“I know I’m not much right now,” his mate mumbled, hands twitching at his sides from repressing the urge to cover himself. “Sorry.” Poseidon took a long, thoughtful look at his agapetos. Griffin’s illness had wasted the spare flesh from his once-athletic body, leaving him gaunt and thin. Privately the god thought that Griffin looked like a painting by Caravaggio, all long bones and shadowed hollows. There was an austere beauty to his form that made Poseidon want to cover his mortal with slow, gentle touches and kisses. “Beloved, you will always be appealing to me,” he said, meaning every word. “Yeah, I can tell,” Griffin said. He reached out and palmed the ridge that was tenting Poseidon’s tunic. “You really want me, even like this.” “I do.” Poseidon was hesitant to remove his own clothing, not wanting to make Griffin feel bad at the comparison between their bodies. But Griffin was already tugging at his belt, pulling it loose before going to work on his tunic.
