Page 28 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Sira

I’m not sure why I do it. All I know is there has been this warmth slowly growing, like a smoldering ember behind my ribs. Seeing him kneel before me on the mattress, offering that sword out to me, telling me he would fight beside me—it was like someone had poured lamp-oil on those embers. Like I would burst into joyful, wild flames if I didn’t move.

The prickle of short-cropped stubble against my lips has me jolting with surprise at first. It’s almost enough to have me pulling back, but then I feel the soft brush of full lips, and the warmth of his breath gusting in a shocked exhale, and taste the tip of his tongue against my own.

I let out an embarrassing, desperate sounding little moan, and throw myself forward, releasing my hold on his hand so that I can tangle my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He opens for me, melting beneath my touch, his lips going pliant, his tongue tentatively teasing my own.

Kissing Lykos is nothing like kissing Britomartis. She had been all soft skin and hard demand, her kisses taking and taking and taking. Lykos trembles beneath me, his breaths shaky where they ghost against my lips, and he gives .

It makes me want to take. It makes me feel, at least a little bit, like I could be a minas after all. Like I really am the woman in my dream, with all of Knossos spread before me.

I want him spread before me too.

The thought has heat pooling low in my belly, an achy sort of want, and I pull back, gasping with surprise.

He meets my eyes with his own, his pupils blow, his lips swollen. My lips must look that way too, I realize, and I reach up to trace my fingers over them, to feel where his stubble has rasped against my skin.

“Sira,” he croaks, eyes wide and shimmering. “You… you kissed me.”

I swallow, a trembling sort of uncertainty racing up my spine. Did he not want me to kiss him? He’s flirted with me, I suppose, but now that I think about it, he’s never actually done anything that would indicate he’s interested in me that way. He’s pledged to me, sure. That doesn’t mean that I own him. It certainly doesn’t mean that he wants me.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I rasp, my eyes dropping to where our knees are pressed together. “I shouldn’t have presumed…”

The hem of my sleeping tunic has ridden up my thighs, and only some miracle of the gods has kept my sex from being exposed to him. I feel a renewed burst of shame at the realization, but it quickly morphs into something else, something much more confusing when I see the large, very obvious bulge tenting his kilt.

He… he does want me. Or at least, part of him does.

I look up, shooting him a questioning look. He stares back at me, his eyes wide and lips parted, his breaths coming in short, quick pants.

“You kissed me,” he says again, and this time, there’s a hint of reverence in his gaze. He reaches out one trembling hand, resting it on my knee, the touch so feather light it sends shivers racing over my skin. “I thought… everyone said… they said you preferred women.”

I blink at him in surprise. Of all the things I thought he was going to say, that certainly wasn’t it.

I do prefer women. Women are beautiful. I have always thought they were more beautiful than men. But there have been plenty of beautiful women I would never have wanted to kiss.

And there have been very few people who have made me feel what Lykos makes me feel.

“What is it those servants of Astarte say?” I ask, unable to keep a frown of distaste from curving my lips at the mention of that goddess. “No one knows where Astarte’s arrow will strike, but when she aims, she hits true?”

I’m probably misquoting it, but it’s of little matter.

Lykos pales slightly, his hand tightening over my knee, as if he’s seeking to steady himself. “Is that… is that what they say?”

I shrug. “I think so.”

I release my hold on his neck, sliding my hand until it’s resting on his shoulder. He’s solid and broad beneath my touch, his skin hot even through the thick linen tunic, and I can’t help but remember what he looked like peeling his armor off for me. When he pledged himself to me.

“I’ve only ever desired men,” he admits, his gaze dropping. “It’s no secret. My brother, he spoke of it… I thought you knew…”

Icy disappointment curls low in my belly, and I pull my hand away, releasing my hold on him as if the heat of his skin burns me. “I’m sorry…” I say again, but he interrupts me.

“No. No, please. You misunderstand me.” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I don’t know if it was Astarte’s arrow, like you said, or if it’s just that I’ve never met someone like you. But you… you make me feel…” he shakes his head, giving me a rueful, lopsided smile. “The hunger I feel for you; it’s like a madness. Sleeping beside you the other night, injured as you were, I’ve never ached for someone like that before. And then riding to Zominthos…” he barks out a laugh. “I nearly humiliated myself in the saddle, just from the feel of your body pressed against my own.”

I stare at him, bewilderment slowly morphing to something else, something hot and needy and aching.

“You want me?” I ask, unable to keep the hopeful tremble from my voice. “You want this?”

“Want you?” Lykos nearly growls out the words, then drops his hand to his kilt, palming the outline of his erection. “Keptui, I am driven nearly mad for you.”

