Page 11 of Midnight Pleasure

Apollo could feel the heat radiating from Ares. “Turn around. Let me teach you.”

His chest pressed against Ares’s back, their heartbeats quickening in unison. Leaning in, Apollo let his lips brush ever so lightly against the shell of Ares’s ear, his voice dropping to a smooth, almost teasing murmur.

“The wood… it’s stubborn at first, resistant. But if you know how to work with it, if you can master it… it’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Apollo could feel Ares’s focus beginning to waver, his breath catching as their hands moved in perfect sync, the heat of their bodies pressed in so close together. The tension between them was alive, crackling like a live wire with each deliberate touch, each whispered word drawing them closer and closer to the point of no return—one that neither of them seemed in any hurry to avoid.

“You cannot rush this process. Can’t just force it. You have to lead it, tease it… make it surrender to you.” Apollo’s fingers tightened over Ares’s, his grip firm, almost possessive, as he guided the movements.

“And when you finally get it to yield,” he guided, “there’s nothing quite like it. The satisfaction of seeing something so resistant finally give in… it’s intoxicating.”

Ares’ concentration faltered under the weight of Apollo’s words. Every movement of Apollo’s hands was deliberate, calculated, a subtle demonstration of control—over the wood and Ares.

“When it finally gives in,” Apollo murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvety tone, “there’s nothing quite like it. The way something so stubborn finally yields… it’s intoxicating.”

The impact he had on Ares was clear in the way his breath quickened and his fingers trembled ever so slightly. Apollo let his lips hover near Ares’s ear, his breath warm against the sensitive skin.

“Tell me,” he whispered, voice teasing, “what do you think it takes to make something so resistant bend? Is it strength… or something else?”

Ares turned to face him. When Ares turned to face him, his expression showed a conflict, caught between anger, confusion, and something else neither of them was ready to name.

“Maybe it’s not just about the wood,” Apollo continued, his words heavy with innuendo. “Maybe it’s about knowing exactly what it wants, where to push, how to lead it until it’s exactly what you desire.”

The thickening tension between them filled the air with a palpable sense of anticipation. Apollo took a slow step forward, his torso now firmly against Ares’s chest, the stifling heat between them threatening to suffocate.

“Or maybe,” he rasped, his breath grazing Ares’s ear, “you’re starting to wonder if I’m talking about something more than just the wood.”

Ares’ voice was tight when he finally spoke. “Don’t think this changes anything—I’m still no more staying here than I must.”

Apollo’s jaw tightened. The flicker of hope drowned. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied coldly.

There was no trace of it anymore. The fragile peace and calm had vanished between them. But, as Ares walked away, Apollo knew something had changed—something neither could turn a blind eye to.

Apollo found himself at the restaurant later that evening, surrounded by the aroma of sizzling dishes and the bustling chatter of patrons. The restaurant was eventually quiet, and the only sound was the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen, breaking the stillness. Ares was in there, doing his nightly duties, and Apollo couldn’t help but be proud of how he had settled into his routine, even if it was begrudgingly.

Chapter 5: Unveiling the Past

The air was cool and pine-scented, his senses filled with the sharp undercurrent of sawdust as Ares approached the studio. The sun had reached late afternoon, its long shadows thrown through the trees as though they had almost been piled in answer to that confusion by the light and dark dappling on the ground.

How he hated being so unsettled—Apollo had crawled under his skin, digging up things he'd tried to bury so long beneath anger and defiance.

He went into the studio. That smell of lumber and oil was pseudo-grounding, familiar—sort of.

Apollo stood at his workstation, his hands fluid and precise as he molded another piece with an effortless grace that only deepened the storm brewing within Ares. Each smooth movement was a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside him. Watching Apollo so focused, so composed, sent a surge of conflicting emotions through Ares—envy, resentment, and a longing he couldn’t quite name. He both admired and resented the man’s control, that unshakable calm that seemed so out of reach for him, especially when everything inside felt like it was unraveling.

He hovered near the door, unsure whether to stay or leave; his mind was a battleground of several emotions. His father was still there, hammering in his head about what he was supposed to be: something solid and immovable, a chiseled piece of Sinclair's legacy. Here, with Apollo, he was feeling just the opposite. He was naked and vulnerable in a way that really scared the hell out of him.

"You going to stand there all day, or will you come in?" Apollo's calm, even voice cut across the turbulent sea of thoughts which belonged to Ares.

His jaw tightened, but he pushed further into the room, his defiance muted. "Maybe I enjoy just watching," he shot back.

"Is that so? As Apollo mused, a hint of amusement danced in his bright blue eyes.

"Don't get it twisted," he shot back.

Apollo winked and resumed work. His knife scraped against the wood in a rhythmic pattern, a melodic background of sound. Something almost like hypnotic fascination nailed him to the gracefulness displayed in Apollo's movements. His hands moved with grace and sure confidence, handling the material like a part of himself and dictating the course of action.

"I've never seen anybody work like you do," Ares announced before he could stop himself, the admission slipping offhand.

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