Page 45 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Sira
Lykos brings me a platter of food as we wait for the bath to fill, feeding me from his own hand, as if I really am his little bird, as he calls me.
I don’t think he knows what it does to me, to feel his callused fingers against my lips, to see him kneeling before me, watching me eat with a reverence I don’t merit.
“The bath is nearly full,” Britomartis informs us, leaning over the edge of the massive basin, trailing her fingers in the water to test the warmth. “Though we should clean your wounds before you get in.”
I bite the dried apricot Lykos offers me, pressing a kiss to the tip of his fingers. He shivers beneath that simple touch, his eyelids fluttering shut. Heat blooms low in my stomach, twisting with a hunger that cannot be sated by mere fruit and cheese.
“Sira,” Britomartis chides gently. “Your wounds…”
Oh.
I blink at her, then glance down, half-surprised at the sight of my bloodied tunic, the fine fabric torn and stained with blood. My skirt is just as bad, ragged and crusted with the evidence of battle. The memory of it rushes back at me, cold and sharp as the blade that had pierced my chest.
I press one hand to the spot, just beside my left breast, half expecting to feel an open wound there.
But there is nothing.
Well, not quite nothing. I rise to my feet, legs steadier now that I’ve eaten, and untie my skirt, then peel away my stained tunic.
There is a scar, long and thick as my thumb, raised and faded, as if I had suffered the injury years ago, rather than just yesterday. I stare at it, at the dried blood still staining my healed skin, and feel as if the world is shifting beneath my feet.
“It’s healed,” I say dumbly. “It’s completely healed.”
I look over the rest of my body, at my bare arms and legs which had been peppered with cuts and injuries. So many injuries that blood had slicked the stone tiles. No, not just blood from my injuries. I press one hand to my stomach, and frown down at my thighs. My sacred blood still marks the pale flesh, though I can tell the flow of it has stopped, or slowed. More than it normally would after only a day.
“You healed fast last time,” Lykos offers, though it sounds more like a question than a statement, and I can tell he’s just as confused as I am.
“Jadi,” Britomartis murmurs, a hint of awe filling her voice. “The son of Appaliuna,” she explains, at my and Lykos’ questioning looks. “It must have been him—he tried to heal you when you first fell at Knossos…” Her voice trails off, words going thick, features tightening as she tries to keep her expression neutral.
My chest aches at the sight of her. At the way both her and Lykos look at me, as if I am some apparition that could disappear any moment.
I reach for the damp cloth she offers me and give her a reassuring smile. “Well, whatever the cause, I am grateful for it.” I say lightly.
I don’t want to talk about what happened either, not now. I know we must, eventually. I know I will need to step out of this temporary sanctuary and face the bloodstained hall of Knossos. Face my allies. Face my people.
But not yet.
“Here,” I say, dipping the cloth in a bowl of warm water, and handing it to Britomartis. “Would you help me?”
Britomartis pauses, staring at the damp cloth in indecision before reaching out to take it, her lips set in a determined line. “Turn,” she says roughly, not meeting my eyes. “I will do the places you cannot reach.”
I frown slightly at that. Does she not want to touch me? I glance down at my naked body, still streaked with blood and sweat, the skin pebbling from the cold air.
“I’ll help you,” Lykos offers, a mischievous grin quirking the corners of his lips.
He takes up a second cloth, his eyes never leaving my own as he wipes my fingers, my wrist, up to the inside of my elbow. His grin falters when he reaches my collarbone, at the sight of the dried blood still coating my stomach, my breasts. His eyes take on a haunted look as he examines the raised scar on my chest.
“I am fine,” I remind him gently, though I’m not quite sure it’s true. That ache still pulls behind my ribs, like the most delicious of bonds, pulling me towards him. Towards Britomartis.
Only, I’m not close enough to them. Not nearly close enough.