My eyes widen, mouth going dry at the sight of it, thick and long and trapped between one thick thigh and the fabric. Are they… supposed to be like that? It’s probably rude to ask.

“I don’t know what to do,” I rush to tell him. “I never visited Astarte’s temple, never took any lovers—except for one, and that was only once…”

“Britomartis?” He asks, and there’s a strange expression darkening his features, a tightness to his lips.

I nod, trying to ignore the tangle of emotions that rushes forth every time I think of her. I don’t want to think of her right now. I don’t want to long for a woman I can never have—who I will probably never see again—when Lykos is before me.

“Yes. So you’ll have to be patient with me. You’ll have to show me what to do. What you like.” I give him a nervous smile. “If I do something wrong…”

One thick, callused finger presses against my lips, silencing me. “Sira.” He gives me a lopsided grin, one that looks as nervous as my own. “My little Keptui.”

He replaces his finger with his lips, a brushing, soft kiss, a teasing tongue, then pulls back, staring down at me with unmistakable hunger. “Nothing you could do to me would be wrong. Just being here with you, just kissing you, it has my blood singing.”

He worries his lower lip with his teeth, glancing nervously away, then adds, “And I’m inexperienced too. I… I’ve never had a woman lover before, and barely any men. Nothing more than a quick, wine-fueled barb, a rough hand beneath the kilt…”

He trails off, his cheeks heating, and I find my own imagination chasing his words. Imagining what it would be like to see him being handled by some man—some rough, uncouth Achean, most likely. I press my lips together, a strange mixture of possessiveness and desire curling low in my belly.

“We’ll learn together,” I say decisively. “I don’t know about barbs…” A wine-fueled barb, he had said. It must be an Achean thing, to liken love-making to a thorn… “but I want to make you feel good.”

My sex throbs at the thought, at the prospect of seeing Lykos trembling with need beneath my touch. Would he beg for more? Cry out my name? My gaze roves over his body, taking in the solid bulge of muscles beneath his tunic, the kilt stretching over thick thighs and the evidence of his want. I lick my lips.

“Would you undress for me, Lykos?”

Lykos nods wordlessly, meeting my gaze with pupils blown so wide, the warm amber irises are barely more than thin rings. “Everything?” he asks, scrambling to remove his tunic, then pausing with trembling hands at the clasp of his belt. “My kilt too?”

My heart thunders at the sight of him. The clean, honey colored skin. His rounded pectorals and tapered waist. His thick forearms and the faint veins across the backs of his hands. The healing wound at his chest. The wound that marks his pledge to me.

“Please,” I tell him, my voice thick. “But only if you want.”

“Oh, little Keptui,” he groans. His fingers fly as he unlatches his belt, then lifts his hips to unwrap his kilt. “You have no idea how much I want it.”

His movements are desperate and hurried, like a man dying of thirst grasping for a water-skin. I can’t help but smile to myself, but my smile quickly fades when he pulls his kilt away, his cock springing free. I stare at it, at the thick curving length, paler than the rest of his body, except at its swollen head. Pearly liquid beads at the tip, the slit and head only partially exposed through the foreskin.

“It’s beautiful.” I reach out, carefully brushing my fingertips against the exposed head, shivering with excitement at the feel of that glistening dampness.

Lykos gasps, his stomach muscles trembling with tension, strong thighs quivering as he kneels on the mattress before me. “Sira…”

I smile at the sound of my name on his lips. It sounds almost like a plea. Like a prayer. Like an offering to the gods.

I like it.

“Lay down.”

I wave to the pillows behind me, to where I’d been sleeping earlier. I want to explore him, to touch him and taste him.

Like Britomartis did with me.

The unwelcome thought should dampen my excitement, like a cloud passing over the sun. Instead, the memories of her mix with my imaginings of Lykos. Her tongue teasing my throbbing sex, her teeth tugging at my nipples, her slender fingers curved deep inside me.

Lykos falls back onto the mattress, his eyes glazed, chest rising and falling with quick breaths. His cock strains upwards, so hard it’s like the mast of a ship, his thighs spreading ever so slightly, exposing heavy balls amid soft looking curls and the hint of his well-muscled backside.

I take in the sight of him with quiet interest, studying him, memorizing him. Wondering what I should touch first.

He gives a pained sounding groan, then grips his own cock, his eyelids fluttering shut as if with relief. I frown, crawling over the mattress until I’m between his spread thighs, and pull his hand away.

