Apollo dipped a hand between us, collecting our mingled prerelease, and brought it to my lips. It smelled like the flower he’d named after his lost love and tasted like tears. He rutted against me harder, faster, like we were wholly untrained youths desperate to reach our first taste of heaven. But it was too hot. It was growing too hot, and when I instinctively squirmed, he wouldn’t let me go.
