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Anything. I’d have begged for anything.
I don’t beg to lick her pussy. Artemis spreads her legs for me and pushes my head down with a needy whine that almost makes me come on the plane’s bed. She’s twice as slick as she was before and slightly salty and warm from the rush, and she’s the best thing I’ve ever had the honor of licking. Her thighs flex and flex and flex, working to angle her hips up to my mouth. I lose count of how many times she comes on my tongue. It’s impossible to hold the number in my head, just like it’s impossible to keep track of the turbulence when I’m doing this.
When I have her.
I can’t say why I leave her pussy and climb up to kiss her, filthy and deep, while I keep the heel of my hand centered over her clit. Artemis shakes and shudders and the sounds she makes into my mouth are either questions or demands. I can’t tell which.
And then she lifts her hips, and two of my fingers slip inside her.
I come up from the kiss like I was drowning. “I want to fuck you. So bad. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Yes,” she says, her eyes huge and dark. “I do.”
Artemis takes my head in her hands and pulls so I’m down in a kiss that feels like every hunting game we’ve ever played all condensed into a fiery heat. I don’t know which of us counts as the winner in this one, but Artemis pulls until I’m over her, until I’m all lined up, until I’m pushing in inch by blinding inch.
I bend and kiss her neck, her mouth, the side of her chin. Her hands tighten on my shoulders and then she gasps, rolling her hips in this perfect clench that could wipe out every bad memory, every terrible favor I ever did. I fuck into her deep. Artemis makes this sound—I wish this plane could fly forever, so I could hear it forever—and then she pushes, and I’m on my back, up against the headboard somehow.
Artemis braces herself and rides like her life depends on it. Like this is her only chance to drive her hips down into mine and rock herself over my cock and let me put my hands on her hips and add extra force and pull so that the two of us are colliding with every stroke, so hard it should hurt, but it doesn’t.
It’s so good.
Too good.
Her hands are at my neck and her face is very close, her hips doing this—I don’t know how to describe, I’ve never had someone move like this over me—she’s doing this thing, this perfect torturous grind.
“Do it,” she says. “Come on, Apollo. Do it.”
That’s when I realize she felt my orgasm coming before I did. She hunted it down and caught it between her legs, and she chases it with her hips, and she’s going to get it.
I’m going to give it to her.
Too loud for the plane, but I can’t stop making this sound or I’ll die. The pleasure is one thing, but spilling it into Artemis is something else entirely. Midway through, we’re moving, and it’s because of me. I get her on her back and pump the rest of my orgasm into her while she clenches and makes these high little keening sounds and fucking crickets, she’s coming again.
It takes a while to come down.
When I do, I’m leaning my forehead against hers, and Artemis is whispering Apollo. Apollo. Apollo. with her hands in my hair.
“Yeah?” I manage, along with half of a kiss.
“Do that again.”
13
ARTEMIS
I realize, in an objective sense, that what I am doing is extremely foolish at best.
Yes, I am an adult woman who is fully capable of making her own decisions, but if I described this situation to literally any other person, they would not advise me to get on a plane to who knows where when Apollo is clearly being blackmailed.
That’s the only thing those photos can mean. In the one I saw—there wasn’t a lot of light from the console in the SUV, and I don’t have Daisy’s eyes—there was a boy, sitting on a bed. I thought it might be Apollo.
And then I watched him see those photos and I knew it was. I don’t know what he was doing in those photos, or why they were taken, but I know it wasn’t good.
I’m no military expert, either, but I know that people don’t usually take and send aerial photos of places just for the thrill of it.
But even if I hadn’t seen the photos, I would’ve seen Apollo’s face. His expression was proof that something fucked up is going on, and there wasn’t any point in sitting down for a debate about it.
The facts remain the facts: the episodes are becoming unstable. They’re not happening on the usual schedule or at the usual intensity. They’re worse for Apollo now, but there’s no way to predict when or whether that might start happening for me. Our single method for stopping them is to be together.
