Goddess of Light (26 page)

Apollo and Pamela barely noticed the handmaidens' departure. They stared at each other, and everything else in the room, in the world, faded. Their skin tingled with growing heat and desire.

“I need you to love me,” Apollo's voice was thick with lust and longing. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, where common sense still lurked, he knew his reaction to her was too raw, too uninhibited, but he couldn't stop it—he didn't want to stop it.

“Yes.” She breathed the word.

With a feral, liquid movement that Pamela thought made him look like a large, tawny lion, he stood. He hurled the table separating them out of the way. Pamela realized that the table flew away from Phoebus' touch with an inhuman force, but the thought was vague and only partially formed. When he ripped off his shirt and roughly tore his pants from his body, all she could think of was her body's reaction to the guttural sound of her name on his lips and how magnificent he looked stalking towards her naked.

“Yes,” she moaned again, coming off the chaise and into his arms. His mouth devoured her. She slid one hand around his shoulders, feeling his muscles tremble with the force of his desire. With her free hand she yanked her shirt over her head and then quickly unzipped her slacks, which slid fluidly from her body. Phoebus found the hook of her bra, struggling to open it.

“I can't . . . I need . . .” he groaned in frustration. “I must feel you against me.” He tore the strip of lace from her back, and her breasts came free. She rubbed them against his chest as she kissed a hot path down the side of his neck.

A curse wrenched from his throat as Apollo tried to control his lust. Then Pamela took his hand that was kneading her breast and guided it to her panties, and all thoughts of control flew from his mind.

“These, too.” She tugged at his bottom lip with her teeth, pulling it into the slick den of her mouth and sucking enticingly. “I want you to rip these off, too.”

With a growl he obeyed her. Then he splayed his hands around her naked waist, and with the strength of a god, he lifted her and impaled her on his throbbing shaft.

Pamela was incredibly slick and ready for him. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. Throwing her head back, she arched into him, totally consumed by the overwhelming need to sate herself in his touch . . . in his fire.

He was fire. Under her hands his body actually glowed. Her senses acknowledged it, but her mind could not hold the thought. It seemed that the light that glistened from his sweat-damp skin was just another part of his arousal; it tempted her and teased her and goaded on her own passion. His hair curled around his face, thick and golden and glorious. And his eyes . . . his eyes burned her. She wanted to be burned by him; she wanted to be licked by the flames of his lust.

She felt gloriously, wondrously out of control.

“Harder . . .” she gasped into his mouth, hardly recognizing her own voice. Phoebus lunged forward, and Pamela felt the cool smoothness of one of the marble columns against her naked back. She used the strength of the column to brace herself, so that she could meet his thrusts with her own inflamed passion. “Don't stop . . . not yet . . . don't stop,” she panted, feeling herself tip over the edge of the world. Her orgasm was like nothing she had ever experienced. It engulfed her, rippling through her body with an intensity that verged on pain.

And then she was no longer being pressed against the column. His erection still impaling her, Phoebus carried her from the room. They passed through an arched doorway that led to a chamber adjacent to the dining room. In the center of the new room was a large, canopied bed. Logically, Pamela understood that they had entered a bedroom and that that shouldn't make any sense, but her mind was as filled with Phoebus as was her body—nothing was real except his touch, taste and smell.

“What's happening?” she whispered as he lay her on the bed beneath him.

“I am loving you. Forever, Pamela. This is what it is to be loved by me.”

He began moving against her in the ancient dance of lovemaking, withdrawing his hard length from her body, and then plunging into her—again and again. Pamela ran her hands across his slick chest as he lifted himself over her. His skin was a golden glow. Dazed, yet ultra-sensitized, she gazed down at where their bodies joined. They were both glowing . . . on fire . . . flames were licking their skin . . . driving them on . . . engulfing them . . .

“Look at me, Pamela.” His voice was raw.

She locked her eyes with his.

“See me,” he said. “This time really see me.”

