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“What if it’s worse than blood?” His arms rise and fall with every heave of his breath. The heat of us together is heavy between us in the chill of the night, and I want it to be heavier.
“You’re not making any sense.”
“What if it is?” Apollo insists. “What then?”
“Do you think I’m scared of dicks,Apollo? Do you think I’m scared of yours? Do you think I’m scared of men? Because I’m not. There’s nothing you can say that would scare me. You can’t push me over the edge. I’m not going to run away screaming and—and hide from you. I’m always going to be stalking you through the woods. Don’t you know that? I’m not afraid to hunt you and find you and?—”
And then, possessed of the adrenaline from hearing his voice on that phone call and wanting like I’ve never wanted before, I drag my fingers over the cut again.
I get one glancing lick with the side of my tongue, and it’s Apollo’s turn to be a supernatural being. It’s not out of the question that Apollo has always been a supernatural being, and he was just holding back.
His hands are all over me. His mouth is all over me. Not one single touch is light or tentative. They’re all possessive. Urgent. He moves down my body, capturing all my attention and burning it up in so much bright pleasure—being seen, being wanted, being needed so much that he can’t stop himself—that it takes me several crashing heartbeats to understand that he’s on his knees.
That he’s wrestling with my belt, working it with his fingers and jerking it apart. That he’s yanking my zipper down so hard I think it might break. Apollo’s knuckles graze my skin—cold, from being in the open air—as he pushes his hands into my waistband and tears my pants off. Somehow, he’s got my boots tugged off, too, and they’ve landed somewhere I can’t see. The boots are a small price to pay. I can always get more boots. I can never get this moment again, with anticipation pounding in my chest and my ears and everywhere Apollo’s touching me. I put a hand on his shoulder for balance, my other hand finding his hair—where do I touch him? How do I hold on?
And then my panties are gone.
I arrive at the full understanding of what he wants, what he’s going to do, when he tosses one of my legs over his shoulder and buries his face in my?—
Oh.
My.
Fucking.
Fucking.
Fucking.
God.
I did not grasp the meaning of being eaten before now. I didn’t understand what it meant to be devoured.
I did not.
Understand.
That it could feel this good.
I do not understand how Apollo learned this, nor do I care.
All I care about is how his tongue feels, licking desperately over every inch of me. How his lips feel, brushing over my clit, sucking, oh, God, I didn’t know he would do that. I didn’t know anyone would do that. How his mouth feels. Hot and experienced and confident, like Apollo always knew exactly how I’d want to be eaten—he’s eating me out, oh my freaking God—and he’s just been waiting for the opportunity. He’s been waiting for me to shoot him with an arrow, or tell him that I’m not afraid of a skilled tongue, or?—
It’s a miracle that he’s got so much of my weight balanced on his face and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
He seems to want more of it.
And I can’t help but give him more of it. My hips move of their own volition. I rock them harder into his face, one hand scrabbling at the tree trunk for balance, the other hand?—
Grabbing him. Somewhere. I’m just trying to hold on.
There are fireworks, or the pleasure is reflecting off my optic nerves and filling my vision with red and gold starbursts.
Apollo does something concentrated and wicked with his tongue. Something incredible. All the pleasure that’s been humming along my nerves concentrates under his tongue. He’s found my clit and he’s not stopping for anything. The pleasure feels tidal, celestial, so much bigger than I am that I don’t know how I’ll stand it when it peaks.
And then it does, and I discover that both my hands are in his hair, pulling. It has to hurt, but the only sound he makes is a needy groan, directly into my cunt. And then another one. As if he’s never tasted anything so good or felt anything so good, which can’t be the case, it can’t be—what can this be doing for him? My mind doesn’t have enough free space to figure out how this can feel so good for him because all I can do is feel him—his strong shoulder under my leg, his hands bracing my thighs, his thumbs pressing in to spread me open that much wider.
Unless he wants me that much.
