His hand ghosts across my hip to my stomach, fingers whispering promises to my skin. His breath puffs across the nape of my neck, tickling my skin. This is how it starts most days. I'm at the edge of sleep where doubts are real, and reality is just a dream.

But today is different. He's tucked into my arm, his head close to my shoulder and his hand curled loosely on my chest. The room is grey, just between night's darkness and morning's burst of sunlight. I gaze at him, his hair glistening in the faint light. His haughty lips curved into the slight smile of sleep; his blond eyelashes resting upon the pale tint of his cheeks. He shifts slightly and I appreciate the smooth, toned chest and his hard stomach. I smile as I remember his soft groans and grunts whispering across my skin as I thrust into him. Harder, deeper, searching for the one thing buried deep inside him. And yet, his hiss of pleasure as we come together turns into a whisper of desire across my ear.

I want to touch him, stroke him, caress him, but I daren't wake this blond Apollo lying in my arms. To do so would only destroy this momentary reality. He turns his head and his breath whispers across my neck, stirring my desire for him. I can't hold back anymore. I gently brush a lock of impossibly blond hair from his face, my fingers ghosting across his cheek until the one untidy lock is tucked behind his ear. I see his eyes fluttering, and I know he's waking.

I can't help but wonder why he's with me. I'm not as handsome as the men who flirt with him at his shop. The ones who would bow to his every whim, just to have him in their bed. I'm not like the women who would make him their lover and would ignore his flaws just to say that he was theirs. I'm only famous because of a cruel stroke of fate. Something that I never wanted, forced upon me by the gods in their mindless flights of fancy.

But, he's here in my bed, asleep. And yet, I can't help but wonder when it will end, this dream that I've been living. When will he toss me aside like an empty wrapper devoid of its sweet? Will it be today, tomorrow, or a month from now, that my life will fall apart? And yet, I wait, wanting to be with him, to love him, to make him cry from the pleasure that I can give. But he only whispers.

I look at his face. His eyes blink, throwing off the blanket of sleep. I gaze into his dark grey eyes, waiting, only waiting. He frowns at what he sees. It's as if he can almost read my mind. And, I wait, wondering, if today is the day.

He shifts closer, his hands whispering across my chest, my face, to the nape of my neck, pulling me down into a needy, hungry kiss. His tongue touches mine in a familiar dance. I touch him, and my hand traces the contours of his chest, his ribs, his abdomen. I reach to pull him closer, but he stops me. He pulls my hand to his chest, placing it over his heart. I can feel its steady beat, thudding strongly beneath my hand. He breaks the kiss, pulling away to gaze into my fearful eyes. And he whispers, "It beats for you."