As they joined together she looked at him. He was power and beauty and love all melded into one being. How had she ever believed that he was just a man? Her mind struggled to grasp the elusive truth of what she was seeing as their bodies flamed in his blinding, immortal light. What was he? What was happening to her?

Apollo saw panic flicker in her eyes, and he framed her face with his hands, forcing her gaze to remain locked with his. With an enormous effort of will, he commanded his body to still.

“Look deeper,” he said. “Look beyond the strangeness that you fear. Can't you see your reflection in my soul?”

The blue of his eyes held her even more intimately than their joined bodies. She was trembling with the intensity of her emotions. And there, beneath the new power that radiated from him, she found Phoebus—the heart of the man she knew. In that heart she saw the reflection of her own longing and need and emptiness, and she suddenly knew that by filling him, she would complete herself, too.

“What are you?” she whispered.

“Your soul mate.”

His voice shook, and despite the awesome power that so clearly radiated from him, Pamela thought he suddenly looked very young and vulnerable.

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling the fire begin to reignite deep within her. “You are my soul mate.”

She pulled him down to her, and with a wrenching moan he thrust into her again, unable to hold back any longer. When the world began to explode, she buried her face in his glowing shoulder and hung on.

 

 

IN the Great Hall, Artemis suddenly sat straight up. She drew a deep, cleansing breath. Gone! The bond with the mortal was gone. Apparently, her magic had tipped the scales in her brother's favor. And it was about time. She stretched luxuriously, enjoying the absence of the ever-annoying itch that had been Pamela's unfulfilled heart's desire. Then she settled back on her well-stuffed chaise. She would have liked to have retired to her forest—a run in the moonlight would be refreshing—but, no, Apollo still needed her to ensure no nymphs would glimpse him returning the mortal to her own world. It was really of little consequence; their dealings with the mortal were almost completed. Now that Apollo had won her heart, Artemis predicted that he would tire of Pamela quickly. Soon everything would return to normal, and their escapade in the Kingdom of Las Vegas would be nothing more than a semiamusing memory . . .

Artemis ignored the prickle of doubt that niggled at her mind as she remembered her brother's earnest proclamation of love. Apollo's soul mate was a mortal woman? It was simply not possible.

Hidden in the shadows, Bacchus smiled and waited.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SOMETHING was wrong. Apollo knew it in the same way he knew the many languages of man, or the voices of musical instruments—innately, on the most elemental level of his being. The warm shape in his arms stirred. Automatically, he tightened his arms around her. Pamela . . .

Apollo's eyes shot open. What had happened last night? They were naked on his bed.
Think!
he commanded his addled brain.
Remember!
And the events of the evening rushed through his memory. He stifled a groan. He had lost all control. How? Why had he not been able to—

He knew the answer before he finished the thought. The feast had been filled with the intoxicating power of a goddess. And he knew who that particular goddess had to be. Artemis!

“Apollo!”

As if his thoughts had conjured her, the goddess's impatient whisper sizzled through the room.

He turned his head and glared.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “You know dawn is close to breaking. Do you want the mortal to be trapped here?”

Shocked, Apollo sat up. That was what was amiss. As always, the God of Light had felt the coming of the blazing chariot that ushered dawn into the sky. Instinctively he had known that it was past time for Pamela to be returned to her world. Last night he had revealed too much. How would her mortal mind ever grasp what it had gleaned from their uninhibited lovemaking, as well as accept that she was trapped in Mount Olympus? He remembered the fear that had flickered through her eyes when he had revealed himself to her.

She wouldn't be able to understand it, not truly. Or if she did, he could only imagine how it would change her feelings for him. No, it was too soon. He must get her out of Olympus. By the time the portal reopened, he would have an explanation for the unusual night. He would spend more time with her and solidify her feelings for him, feelings she had only admitted under the influence of his sister's magic. He scowled at Artemis again.

“Go!” he whispered back at her. “Make sure the Great Hall is empty. I will follow with Pamela.”

