Chapter 13 Likely Horrible #2
She looked at him hard, willing him to look up at her, but he refused, so finally she said, “To my mother and father, I am a bright and helpful eldest daughter. To Temple, I am an innocent angel in need of protection. To my other siblings, I’m something of a second mother.
I soothe and organize and sketch in my notebook and make little inventions my father can bring to life in his forge, all to make our home run more smoothly.
But when they’re not looking, I play with fire.
And…” Time to be truthful. She’d not planned on it when she’d started this little speech, but it was like steam leaking from a teapot.
The pressure must escape. And with this man, she’d never had to hide the truth of herself, not once in their short acquaintance.
What an unexpected joy it was, and she wouldn’t hide now.
Not from him, not even if what happened next hurt a little bit.
“That is why, I think, I’d like to kiss you again. ”
With the slow, meticulous movements of a predatory feline, he leaned forward, muscles bunching and extending as he braced his forearms on his thighs and threaded his hands together in the attitude of prayer. He hung his head, his hair obscuring his eyes.
“I am fire?” he asked, voice low and deadly.
She nodded, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her cheek atop them.
“Forget the kiss, Sybil.”
She sighed. “That is likely the best course of action. Anyway, the kiss could not have been as good as I remember it. A good thing, too. I must not allow myself to get distracted. I have much to do—lead and gold, the device, and I must write a letter to Diana. She may know about a myth or story concerning the subject.”
Apollo’s jaw tightened. “Not… good? You think that kiss was—”
“Horrible. But the excitement of the moment leant it… heat it would not have otherwise possessed.”
He prowled toward the bed, and she sat up straighter, every muscle coming alive. He stopped just before her, and though his hands were in his pockets, she felt as if he were stroking those long, elegant fingers down her cheek, her neck…
“Don’t you think?” she whispered.
“I. Do. Not.” Then he was touching her, putting a finger just beneath her chin and lifting it. That single touch unraveled her, and she brought her knees to the edge of the bed, her feet to the floor to shift closer to him.
“We disagree, then.” She sounded so very breathy. “Too bad we’ll never know who is right.”
“I know what you’re doing. You’re a vixen, trying to play me like a flute to your own tune.”
She leaned forward, bit her lip. “Is it working?”
He kissed her.
Hands sinking into the hair at her nape, lips slanting firm across her own. Her heart fluttered up to meet the caress.
And then it was over, and he was staring down at her, lips parted and eyes wild.
“Was that horrible?” Before she could answer, he kissed her again, harder this time.
He pressed her into the mattress, opening her mouth with his tongue.
She grasped the edges of his waistcoat because it seemed the only thing to do.
“Is this horrible?” he growled into the kiss.
“So very.” Not at all. She arched into him with a shaky exhalation.
He touched her as he never had before, letting his hands roam lower, fingernails scraping over the sides of her bodice-covered breasts, her ribs, where he flattened his palms before smoothing his big hands up to cup her breasts.
“You like that,” he whispered near her ear, the heat of his breath tickling her neck.
“Yes. Do you?”
“Holy Hades, I’ve never felt the like. But don’t you dare smile.” He kissed the grin right off her face. “No matter how good it is, it cannot happen, do you understand? A kiss like this can’t be tamed, can’t be controlled. This kiss goes everywhere, strips us both bare.”
She shivered.
He kissed along her jaw, up to her ear, where he dropped hot, angry whispers. “You’ll wake up weeks or months or years from now and realize you once took leave of your senses so entirely you trusted your body to a soulless, violent man.”
She cupped his face and dragged him back to her lips. Their mouths met hot and hard and desperate. Exhilarating and electric. Perfect.
She peeled his jacket off, and he shucked it to the floor then crawled up onto the bed, his body covering hers as she fell backward.
They never broke the kiss, and as his hands continued learning her—one at her jaw the other on her breast—she began to explore him.
Lean and hard where she was round and soft, his skin warm and golden where she was pale.
He caged her. He stoked her heart into madness.
He stole the air from her very lungs. His hands branded her. His lips on her neck scalded her.
He yanked at her bodice.
Nothing gentle for them.
This an argument written on their bodies. A duel in the heat that burned between them.
By the time he’d released her breast, his mouth had meandered downward.
His knee had snuck between her legs, lifting her skirts so they bunched around her belly.
When his mouth closed over her nipple, she nearly screamed.
He’d anticipated it, mouth flying back up to hers, swallowing her gasp as his fingers rolled her nipple to a peak.
“Oh God,” she breathed. “Apollo.”
His only answer to wedge his muscular thigh against the apex of her legs where sensation gathered, where her muscles clenched, wanting more. She rolled against him, moaning, and this time, when his tongue found her pebbled nipple, she was prepared. No scream. No need to silence her.
Only closed-eyed surrender to the pleasure of this man’s embrace.
Only the desire to return the pleasure he gave.
She tugged at his shirt until it was free from his trousers, and then she slipped her hand beneath, pressed it flat against his warm, hard chest, brushing against his nipple, hoping to feel his heartbeat.
He whimpered, the little sound rippling through him.
Then he jolted away from her, feet hitting the floor at the end of the bed with a most unseductive thunk. He backed toward the door.
“No more,” he said, and then he left.
She collapsed against the pillows, and, trembling, she slipped her hand between her legs. She was wet there, where his leg had rubbed against her sex. Her breasts ached, and she felt close to shattering.
When she’d been close to marrying Stone, her mother had told her all about what happened between a husband and wife. She’d said if the man knew what he was doing, the pleasure would be exquisite.
Sybil had a hint Apollo knew what he was doing.
“Ouch.” She grappled in her skirt pocket, but the coal or whatever it was burned her fingers, flirted with her skin. With a yelp, she jumped to her feet and scurried away from the bed.
Something glowed on the floor beside it. She knelt, leaned close.
Apollo’s gold. Yellow hot.
Another skirt ruined.
Apollo was probably right. If they started, they’d burn each other up. Better to never begin.