Chapter 138 Instinctual Rhythm
(Apollo)
Her body trembled under his palm. Not from fear, from passion, from desire.
It poured off her, thick and molten, wrapping around him like heat rising from fire-coiled stone. He felt it in her magic, too — a faint spark fizzing at the edges of her skin, responding to him with every slow press of his fingers.
That realisation nearly unravelled him. He kissed her again, deeper, slower, pouring something into it he didn’t have the name for. Something tender. Something dangerous. Something like devotion.
He kissed her like he was learning her breath, like he was trying to memorise the shape of every soft sound she made. Her lips parted under his, accepting him, answering him — not in submission, but in want. Real honest want. It shook him. It broke him open.
Her legs wrapped around him, ankles locking at his back, drawing him closer. He felt the delicate press of her heels against his lower spine; felt her thighs trembling as she pulled him in, not just to his hand, but to his body, his heat, his weight. The instinctive trust of that movement struck him so hard his breath stuttered.
He froze, breath catching in his throat.
She felt it. Felt the hesitation. Felt the tremor that moved through him.
“Apollo…” she whispered, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay.”
Her touch wasn’t demanding, wasn’t coaxing — just there, grounding him in a way nothing ever had. Her thumb traced his lower lip, soft, reassuring, as if she could steady a creature made of fire with nothing but her touch.
It wasn’t okay. It was so much more. It was new. Terrifying yet beautiful. A door he didn’t recognise was opening inside him.
He removed his fingers, slowly. Instantly missing her warmth, her tightness. Then he lowered his body between her legs, hands braced on either side of her as he kissed her again, slow and deep.
Her hips lifted the moment his weight settled between them, her skin brushing his in heated, trembling lines. He felt her breath break against his mouth, felt her hands slide over his shoulders, mapping muscle and scar in slow, dizzy strokes.
The head of his cock nudged her open. She lifted her hips, welcoming him, drawing him in. With a slow thrust, almost too slow, he buried himself inside her.
Heat closed around him in a way that stole sound from the world. Her body tightened sweetly, inch by inch, as if learning him, as if her warmth were reaching for him as much as he reached for her. His breath shuddered out of him against her throat, his hands sliding to her waist to anchor himself in place.
Her breath broke in a soft, startled cry. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, not in pain, but in grounding. Her nails scraped lightly down his spine, sending electricity snapping through every nerve. Her legs clamped around him in a reflexive clutch, trying to draw him even deeper inside, her chest rising in a sharp, gasping arch.
Apollo groaned — low and desperate — his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he fought not to move too fast. Her warmth, her softness, her yielding body around him… it undid him. It burned him. It made his bones feel too fragile to hold the rest of him.
He breathed her in — her scent, her warmth, her quiet whimpers — and for the first time in centuries, the King of Hell trembled.
Be careful. Careful… don’t hurt her. Don’t lose yourself…
Her hands slid up his back, nails grazing lightly over sensitive skin. His entire body shuddered.
The scrape was barely there — a whisper of pressure — but it shot straight through him like a line of fire. His muscles tightened under her touch, a ripple starting at the base of his spine and rolling outward, his breath catching at the sensation of being touched not in demand, not in fear… but in desire.
She whispered his name like a prayer. The sound wrapped around him, soft and trembling, a plea and a promise all at once. No one had ever said his name like that — not with longing, not with reverence, not with that breathless edge that made his heart pound against her ribs.
He lifted his head, eyes locking onto hers — molten gold meeting burning ember. Her pupils were wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a soft gasp as she held his gaze without flinching. Something in his chest tightened painfully at the sight — something old, forgotten, clawing its way back to life.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathed.
“It isn’t,” she whispered. “You’re… you’re gentle.”
The word pierced him. Gentle. A title he had never worn.
A foreign ache thrummed beneath his sternum — fragile and sharp. He had been called a monster, a tyrant, a beast. Never this. Never anything close. The word felt like a balm and a blade all at once.
He began to move. Slow. Measured. Controlled. His hips pressed forward in a careful glide, the heat of her enveloping him in a way that nearly stole his balance. Every inch he sank into her made his breath shake, made his resolve strain against the instinct to thrust harder, faster — to take. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Not with her. Not today.
His hand cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as if to reassure himself she was real. Her breath hitched with every careful thrust, her body opening to him, welcoming him deeper, her legs tightening around his waist with each slow shift of his hips.
Her thighs trembled against his sides, muscles tightening with each movement, drawing him deeper into her warmth. Her breath fluttered across his mouth, her chest brushing his with every quiet, needy rise. The soft squeeze of her body around him nearly undid him each time he pushed in.
Her fingers traced the shape of his jaw, the lines of his throat. Her touch was soft, exploratory — as if she wanted to learn him too.
Her fingertips left trails of heat along his skin, pausing at the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammered far too hard. He leaned into her touch instinctively, a low, involuntary sound rumbling out of him — a sound he didn’t recognise as his own.
“Apollo… Gods…” she breathed.
The way she said his name — half-whisper, half-moan — made something inside him fracture. Her voice vibrated against his mouth, threaded with disbelief and pleasure, and he felt himself sink deeper into her without meaning to, pulled by gravity and want.
He swallowed hard, kissing her again, swallowing her sounds, giving her his breath, his heat, his restraint — everything he had never offered anyone.
Each kiss was slow and hungry, his lips moving with a reverence that startled even him. Her mouth opened under his, soft and warm, her tongue trembling against his as if she couldn’t decide whether she needed more air or more of him.
His hips rocked in a steady motion. Slow drag back, gentle thrust forward, again and again. The rhythm felt ancient, instinctive — like something older than Hell, older than fear. Her body arched into each movement, her breath catching in small, helpless stutters that matched the cadence of his hips. Their skin slid together with the heat of the bath still lingering, slick and warm, every shift of his body drawing a soft sound from her throat.
Her hips lifted to meet his, matching him, slow and aching. Their breaths mingled, heavy and warm. Each movement drew a quiet gasp from her, each gasp pulling him deeper into a place he had never allowed himself to feel.
Her breath hit his cheek in warm bursts, syncing with the slow grind of their bodies. Her fingers curled at the base of his skull, guiding him, not urging him faster — just wanting closeness, connection, the intimacy of heat and breath and skin. It felt impossibly tender, unbearably human.
His thoughts tangled.
She’s soft. She’s warm. She’s letting me— Gods, she’s letting me.
Don’t break her. Don’t lose her. Don’t lose yourself.
The thoughts were raw, unguarded, dragging through him like claws of truth. Being careful felt harder than being brutal. Holding back felt like tearing himself open. And still he clung to it — to her, terrified of the moment she might flinch away.
Her hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him down to kiss him again — slow, desperate, tender. Her lips brushed his with a trembling insistence, as if she needed the contact as much as breath. Her hand slid into his hair, fingers curling, anchoring him to her. He felt her chest rise against his, her heart fluttering wild and fast beneath her skin. It called to something in him — something that wanted to answer with more than fire.
He felt something inside him unravel. Not lust. Not hunger. Not possession. Something gentler. Something far more dangerous. Something he had no defences against. It opened inside him like a wound and a revelation, heat pooling behind his ribs, spreading outward in slow, ruinous waves. It made his voice quieter, his kisses softer, his movements even slower — as if his entire body had shifted into worship without permission.
As if she had become the only thing in Hell he could not bear to harm.