“Hurry . . .” she said as her body dissipated.

“Phoebus?” Pamela's voice was groggy. She blinked sleepily and rubbed her eyes. “Where . . .”

He clenched his teeth and reluctantly passed his hand over her face, instantly fogging her mind and dulling her senses.

“You must dress. We have to leave,” he said, leading her gently by the hand into the adjoining room where he found their discarded clothes.

Numbly, she complied. He hated himself as he hastily tugged on his own pants while Pamela mechanically dressed herself. Her under-things, like his shirt, were totally ruined. The memory of the passion he had felt when he tore the clothes from their bodies shivered through him, causing his loins to stir. How was he going to live without her touch for five days? His will wavered. He did have a choice. He could bespell her and keep her with him until the portal opened again. He touched her face and, even with her mind shrouded by his magic, she swayed towards him. It would only be a week . . .

No! He shook himself. She would loathe him for doing such a thing. How could she not? He loathed himself even for the thought.

“Come, I will take you home, my sweet Pamela.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and they disappeared, re-forming almost instantly beside the portal in the Great Hall. Artemis was there, arms crossed, tapping her foot restlessly. She took in his bare-chested appearance and Pamela's zombielike expression and shook her head. The sooner they were finished with the modern world of the mortals, the better.

“Quickly, the sun is rising,” Artemis said.

“I know it!” Apollo snapped. “Or now that my senses are no longer numbed by a goddess's magic, I know it.”

Artemis had the good grace to look uncomfortable.

“I will take her through and then return.”

The goddess sighed but didn't argue with him. Apollo put his arm around Pamela and led her through the portal.

They stepped into Vegas, and Apollo opened the door to the little closet. In the deserted hallway he straightened Pamela's clothes. He touched her face gently. Apollo felt like a thief. He'd stolen her love, and now he was skulking back before the light of day could reveal his crime. He had no choice, but still he hated himself for allowing it to happen like this.

“I love you, my sweet Pamela. Remember that, and remember to trust me. I will return to you. I will make this right.” He bent to her and commanded silently,
With my kiss, awaken.

He kissed her deeply, and while she blinked and her dazed expression began to clear, he backed into the closet, closed the door and returned to Olympus.

Pamela rubbed her eyes. Ugh, she felt dizzy and a little sick. How much had she had to drink at dinner? She looked around her. Where the hell was she? The plain-looking little door and the empty hallway registered in her woozy brain. Where was Phoebus? She ran her hand through her hair, and the motion of raising her arm jiggled her breasts. Jiggled her breasts? Where was her bra? A thread of panic trailed down her spine. Think! What did she remember?

Phoebus had met her at the café. They'd gone to dinner at a wonderful, exclusive restaurant . . . but her memory of the meal itself was sketchy. Weird, dreamlike flashes of hot, slick skin and the salty taste of the remnants of passion assailed her. She had a brief image of ripping clothes, and then another of Phoebus leading her from a bedroom so she could get dressed—in only some of her clothes. Her panic swelled, and her headache spiked.
Breathe,
she ordered herself. She was fine; she'd just had too much to drink.

But where the hell was Phoebus!

Okay, her last really clear memory was her happiness at buying the fabulous ruby slipper purse—

“Bloody buggering hell! My purse!”

She looked at the little white door. What had happened at dinner? She couldn't wrap her mind around the memory, even though she knew it was there. For some reason it hovered just beyond her reach. Had she been drugged? By Phoebus? But why would he?

To keep her fear at bay she latched onto one small bit of normalcy. She'd left her brand new four thousand dollar ruby slipper purse in the restaurant. Phoebus or no Phoebus, she was going to go back and get it.

Pamela opened the door and stepped into . . . A closet? In the middle of the closet was a door-sized disk that shimmered and glowed. A memory stirred. She had gone into this disk/door with Phoebus. It was the entrance to the restaurant. Squaring her shoulders, she walked into the bizarre entryway.