Page 7 of Midnight Pleasure

Ares glared up at him, a spark of defiance still burning in his eyes. “You can’t just order me around.”

Apollo’s lips quirked into a teasing smile as he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a murmur. “I can, and I will. And if you don’t behave, I’m not above using some rope to ensure you stay in bed.

The words nearly stuttered Ares’s breath, his heart missing a beat while he searched Apollo’s eyes for any sign of a jest. But there was only a steady gaze, confident and laced with a hint of playful mischief. A shiver slithered down his spine for a second as the threat, or promise, hung between them, with equal parts frustration and something far too confusing.

He gulped convulsively to rein in his poise, but with Apollo so close, the weight of his hand on his chest and the playful glint in his eyes, it was nearly impossible. Ares wasn’t used to feeling out of control. So vulnerable. The usual barriers he had, the walls he’d built to keep people out, evaporated under Apollo’s steady presence.

“Is that how you treat all your guests?” Ares shot back, trying to dispel the tension in the air with sarcasm. “Threaten them with rope if they don’t listen?”

There was a new twinkle in Apollo’s eyes, a mischievous one, and his smile grew more, the very beginning of dimples deepening. “Only the ones too stupid to know better. And right now, you’re at the top of that list.”

Ares wanted to snap back, to tell Apollo where he could shove his rope, but the truth was, he didn’t have the energy for another round of banter. His body was beyond exhausted, sinking back into the soft bed, far more tempting than he wanted to admit. Still, his pride wouldn’t let him give in so easily.

“You don’t have to treat me like a child,” Ares muttered, avoiding Apollo’s piercing look. “I’m not some sort of helpless—”

“You’re ill, Ares,” Apollo interjected, firm but soft. “And you’re immortal but not invincible. Right now, you need rest more than you need to prove something.”

He was brutally honest, not cruel. And it was that honesty that disarmed him, that made it so hard to cling to his anger. He looked back at Apollo and tried to read his face for some measure of what he was thinking and feeling—a show of pity? None of that, just concern and a patience Ares wasn’t sure he deserved.

It took a moment, but Ares finally grumbled an agreement, the word more of a sigh than anything.

Apollo chuckled, low and warm. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now close your eyes and let sleep take you. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Ares didn’t know how to react to that—the quiet kindness in Apollo’s actions and how he seemed to know exactly when to push and pull back. With that, Apollo straightened up a bit, pulling the blankets over Ares and tucking him in with an almost intimate care. The thing threw him off and made him unsure of his footing in this man, who seemed so different from anyone he had ever known.

Apollo turned to leave, and a sudden, inexplicable pull overcame him to stop him. He didn’t want to be alone or left to his thoughts and the swirling emotions that threatened to overcome him. But the words caught in his throat, and before he could gather enough courage to speak, the door paused Apollo.

“Sleep well, Ares,” he murmured, never turning around. Then he was gone, leaving Ares to the silence and the strange, restless feeling that had settled in his chest.

Ares stared up at the ceiling, the thoughts racing through his mind as his body begged for rest. The effort to push against that was great, yet he couldn’t help but replay the scene in his mind: the feel of Apollo’s hands on him, the way his heart had pounded in response to the man’s teasing words. It was maddening how he seemed to get under his skin and evoked feelings in Ares he wasn’t ready to come face-to-face with.

Ares closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep with an angry sigh. Even as exhaustion tugged him down, he knew this was far from over. Whatever was brewing between him and Apollo—tension, attraction, or something altogether different—would prove impossible to ignore. Whether liked it or not, he sensed Apollo was just getting started with his challenge to Ares.

As sleep finally claimed him, one thought lingered in the back of his mind: maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

The day arrived when Ares was to begin working. Standing in Apollo’s studio, he was unfamiliar with intimate creative spaces. The place was a right mess—shavings of wood everywhere, tools strewn all over the shop, and half-finished sculptures stacked against the walls—every single one of them intricate and impressive. Ares didn’t know a thing about woodwork and did not know what Apollo expected him to do out here.

Apollo passed him a broom without further discussion. “Begin with the sweeping. We will then proceed when you are ready.”

Ares accepted the broom, wearing a frown on his face. “Really? You intend for me to sweep?”

“I suppose all beginnings are humble,” Apollo answered, not missing a beat. “Not to mention you said you didn’t want handouts. Well, this isn’t a handout. This is a job, and I’m your boss. Get to it.”.

Probably best unheard, he cursed a few colorful word towards Apollo as he began to sweep. The work was monotonous, but it afforded him something to focus on besides his misery. He glanced now and then at Apollo, hard at work carving a block of wood with practiced ease. The man conducted himself in a way that seemed to be precise and faultless, making Ares envious but at the same time full of resentment.

He often found himself gazing across the shop while Apollo was completely engrossed in his work. He worked so fluidly that one couldn’t help but feel envious in a painful way. Apollo’s hands, emboldened and rough, guided that chisel over the wood block in a dexterity testifying to years of practice.

Apollo’s hands moved with a practiced grace, each stroke deliberate and controlled, as if he were merely uncovering what already existed within the towering piece of wood. The rough, unfinished log stood taller than either of them, its thick, sturdy form dominating the workspace.

Yet in Apollo’s hands, it was no more daunting than a blank canvas, waiting for the artist’s vision to bring it to life. The wood was broad and solid, its grain coarse and unyielding, but Apollo handled it with a calm assurance, as though he could already see the intricate shape hidden within, waiting to be released. It was as if the true form was right there, just beneath the surface, and Apollo was simply coaxing it out, one precise cut at a time.

Ares looked on as he saw the muscles ripple under Apollo’s shirt, his forearms tensing and relaxing with each motion. Something was mesmerizing in how Apollo seemed so attuned to that wood and connected with his craft. The chisel made soft, rhythmic sounds as Apollo sliced through the grain. Carved shavings curled away like whispers of secrets being uncovered. It was a dance, liquid, an intimate exchange between man and material.

Apollo would pause for a breather, chisel lifted and eyes darting up from the work for that moment, and it would catch Ares’ breath in his throat. The way Apollo’s eyes narrowed in concentration, the slight furrow of his brow, and the faint sheen of sweat on his temples were all so…arresting in their way that Ares couldn’t help but be caught up in fascination by the way Apollo reined in the wood, much as it was some part of his body, a part of which bent to his will, surrendering to his vision.

Ares swallowed, suddenly very aware of the heat pooling in his belly. There was something primal in the way Apollo worked, something that stirred a deep, unspoken craving within him. It wasn’t just the physical attraction that was undeniable: the broadness of Apollo’s shoulders, his firm hands, and the way his jeans hung low on his hips, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of bronzed skin as he leaned over his workbench.

It was more than that. It was how the passion oozed from him for it, quiet in intensity, intimidating yet alluring to Ares. He wanted that—for it to be him that radiated that impression, not just the skill or the artistry but the confidence, the mastery that Apollo oozed with every single movement. And with that came this shot of jealousy, sharp like a reminder of his purposelessness and uncertainty.

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