My cheeks heat, my gaze dropping to my lap. I’m dirty and bloody, my body still trembling with exhaustion, my fingertips still tinged blue with death and cold. And yet, I’m burning. Aching with need. I’m like the fresh green buds in spring, shouting through dead earth with bright color, vibrant and fragile, fearlessly celebrating their existence to all who would look to see.
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive , my body sings.
“Will you touch me?” I ask, my fingers curling on my naked thighs. “Once I’m clean, will you make love to me?”
I turn, throwing a questioning glance over my shoulder at Britomartis. She’s staring back at me, eyes wide, lips parted, the dirty cloth clutched in her hands.
“You’re injured,” she argues. “You shouldn’t… we shouldn’t.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, with more irritation than I intend. “Please, Britomartis. Don’t make me beg.”
She shakes her head, her eyes fixed on the cloth in her hands, on my back, on anything but my face.
“It’s not just that, Sira,” she murmurs, the cloth trembling as she swipes down my back. “Let us not speak of it yet, if you please. When you have rested…”
My stomach sinks, throat tightening as her words sink in. Does she not want me, after all? Have I misjudged what she feels? That bond I felt, that pulled me from out of Potina’s dark realm, does she not feel it too?
“Oh.” I swallow, and turn back to look at Lykos. At the bath steaming behind him. At the familiar space that had formed part of my home for over a year. “I’m sorry.” I square my shoulders, force my chin to raise. “I had not meant to press my affections on you, Britomartis of Thera,” I say with tight formality.
Lykos’ brow dips at my words, and he looks between me and Britomartis with confusion, his cloth poised mid-air.
“What? What are you talking about? She loves you, Sira.” He leans around me, eyes flashing with irritation. “Brita, tell her. You love her. No—don’t make that face. Don’t put on that priestess mask around me. You can do that around others, but not me. I saw you cry, remember.” He lifts one finger, pointing it at Britomartis accusingly. “You were just as broken as me when we lost her. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”
“I… I…” Britomartis stammers, her voice thick.
“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Lykos continues, relentless. “So if that’s what you’re thinking, stop it.”
“If I hadn’t told her that story… if I hadn’t stolen Asterion’s ships…”
Lykos snorts, tossing the wet, dirty cloth to the floor with more force than necessary.
“Please. Listen to yourself, oh-wise-priestess. You teach others about the powers of the gods, and yet you don’t see their actions when they are right in front of you.”
He clasps his hands around my forearms, offering me a brief smile.
“Come, my love,” he murmurs, “you’re cold. Get into the bath. Please.”
I cast a worried glance back at Britomartis. At her skirts damp from the bath water and soiled with my blood. At her wide eyes staring back at me, searching, hopeful.
“There is nothing to forgive,” I tell her honestly, and I feel the truth of it in my very bones. “Please, Britomartis. You must believe me.”
I pause, my breath catching in my throat as I climb into the bath, at the feel of the hot water on icy skin, the almost painful sparking across my skin, pinching my feet and fingertips. I lift one hand, reaching out to her. Water drips from my fingertips, dropping to the tiles. “Please.”
She steps forward, her face contorting as she tries to hold back a sob.
Yes , she mouths, fingers tugging at the ties of her skirt, arms trembling as she lifts her tunic over her head.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of her, at her broad, muscled shoulders and strong arms. The elegant line of her throat, the tapered waist and delicate flare of her hips. Thighs that flex teasingly as she steps down into the deep bath. And those breasts—round and firm, peaked by dusky nipples.
I lick my lips, imagining the feel of them in my mouth, against the flat of my tongue.
“How can you look at me like that?” she chides, her eyes red-rimmed with unspilled tears.
I blink at her innocently. “Like what?”
She narrows her eyes at me, then sniffs, not deigning to respond as she sinks down on the low seat until hot water comes up to her neck.
“Like you want to eat her,” Lykos answers, a teasing grin flashing through the mist rising from the bath.
