Page 66 of Apollo

It was better.

It was pine-scented wind and lips that stroked hers like hurricanes. Rain in her senses and fire in her blood. She opened herself to it all, yearning to hang on and never let go. She dragged her gaze open to read the same purpose in the lush forests of his.

“You’re not alone, Irowen.”

And then in the brimstone edges of his whisper.

“Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Syllables that permeated like smoke, twirling into the chasms of her core—by way of every chamber of her heart.

“Glow Worm . . . ”

She didn’t hide her all-over shiver, nor the rolling shake of her head. As she ended the action by pushing her forehead against his, she imitated his needy move by palming his jaw with her hand.

“If you want in my pants, you know that poetic shit isn’t necessary, right?”

She almost didn’t say it—seriously, he’d had her with the kiss—but it was always her go-to for putting lovers at ease, a tried-and-true sexual ice breaker. But mistake marker number one: she kind of liked this ice the way it was. For the first time in—well, ever—it was mixed with glorious flames, licking against the glaze, turning her nerve endings into a mix of tangerine heat and turquoise meltdown in the same seconds. In the depths of his eyes, she found the same mesmerizing mix of temperatures.

Blazing the path to mistake marker number two.

The flag ten times harder to confront.

“If that’s the only thing I wanted, Little Monster, you’d already be naked and spread beneath me.”

The slip of inciting him to drawl glorious, dirty words like that.

In the doing, he pushed closer. Harder. The flames in his greens turned nuclear, all but glowing at her . . . into her. Just like the turbines accepting his thermal heat, her core revved faster and faster. Burned hotter and hotter.

Until it warned her, with blaring clarity, why his naughty imagery might be best as just a fantasy.

Make smart choices.

It’d always been one of Grandma’s mantras, applying to everything from homework over doomscrolling and sipping anything out of a red party cup.

Nothing on those lists about sleeping with a full-on god. Not even with the pretty poetry factor.

But if Grandma had known about this god . . .

Basic biology wasn’t the snag. Even without being a mythology expert, she knew damn well that the whole Pantheon enjoyed their frequent “leisure sports time” with humans. And just a few hours ago, even a few minutes of indulging their lusties had assured her their bodies would fit better than a well-oiled Remington.

But what about when the shooting range was closed? When this game was over? When they had to go back to their actual lives and duties and homes: hers a two-bedroom prefab in Inglewood, his the freaking Temple at Delphi, the swanky condo in the Underworld, and Zeus-only-knew how many other mansions and palaces?

Sure, they could make time to conveniently cross paths—he had a mortal world pseudonym and a bunch of businesses to go with it—but could they really make such an arrangement work? Could casual fuckbuddies ever become part of their lexicon?

Smart choices . . .

She almost let loose a laugh, wondering why she’d questioned the wisdom to begin with.

Long-term booty call buddies was as possible for them as Kaw working for a nun.

“You make a valid point there, mister. But . . . what if I kind of like the idea of being naked and underneath you?”

Yet no one had taken short-term booty call off the table.

And with all his beautiful muscles fitted so close, then the sneaky male working his hands lower down her body, it became a better concept by the minute . . .

The seconds . . .