Cough. Dylan’s eyes shot open. On the screen, the heroine was having a choking fit as a deadly gas was released into her hiding spot. Wait. That didn’t happen in part two of the cliffhanger. That was like three episodes down the line. He blinked at the mantel clock. Two o’clock. What the what?
Next to him a soft rumbling sound almost lulled him back to sleep. He blinked again, trying to wake up more, even as Apollo snored away next to him. Behind him. Somehow, his head was on Apollo’s shoulder and Apollo’s arms had come around him, holding him tight against Apollo’s chest.
He shifted his weight, not sure whether to extract himself or enjoy this rare pleasure.
“Mmmphf. Stay.” Apollo mumbled. He let out a soft moan that went right to Dylan’s dick.
He doesn’t know it’s me. Of course not. If Apollo knew it was him that he held, he’d be leaping away, not tightening his arms, burrowing his face in Dylan’s hair. Any second now—
A gunfight broke out on TV, and Apollo lurched. “What?”
“It’s okay. Just the show.” Dylan patted his thigh.
“Dylan?” The horror in Apollo’s voice sliced through the warm coziness of their embrace, and Dylan untangled their bodies. Cuddle time’s over.
“Yeah. We fell asleep. No big deal.”
“No big deal...” Apollo bolted upright. He had that same uncanny ability as Dustin did of going from dead asleep to alert in thirty seconds. Probably a SEAL thing.
“Yeah. No biggie.” Dylan stretched before flipping off the TV. “We better try to get some real sleep before the girls wake up.”
“But we...” A muscle in Apollo’s jaw leaped. His voice was all hoarse, making him sound more like sex than the indignant turtle he was acting.
“Relax. We fell asleep. Nothing happened. Sorry for using you as a pillow.”
“It’s okay.” Apollo sounded like he didn’t quite believe himself. Dylan didn’t know what else to say to make this less awkward for him.
I know you were only dreaming about Neal. No worries. Yeah, that would go over like a concrete birthday cake.
“Night.” He gave Apollo a shoulder squeeze on his way to the stairs, trying to convey that he wasn’t reading anything into their little impromptu nap, but knowing Apollo probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.
*
Apollo had dreamed about Dylan. Dylan. Who had been right next to him. On him. Fucking hell. He watched Dylan gallop up the stairs, completely—thankfully—oblivious to the fact that Apollo was harder than a SCAR rifle barrel. And if he was honest, it wasn’t the first time in the past two weeks Dylan had cropped up in his dreams. Usually it was that wink, the teasing tone of his voice, his ready smile.
Liar.
Okay, okay, other body parts also seemed to frequent these dreams, which weren’t all sexual but were disturbing as hell, even if they were a welcome break from nightmares about something happening to the girls. But tonight’s dream had been sweet. Achingly, cloying, high-fructose sweet.
Lips on his neck, nibbling, tasting. Falling backward together. Full mouth welcoming his. Sun shining. Ground hard under him. Warm weight on top of him. Kissing and kissing endlessly. Laughing.
And when the TV show had started to intrude on his dream, his first instinct had been loss prevention—
Stay. Just a few more minutes like this. Don’t let me wake up. This love story—
Was bullshit. Apollo did not dream of epic romance. Ever. Just because his body evidently remembered the hormones involved in falling in lust did not mean his brain got a free pass for dreaming up fanciful shit like never-ending make-out sessions.
He straightened the couch, put their beer bottles in the recycling, headed up to bed. He didn’t flip the light on, instead tossing his shorts in the laundry hamper and collapsing on the bed in his shirt and boxers.
Still hard.
Hands grabbing at him, pulling him closer, urging him on. Husky chuckle in his ear. Hard, muscled body. Calloused grip.
Fuck. His cock throbbed. Why had it chosen now to come back online after two years in the deep freeze? Dylan.
Why the fuck was that the face he kept seeing when he closed his eyes? He grabbed his phone off the nightstand. He wasn’t usually a porn guy, and these past two years jerking off had pretty much been confined to waking up near orgasm and finishing with a few guilty strokes. But he could not fap to his dirty dream about Dylan.
Wait. He had a new game app that the girls liked on the phone. Better not risk porn on the phone.
Think about Neal. Remember on the balcony in Hawaii? That memory had surfaced in more than one dream-orgasm, but tonight his mind refused to lock on to the images. Screw his dreams. He didn’t want sweet. He wanted dirty, and the Neal memories were all too...soft around the edges. Fuzzy. Almost like a movie that happened to someone else.
What about that guy he’d fucked his last year at the academy, right before graduation? He had been a kinky fucker. Apollo’s hand worked its way under his waistband, gliding over his cock. He’d looked a bit like—
Dylan. Fuck. He couldn’t seem to shake his body’s insistence on bringing Dylan into this. For all that his earlier dream had been honeyed kisses, he knew somehow that Dylan would be down with filthy. He’d be demanding as fuck in bed, all talky and not backing down, meeting him strength for strength, and Apollo’s cock strained at the thought. Oh Dylan would let him lead, but he’d make him earn it.
Teeth sinking into Apollo’s shoulder, fingers digging into his back muscles, hard enough to leave marks. Heels pressing against his ass, pushing him deeper. Body bowing up to meet his.
His strokes sped up, free hand snaking up to rub his neck and collarbone, needing that bite of teeth. Marks. He wanted the kind of sex where both people were sweaty messes, beard burn and finger bruises and bite marks.
Come splashing onto tanned skin, dripping down a muscled back.
Fuck. He was close. He spit on his palm, craving the slick to go as fast and hard as he needed.
Husky voice begging for his climax. Demanding it. Begging for Apollo to come all over him.
“Aww fuck.” Apollo came on a strangled whisper, biting his own fist to keep quiet. His body shuddered over and over. He hadn’t come this hard in years. And now he was mess, needing another shower and new boxers. But the mess of his body was nothing compared to the mess inside his brain. What the fuck had he just done? How in the hell was he supposed to face Dylan in the morning and not remember that superheated fantasy?
Chapter Seven
Dylan’s dreams all starred a certain grumpy Greek god, but when he woke up, he couldn’t remember precisely what had happened in dreamland, which was a damn shame. It had been good; he knew that much. Smiling to himself, he stretched. Man, the house smelled amazing. Pancakes. Bacon. Strong coffee.
Stomach rumbling, Dylan followed his nose downstairs.
“Baba’s making waffles!” Chloe announced from a perch on a chair. Both girls were on chairs that had been pulled up to the island, watching Apollo spoon batter onto a steaming waffle iron. Behind him, a griddle full of bacon sizzled on the stove.