Instantly, my thoughts fly to that mysterious point between Britomartis’ thighs, and my gaze drops to where her sex is hidden beneath the rippling water. What would she taste like, I wonder? Would I even know how to please her with my tongue?
I’m sure I could learn.
My mouth waters at the thought of it.
“Sira…” Britomartis says warningly.
Water laps over the edge of the basin as Lykos climbs in, sliding to sit at my other side, close enough that I can feel the brush of his leg against my own beneath the water. Where our bodies don’t touch, the faintest current hints at his nearness, teasing my thigh, my hip, my arm.
“Come,” Lykos orders. Callused hands grasp my shoulders, turning me gently in the water until my back is to his front. “Let me see to your hair. Lay back. That’s it. No, tip your head back. Yes, there.”
I go languid, staring up at him through the steam as he cradles my head in his hands, my body half floating in the water. He looks beautiful like this, odd as the angle is, with his sharp jawline and that strong nose, and those expressive eyes fixed wholly on me, on the task of untangling my unruly hair.
I’m suddenly aware of every pleasant sensation, the pressure of his fingertips on my scalp, the slight pull of my hair, the feel of cool air against my nipples as they peek out of the water.
A moan escapes my lips unbidden, echoing off the stucco walls.
“Use this,” Britomartis urges, reaching over me to place a small jar of hair oil on the ledge beside him.
The move has her body brushing over my own, the tease of soft skin brushing between my thighs, and even softer skin against my own breasts. Her breasts, I realize with a dizzying rush, my gaze dropping in time to see her pulling back, the water hiding her from me once again.
“Hold still,” Lykos chides, then, no doubt realizing the impossibility of using the oil while my hair is submerged, orders me to sit up instead. I toss him a teasing smile over my shoulder.
“Hold still,” he repeats, turning me to face Britomartis once again before unstopping the small jar. “How much of this stuff should I use?”
His knee brushes the outside of my thigh as he slides towards me, his fingertips teasing the nape of my neck when he lifts my water-heavy tresses.
Heat rushes through me at that simple touch, spiralling through me like the steam overhead.
Britomartis rolls her eyes, then slides across the bench until her feet brush against my own. “Here,” she holds out her hand with an exasperated sigh. “Let me show you, before you turn this whole bath into an oil pit.”
“I can do it,” Lykos argues, “Just tell me how much.”
“You need to get her hair out of the water first, barbarian.” Britomartis throws the insult like a smile, a caress. The way one would tease a sibling or a friend. “Here, move over.”
Water pours over the ledge of the overfilled basin as Britomartis rises from her seat to stand beside me instead. I stare up in unashamed fascination at the sight of water trailing down her bare skin, at those dusky nipples now at eye level. Perhaps even mouth level, if I were to lean forward just a little…
She catches my gaze on her with a frown, but there is no missing the way her pupils dilate, eyes darkening with a hunger that mirrors my own.
“Look forward, sweet Sira,” she orders, voice thick. “Let us take care of you.”
A desperate sound of protest catches in my throat, warmth pooling low in my belly at her order. If she means to quell my desire for her, she is failing abysmally.
Still, I find myself closing my eyes and drifting as the pair of them lift my hair and expertly work out the tangles, losing myself in the feel of their hands on my scalp and soft skin brushing against my own in the water, and the gentle lapping of the water itself as they move around me.
When they are done, Britomartis coils my locks high on my head, pinning them in place with her own hair pin. There is something so intimate about that gesture, at the way she holds my eyes with her own as she does it. It’s more intimate than anything else we have done—more even than wearing her clothes. A hair pin—that is personal.
Even the closest of friends, even sisters would not share such a thing.
I blink up at her, my lips parted, my heart beating a steady staccato in my ears. “Thank you,” I breathe, though it isn’t really what I want to say. I want you. I love you. Those are the words that sit heavy and unspoken on my tongue.
I swallow, throat thick.