“I want to touch you,” I tell him, sounding almost petulant. Like a spoiled child used to getting her own way. But I was a spoiled child, I suppose. Perhaps some habits are so ingrained, they are like the threads in cloth, intrinsic to our very being. “Show me what to do.”

I grip his cock, trying to copy his hold from earlier, though my fingers aren’t quite able to wrap around the shaft like his did. He rises to his elbows to watch me, the muscles of his stomach quivering delightfully with the movement.

“Like this?” I ask, attempting to glide my palm down the length of him, then up again. The skin is soft beneath my fingers, like imported silk. I wonder if it’s the only soft thing about him. “Does this feel okay?”

Lykos nods wordlessly, lips parted. “Anything you do to me is perfect, little bird. I told you. Nothing you do could be wrong.”

That is untrue. I have no idea what I’m doing. The chances of my doing everything wrong are extremely high. Unlike those who have frequented Astarte’s temple, I’ve never even watched a man and woman make love before. I still don’t know if the ‘barb’ he was talking about was a euphemism for something, or some technical term that no one has explained to me.

I frown at him, my hand gripping the base of his cock perhaps a little tighter than necessary. “Lykos,” I tell him warningly. “I’m not going to touch you if you don’t tell me what you like. You have to show me what to do.”

Lykos’ throat bobs, and he stares at me for a long moment with such a dazed expression, I almost wonder if he’s been drinking blue lily wine. But then he blinks, licks his lips, and nods vigorously. “Yes, my lady.”

He clears his throat, his cheeks darkening as his gaze drops to his lap. To where I’m still inexpertly gripping his cock. I loosen my hold.

“There’s… there’s a few things you could try, if you wish.” An audible swallow. “You can stroke me, like this.” He wraps his hand around my own, squeezing my fingers beneath his, then works it up and down over his straining erection.

It’s a slow, steady rhythm, and he twists my hand ever so slightly on the downstroke. I watch in silent fascination as the foreskin peels back, exposing the smooth, swollen head.

“You can touch me here too, if you wish.” His free hand palms his testes. “Though they are…” he shoots me a sheepish grin… “they only require a gentle touch.”

I bite back a grimace, feeling a little ashamed for handling him roughly before. He must guess at my embarrassment, because he shoots me a reassuring smile, guiding my hand to them.

“Here. Like this.” He presses my fingers gently against the heavy sack. I stroke them, tentatively at first, then roll one of the solid balls within between my thumb and forefinger. Lykos lets out a whimper.

“Did that hurt?” I ask, hurriedly releasing my hold on it.

“Yes… no…” Lykos grits out between panting breaths. “I’m not sure. It… no one’s ever done that before. I… I think I liked it? Though, perhaps not too often?”

I hum, cataloging this information.

“What else?” I ask, moving back to stroke his length, trying to echo the rhythm he showed me earlier. The slit on his cockhead is dripping now, and I swipe at the moisture with my thumb. It makes my hand slide more smoothly up and down his length.

“What… what else?” He echoes, blinking dazedly at me. His pulse flutters wildly at his throat, his stomach muscles tight. My own stomach clenches in response, a heavy ache settling deep within my core.

“You said there were a few things I could try,” I remind him, my own voice throaty. “What else is there?”

“Hnngh…” Lykos squeezes his eyes shut, his forehead creasing as if in concentration. “Oh, Zeus’ cock… Keptui…”

“What else can I do?” I repeat, stilling my hand on his shaft. He lets out a shuddering breath.

“You… you could take me in your mouth,” he says hurriedly, tucking his face against his shoulder, as if he can’t bear to look at me. “But perhaps that isn’t done here…”

My gaze drops to his cock, to where it’s straining against my fingers. My mouth waters, even as my heart thunders wildly at the thought of trying to wrap my lips around him. I have heard of such things, but years ago, when I was still living in my mother’s house, and then only in the whispered giggles of doulos comparing their exploits.

“I think I would like to try that,” I tell him. “What else?”

“What else? Gods, but you could ride me, if you wanted…” he bursts out, but his eyes widen in alarm as he says it, a look of uncertainty crossing his features. “I’ve… I’ve never done that before,” he adds hurriedly. “Never barbed a man, I mean. Nor a woman either, of course.”

He pauses, worrying his lower lip with his teeth, watching my face for a reaction.

So that is what he means by barbing, I realize, and try not to feel squeamish at the Achean term for coupling. Does that mean it hurts, like a barb would? If I climbed onto his lap and sunk down onto his cock, if I took him inside of me, would it be like being stuck by a barb, by a thorn? Britomartis’ fingers hadn’t hurt, but they weren’t as big as him.

