Page 83 of Sigma

I’ve had that. My previous sexual partners have been that—sweet, gentle, considerate. Nice.

Apollo isn’t any of those things. Or, well, heisconsiderate, in a weird, twisted way, and he does his damnedest to disguise it.

I don’t want sweet and gentle and considerate and nice.

What I want is Apollo.

I know, I know—it’s foolish, it’s almost incomprehensibly irrational. But it’s true and I’m prone to deluding myself. I don’t lie to myself. I want him, and I’m going to follow this insane desire of mine all the way down the rabbit hole.

Every effort I make to distract myself fails.

All I can think about is Apollo. Finishing what I started.

I’m crazed with it.

Somehow, hours pass. Afternoon yellow-gold sunlight sifts through the endless rows of vines, morphs subtly into red-gold.

I’m left pacing, almost frantically. Waiting for the sound of his boots on the stair, the creak of the hinges.

Finally, I hear it.

The muted thump of his lithe tread up the stairs. The latch opens. The hinges creak.

He stands in the open door and stares at me. “Still here?”

“Where would I go?”

He steps inside the room, closes the door, puts his back to it. Arms cross his chest. “Is that why you’re still here? Still in this room, I mean?”

I feel a tremor of nerves jangling in my veins. I feel desire pooling behind my navel and spreading through me at the very sight of him—his arms stretching the sleeves of his shirt, the breadth of shoulder and chest. But I don’t see the clothes—I see the body beneath them. The body I had naked. The flesh I had in my hands.

“No,” I whisper. “That’s not why.”

His eyes flick over me. “Then why?”

I’m breathing rapidly, shallowly. I know he must see the lust crackling and sparkling in my eyes. The way I’m looking at him. The way I prowl across the room to him. It must be in the sway of my hips. The way I accentuate my step so my breasts bounce for him.

I don’t answer—not in words.

I halt when the tips of my breasts touch his chest, mere inches between us. So close I can see streaks of lighter brown in his black eyes. So close I can see his pulse pounding in his throat. His casual, insouciant posture hides his own ravaging desire.

He changed his shirt—we ruined his last one. This is another white button-down, crisp, clean, and pressed. Tucked just so into his dress slacks. I trace a finger down the line of buttons. I flick open the top button. He doesn’t react. One by one, all the way down, I undo the buttons of his shirt until it hangs open, baring the magnificent sculpture of his torso. I push it off, but instead of letting it fall to the floor, I take my time folding it. Set it on the coffee table. Cross back to him. Shirtless now in just his slacks, shoes, and a Patek Phillipe watch, he’s still motionless and expressionless.

So it’s that game, is it? Get a reaction from the statue?

I smile at him. Run my palms over his chest, over his abs. He tenses them, but otherwise is immobile. He won’t stop me, but he won’t help me, either. As if he could delay or deny or avoid this connection he himself first pointed out exists between us.

What I want most is to free his beautiful cock from the prison of his pants, but the game’s afoot. So, instead, I tease us both by dropping to my knees. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. I run my hands over his hips, down the front of his slacks. Over his calves. He frowns, not comprehending. His shoes are loafers, easily slipped off. Then his socks.

This gets a small sniff of amusement from him, that I remove his socks for him.

Still on my knees, I look at him, hands resting on my thighs. He just gazes down at me, expressionless and motionless once more. So, I remain on my knees. Working slowly, I slip the end of the belt free of the loop, tug it aside to release the pressure on the tongue, and slide the end out of the buckle. Let the belt drape open, pausing, as if deciding what’s next.

Trace his zipper, and I feel him respond. Feel him stir behind the metal teeth.

Not yet.

I pull the belt out of the loops, slowly, one loop at a time. Roll it into a neat coil and set it aside. Open the button of his trousers, blatantly teasing him now, once again tracing my fingertip over the zipper. This gets me an audible swallow of his Adam’s apple, his tongue sliding over his lips. A reaction, at last.