“We should make sure she is clean everywhere,” Lykos announces decisively, hands gripping my shoulders possessively.
I feel strangely exposed with my hair up, as if I truly am naked now before them both.
“You know. Be thorough and all that.” His breath ghosts the side of my neck, my ear, as he leans forward. “Even her most hidden places.”
Britomartis snorts, shooting me an exasperated look. I blink at her with mock innocence, and try very poorly to hold back a smile.
Below the water, my stomach trembles at the thought of what Lykos means, at the thought of both of them touching me again. Only this time, it wouldn’t be under cover of darkness, with caresses stolen between blankets, with the scent of sea and wood around us.
This time, I would be able to see them.
“Or I could see to you?” The question comes out breathy, high pitched with nerves.
I squirm in Lykos’ hold to look between him and Britomartis, not quite sure who I’m asking. Both, probably. I want to touch them both, taste them both, make love to them both.
I think again of those twin ropes, fine as gold but thick as any hemp cord the seafarers use. Of that blissful pull that brought me back to them, and the painful longing that accompanied it. I feel it still, stronger than ever, pulling, pulling, pulling. Demanding that I bring our bodies closer. Until, perhaps, even our very souls are joined.
“Please?” I’m not sure what I’m asking for, but Britomartis must know. She always knows.
“You want to make us feel good?” Britomartis asks teasingly, but her gaze is full of warm indulgence. “Like we did for you the other night?”
I nod, the heavy coil of hair pinned on top of my head wobbling with the movement.
Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I want. I want Lykos’ thick cock on my tongue and his fingers pressing against my scalp. I want to hear what sounds I can draw out of Britomartis, to see what she looks like when the mask falls away, when she is begging me for mercy.
Britomartis’ smile turns sharp as she meets Lykos’ eyes over my shoulder.
“Your barbarian nearly wept himself to sleep that night. Did you know that sweet Sira? After he left you sated, after so diligently pleasing you with his tongue, he couldn’t even find his own release.”
“It’s not that I couldn’t find it…” Lykos begins petulantly, then falls silent with a grumble when Britomartis arches one brow in his direction.
My cheeks burn at her words, and I squirm in Lykos’ arms, turning until I’m facing him in the water. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think…” I swallow, at a loss of what to say to both of them.
I should have thought, shouldn’t I? After they had left me sated and exhausted, I should have returned the favor.
I have been an abysmal lover, I suppose. To both of them. Taking my own pleasure with very little thought of theirs’. Or, more likely, so terrified of exposing my own inexperience that I didn’t even try.
“I’ll make it up to you now,” I say with a decisive nod, forcing myself to meet Lykos’ eyes, then turning to look at Britomartis. “To both of you.”
“You don’t have to…” Lykos begins.
I press one trembling finger to his lips, shivering at the contrast of soft lips against rough stubble.
“I want to.”
My throat is thick, pulse hammering with nerves. I stare down at the water, at the outline of his cock, barely visible beneath the surface. I brought him release with my hands and mouth once. He showed me how. Surely, I could do that again, at the very least.
Carefully, slowly, I reach between us, my hands sliding over his thighs beneath the water. I pause, taking a moment to revel in the feel of thick muscles and the rough texture of coarse leg hair. His breath hitches on an inhale, lips parting. I dip forward, half floating in the water as I slant my lips against his own, my grip tightening on his thighs, as if now that I am touching him, the thought of letting go is physically painful.
He tastes like mint and lavender tea and the dried fruit we’d shared. I groan against him, my tongue chasing more of the taste of him. His thighs tremble beneath my palms, and when I pull back, he is gasping for breath, his own mouth is open, his eyes closed and lashes wet.
“We waited so long for you,” Britomartis murmurs, close enough that I can feel her breath on the back of my neck.