“You don’t have to do that now,” he adds quickly. “In fact… I don’t know… what if I hurt you?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. So it does hurt then. Or at least, it might.

“Okay.” I stroke the length of him idly and gnaw at the inside of my cheek. “We won’t do that now.” I give him a tentative smile. “But I would like to try taking you in my mouth, if I can. If you would like it, that is?”

He makes a sound in his throat, then gives a tremulous nod. My smile widens, anticipation racing up my spine.

When Britomartis used her mouth on me, it had nearly sent me wild with need. With pleasure. I had understood then why people worshipped Astarte with such vehemence.

I want to make Lykos feel like that, to see him melt beneath me.

Without giving myself time to second-guess it, I bend over him, my backside pushing up as my head bobs down. The move has my thin sleep tunic slipping up past my waist, exposing my heated sex to the cool air, and I shiver.

“Like this?” I ask, gripping the base of his shaft and angling the dripping cockhead to my lips.

I lap at the tip, carefully at first, testing the taste of him, of the liquid beading there. It’s mild and salty, not unpleasant. I take another taste, this time drawing my lips over the head, sucking lightly until my mouth is full of the taste of him.

No, it’s not unpleasant at all. In fact, there’s something about it that has my own dampness increasing, a slick, throbbing ache building between my thighs. I chase the taste of him, working at the head, drawing it in, sucking it, my tongue teasing the weeping slit.

“Sira,” Lykos groans, his head falling back against the mattress. “You’re going to kill me.”

I release the head of his cock, my lips coming free with an audible pop and gently lap at the tip as I survey him.

One arm covers the top half of his face, the fist clenched, the veins on his forearm visible. His jaw is clenched too, and a deep flush spreads down his neck, between rounded pectorals, mingling with the freshly-healing wound of his pledge mark. He widens his legs, his knees falling wide, his thighs trembling.

He looks like I probably looked when Britomartis had her mouth on me. I smile, satisfied with myself and take him back in my mouth.

This time, I draw him deep, letting the length of him slide between my lips, until he’s hitting the back of my throat. Lykos cries out, a guttural cry that I feel in my core. I gag, swallowing on reflex, then pull back, gasping for breath.

“Sira,” Lykos begs. “Oh please. Sira.”

I do it again, my tongue pressing on the underside of his shaft, careful this time not to take him in too far. The third time, it’s easier, and when he hits the back of my throat, I swallow, then swallow again, my eyes watering at the feel of him deep in me, stealing my breath and my words.

“Gods above, Sira! Sira!” Strong fingers tangle in my hair, but he doesn’t hold me down, doesn’t pull me to him. I pull back, then draw him in again.

All the while, my own need is growing, fueled by the sounds he’s making and the feel of him in my mouth and the taste of him on my tongue. My breasts ache, nipples rasping against the fabric of my nightshirt as I move, the damp heat between my thighs throbbing. Unable to bear it anymore, I reach one hand between my legs, pressing my fingertips to my swollen sex, rolling that sensitive nub between my fingers.

Pleasure shoots through me, sharp as a lightning bolt, and I moan, the sound quickly silenced by Lykos rocking his hips upwards, his cockhead hitting the back of my throat. A hundred images rush through my mind then, thoughts and fantasies tangling with the feel of Lykos in my mouth.

I imagine taking him deep inside me, not in my mouth, but in my swollen core. Of sinking down on his length and rocking against him until I find my release. Of bending over him and feeling the rasp of his stubble against my nipples. Would he suck them and toy with them, like Britomartis had?

Suddenly she’s there too, slinking lithe and powerful into my fantasy, a teasing smile curving her lips, almost cruel, but not quite cruel enough. I imagine her behind me, pushing my hips down as Lykos drives up into me, or guiding my aching breasts to his lips, ordering him to suck. And he would, wouldn’t he? Because who could ever disobey her?

The world whites out around me, starlight and fire exploding behind my eyes, a cry gusting out of my lips. It goes on and on, like a set of waves in a storm battering the cliffs, merciless and unrelenting.

Lykos arches, shuddering, his lips parted in a silent scream. I watch him, my vision blurred with tears, starlight still dancing in my veins. Thick liquid fills my mouth, coats my tongue and I pull back, letting it spill down my chin.

Lykos calls my name, then whispers it, sweet as a prayer, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his pleasure. I watch in silent fascination, sitting back to swipe at my face with my tunic, my own tears and his release mingling in the fabric. I swallow, and smile at the taste of him in my throat, on my tongue.

“Beautiful,” I tell him, when I can finally speak. My voice is raspy, thick, and there is a deep, longing sort of ache behind my ribs. “You are absolutely beautiful.”