . . . how had she ever proclaimed any earthly vista as the Creator’s most stunning achievement? He was sexier than Santorini. More breathtaking than Banff. He took her higher than Half Dome, Victoria Falls, and the Burj Khalifa combined.