Your heart has issues. No crushes. None.
Next to him, Apollo yawned and stretched, one arm coming down on the sofa back. Guy was probably too exhausted to realize what he was doing, and a nicer person would slide to the other side of the couch. But all Dylan did was sink further into the couch, yawning as the opening credits rolled. Their bodies weren’t quite touching, but it was just close enough to drive him crazy. Apollo smelled like tea tree and something else woodsy—he’d showered after putting away the groceries, emerging ready for the weekend in beat-up cargo shorts and a faded T-shirt.
Dylan was dying to snuggle into that scent, see if the shirt was as soft as it looked, feel more of Apollo’s warmth. But he wasn’t some kid with delusions. They might have been having a great time the past week watching TV together, and Apollo might have loosened up considerably, but that’s all this was—two dudes sharing a show. He yawned again. Fuck. He really was tired.
Too bad he’d seen this episode twice already. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open...
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 c
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.
“Wow. Is there enough for me?” Dylan grinned at the girls. He could totally forgo his morning protein shake for this feast.
“Yeah,” Apollo answered without really looking at him. His cheeks were stained pink, which might have been the heat of the cooking, but his shifty eyes said otherwise. Great. Things were going to be awkward after last night.
“Want me to make plates for the starving wildebeests?” Dylan tried to keep his voice light. See, no need to be uncomfortable, dorky man.
“That would be great.” Apollo gestured to a stack of plates on the island. “I usually cut the waffles for them and not too much syrup.”
“Baba! I want a river of sweet!” Chloe pouted even as she took her chair back to the table.
Dylan wanted a “river of sweet” too. Too bad the guy he wanted it with wanted nothing to do with him. He quickly made plates for the girls and delivered them to the table. He moved Sophia, chair and all, back to her spot, which made both girls laugh.
Grabbing a plate for himself, he stepped close to Apollo and dropped his voice. “You know this doesn’t have to be awkward—”
“It’s not.” Apollo’s cheeks were still pink, the liar.
“We just fell asleep. That’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s all,” Apollo mumbled. “Waffle?”
“Sure.” Dylan resisted the urge to roll his eyes because it was clear Apollo wasn’t moving on from their little nap. It wasn’t like they’d made out or even sleep-humped. Hell, Dylan hadn’t even been hard when he woke up...
Wait. Maybe the issue wasn’t that Apollo hated the sleep cuddle. Maybe he’d liked it. Dylan grinned. He loved that theory. “You know, it’s okay if you—”
Buzz. Buzz. Apollo’s phone jangled angrily on the counter. “H—darn it.
“Floros here.” Apollo’s face got tighter and tighter as he listened to whomever was on the other end of the phone. “Yeah. I can be there in forty-five. I’ll try to make it faster.”
“Baba, who was that?” Chloe said as soon as Apollo ended the call. Her little voice uncharacteristically quavered.
“Baba has to go into work. Sorry.” Apollo rubbed his head. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Could be tomorrow even—”
“I’m on it.” Dylan patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Thanks.” Apollo shot him a grateful look. “There’s—oh heck. All this food I bought, but I’m not sure what’s in the freezer for lunch and dinner. I was going to cook.”
“I can handle food. Trust me. We won’t starve.”
“Pizza!” Chloe seemed to have rebounded admirably from learning Apollo would be leaving. “That’s what Ya-Ya would do.”
“I’ll see if I’ve got cash to leave—”
“Go. Get dressed.” Dylan shoved at Apollo’s aircraft-carrier chest. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay, okay.” Apollo kissed each of the girls, then hesitated briefly in front of Dylan before escaping upstairs. Yeah, things weren’t the least bit awkward between them.
A few minutes later, Apollo was back, in uniform, handing out final goodbyes and reminders as Dylan waved him toward the car.
After he was gone, Dylan started cleanup from breakfast. He knew from last weekend that Apollo froze the leftover waffles for the girls’ breakfasts during the week, so he put them away. The fridge was full of produce and big packages of meat. Heck. All that fresh food, and Apollo was scheduled to work the next few days too.
“Hey, girls.” Dylan grabbed the binder and turned to the section labeled Weekly Meal Plan. “How would you like to surprise Baba?”
“What are we going to do?” Sophia brought her plate to the dishwasher.
“We’re going to cook,” he said with a lot more certainty than he felt.
“Can you do that?” Chloe eyed him suspiciously. “You gotta use big people knives, you know.”
“I can handle a knife.”
Several hours and three knuckle Band-Aids later, he wasn’t so sure. He had his tablet propped up on a flour canister, a video on browning meat playing, the girls staging a doll fashion show on the dining area floor, and a zillion storage bags and containers over the counter.
