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At the risk of being morbid, Apollo can get on a plane without me over my dead body.
And if he did get on a plane without me and fly to a foreign country for a reason that is still very much unknown to me, then he could come home literally over my dead body. Or with both of us as dead bodies.
So I skipped it. I skipped the argument about involving our family, which would also mean telling all of them about the entire situation, and when Apollo said I have to go, I didn’t need a flashing neon sign to tell me that he meant now and not after we go home, explain things to our parents, who will not want us to fly to another country without an army’s worth of security and who will probably insist on coming with us, and there isn’t time.
I don’t have to know why there isn’t time to know that we don’t have much of it.
Our family can be mad at us when we get back. Because we will be back.
Apollo kisses me slowly, his lean, beautiful muscles gliding over mine, until he’s hard again, and then he pushes into me at the same leisurely pace, and I discover him all over again.
He’s gorgeous when we’re fucking—not this slow, considered worship but a fast frenzy of muscle and blood—and just as beautiful when he’s concentrating on every movement. I’m hypersensitive to everything. The solid throb of him inside me. The slide of him through my wettest, softest places. The tiny crease in his forehead when he changes his angle and hits a spot inside me that makes me gasp, and the way he works so hard to find that place again and again.
He pulls out before he’s come, kissing his way down my body, and I realize belatedly what his plan is and thread my fingers through his hair.
“Wait,” I manage, my singing with the marks from his mouth and the evaporation from his kisses. “You already?—”
“I don’t care,” Apollo answers. He pushes my thighs apart and licks between my legs.
I have to be a mess. A mess of me, and him—a mess of us. I’m lightheaded with how intimate and filthy it feels. It’s not as if I imagined sex with anyone else. I always imagined it with Apollo. I’ve never, in all my life, seen a man who was more beautiful. And if I did come across a man who had Apollo’s same perfect bone structure and the sea-blue of his eyes and even his body, that person wouldn’t compare. Nobody compares. That’s why my feelings about him were so complicated for so long. Not because of his flaws. Because he’s perfect, and there’s nobody in the world who can measure up to him.
If there’s anything complicated about my feelings now, it’s that this plane will land, and this will be over.
Nothing good can come from what was in that envelope. I can see its shadow move across Apollo’s eyes, over and over. I can see him bringing himself back from it.
Back to me.
Back to licking me until I come on his tongue again, my orgasm so deep and so electric that it borders on pain.
I have to pull his hair until he moves away from my thighs.
Instead of curling up at my side, Apollo kisses the inside of one of my knees, then pushes that knee up to my chest. Then he leans over me, his weight simultaneously reassuring and exhilarating, and watches my face while he strokes between my legs, his fingertips playing gently in what feels like pure oversensitivity.
I’m not even sure what he’s doing, and I still don’t want him to stop. I don’t mind feeling like this at all.
Except for that envelope hanging over his head. Over our heads.
Then Apollo drags a fingertip through the mess we’ve made together and goes?—
Lower.
To somewhere far more intimate.
I’d probably tense up if I weren’t so drowned in post-orgasm chemicals, but I am, and in this plane-bedroom, thousands of feet above the air, I can’t think of any reason to deny him anything.
Or to deny myself anything.
“What about here?” he asks. “What will you do if I touch you here?”
“Let you.” My voice comes out softer than I expected. “Like I’m already doing.”
“Hmm. Am I the only one to touch you here?”
“You’re the only one to touch me ever, Apollo.”
“I am?”
“You’re doing a foolish,” I whisper. “If you think there was anybody else.”