“Is something burning?” Sophia’s nose wrinkled.
“No—yes.” Dylan rescued a pan from the range, but the onions were already black. Apollo’s list of steps made all this sound so easy. “We might have to make some alterations to the meal plan.”
“Baba doesn’t like al-tra-nations.” Chloe danced her doll around the floor.
“Don’t I know it.”
* * *
Apollo’s back ached. He’d endured a helicopter ride out to a remote desert area where a training exercise was taking place, and he must have sat wrong or tweaked something getting out of the chopper. But when the admiral wanted to personally supervise an exercise, Apollo’s job was to make that happen, not whine about his back. And she’d been right to be concerned about how a young gung-ho LT was handling a no-win scenario for the first time. Felt like a million years ago that had been him, in command for the first time, adrenaline pumping, hell-bent on succeeding. He was glad he’d been able to have a word with the LT, even if he was paying the price now.
Gingerly, he got out of the car. It was often impossible to pinpoint what set his back off, but once again it was horked up. Thank goodness the girls were probably long since asleep—he didn’t want to deal with explaining why Baba couldn’t pick them up. What he wanted was a long soak in the hot tub while he debated whether this was bad enough to take meds. He had to be back at base early the next morning, which didn’t give him a lot of leeway if the meds made him groggy.
“Fu—heck.” Coming into the house, he tripped on a firetruck, making his back muscles protest as he fought to stay upright. Huh. The living room was a wreck—kid toys everywhere, cushions on the floor. In the past two weeks Apollo had gotten used to coming home to a clean house.
“Dylan?” he called out as he made a halfhearted effort to straighten the couch. Do not get angry, he lectured himself. God only knows what sort of day he had with the girls.
“In the kitchen.” Dylan’s voice sounded strained, and Apollo’s senses immediately went on high alert. “Maybe don’t come in here.”
That had Apollo crossing the room faster, back be damned. And holy hell, his kitchen had exploded. Literally. Every available surface had a dish on it, and the sink was overflowing with more dirty dishes. Something red had boiled all over the range, and the oven was covered with floury fingerprints. Dylan was mopping up a spill in front of the sink.
“What the hell?” So much for not being angry.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Dylan said wearily.
“Oh it is.” Apollo kept his voice dry as desert air he’d come from.
“You didn’t text that you were on the way.” Dylan finished with the mop and set it aside. “I’d planned to have everything all put back—”
“That might take an act of God.” Apollo was still torn between laughter and anger. “What happened?”
“I didn’t want all the fresh food you bought rotting—that was always happening to us growing up. My mom would buy stuff then get too busy with work for the week, and then next thing you know a hundred bucks of groceries was going in the trash. So I thought we’d follow your plan. Get the week’s cooking done.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” Dylan scrubbed at his hair which was held back with a red bandanna. “But damn. I’m not sure how you do it. We—”
“We? The girls were helping?”
“Swear to God, if you lecture me over that.” Dylan waved a potholder in Apollo’s face. “I thought them helping would be a good thing. Teach them some math and stuff.”
“Not lecturing.” Apollo couldn’t resist laughing any longer. “Just thinking that you’re a brave guy. I usually rely on my mom—or you, last week—to keep them occupied. No way could I do the big batch cooking and watch them, and I’ve been cooking since I was kid.”
“I can cook. Some.” Dylan glared at the stove.
Apollo went to the fridge, got two bottles of beer out. “Here. Stop looking like you’re going to eat the potholder.”
“Sorry. I’m just so mad at myself.” Dylan took one of the beers. “I wanted this great surprise for you. And now there’s been a lot of changes to your menu, and you’re going to be pissed.”
“I’ll live.” Apollo was surprised to realize that he really wasn’t upset. His mother would have ordered pizza and salad for the girls and called it good. Even Neal would have frozen what could be frozen to try to salvage things, but wouldn’t have attempted the big cooking day. Dylan had tried, and that made Apollo’s chest all warm. He glanced at that week’s menu sheet in his binder. Dylan’s loopy, friendly handwriting had replaced a few entries.
“Beef stew night got replaced with fish tacos?”
“Yeah. Those I know how to cook, promise. The stew meat kind of turned into flambé.”
“And what is B-F-D?”
“Thought you’d like that, King of Acronyms.” Dylan seemed to be recovering much of his composure, giving Apollo a wink. “Breakfast for dinner. I’m awesome at that. The girls were in favor. So I’ll cook those two nights to replace the food that got ruined.”
“You don’t have to that.” Apollo ran a sponge under the hot water and started cleaning off the range. “I’m not some... I don’t know...taskmaster. I’m not opposed to us ordering out or something.”
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