Strong hands grip my waist, smooth skin sliding as Britomartis effortlessly lifts me onto Lykos’ lap. I whimper at the feel of his strong legs beneath my thighs, at the unmistakable shape of Britomartis’ full breasts pressing against my back. I’m panting now, my kisses growing desperate, full of hungry nips, careless of the rasp of Lykos’ stubble against my chin.
“You can’t ever leave us again,” Britomartis commands, but her voice is like pottery fractured against stone. “Never, Sira.”
Her hands slide against my stomach, her touch gentle but strong as callused palms and fingertips trace the shape of my hips, my naval, my ribs, the undersides of my breasts.
“Never,” I agree against Lykos’ kiss-swollen lips. “Never.”
She hums her approval against my ear, nipping at the lobe, the tender skin at my throat. I feel the hard peaks of her nipples teasing my back with each of her movements, an almost intentional dragging of them against my skin, her own breaths coming fast with each brush of them.
I suck Lykos’ tongue into my mouth, delighting in the groan vibrating against my lips as I remember what it felt like to take other parts of him in like this.
“Touch him,” Britomartis rasps. Her hands finally stop their teasing, sliding up to cup my breasts, lifting them until I can feel cool air on my aching nipples instead of warm water. “He is yours, sweet Sira. You can touch him all you like. He won’t protest.”
She plucks at my nipples, rolling and pulling at them until I’m throwing my head back against her shoulder, a hungry cry echoing off the ceiling, the tiled floors.
Lykos’ hands find my hips, a trembling but firm hold as he pulls me against him, close enough that I can feel the hard length of him against my exposed core. Its barely more than a teasing brush, but its enough to have heat racing through me, coiling low in my belly, an almost painful throb starting between my thighs.
I reach between us, thankful that the nervous fluttering of my hands is hidden by the water as I seek him out. He twitches in my hand, his eyes flying wide when I move from tracing the underside of his shaft with my fingertips to teasing the delicate skin beneath the exposed head.
“Sira…”
He says my name like a prayer, a plea for mercy, his thighs spreading beneath my inexpert touches. I grin at the sound of it, at the flutter of warmth that bursts behind my ribs at seeing him like this.
“That’s it,” Britomartis praises. “Don’t be shy. Feel all of him. You have to learn his body if you’re going to make him feel good. Don’t you want to make him feel good?”
I nod, my throat thick with some unnamable emotion. Yes. I want that so much . I crane my neck to meet her gaze, my lips parting on a cry when she tightens her fingers on my nipples as if in silent reprimand.
“Please…” I blink at her through the steam, at the perfect curve of her cheek and those dark eyes. “I want to make you feel good too.”
Her brow arches, the hint of a smile curving her lips. “You will.”
There is dark promise in those two words. I shiver beneath it, against the sharpness of her heated gaze and the steady pressure of her fingertips teasing my aching breasts.
“But first, him.”
Lykos is trembling now, his eyes wide as they rove over my body, following the trail of marks Britomartis has left on my throat, lingering on where her hands cup my breasts.
“What do you want to do to him?” Britomartis asks against my ear, though by the way Lykos widens his eyes, I suspect she must be looking directly at him. “Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll let you do it. Won’t you, Achean?”
Lykos nods, his throat bobbing. He licks his lips, turning to stare at me with pupils blown. “Anything,” he rasps in agreement.
My heart thunders at that, at the surge of power that rises like a rogue wave within me.
Anything .
My mind races as I think of all the things I’ve heard of. The things he told me, that first night we spent together. Of all the things I’ve imagined since.
I’m inexperienced too, he had said. 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…
Resolution forms, steadying my hands, turning the burning within me into something hungry and arrow-sharp. I stop my teasing touches and take the length of him firmly in one hand, watching his face as I tighten and loosen my grip, as I feel the glide of him against my palm.
“He likes that,” Britomartis praises. “Keep doing that.” She releases my breasts, letting them fall. I moan at the feel of the water, hot against abused flesh, and the sight of my nipples, almost purple from her touches. “You’re doing so well for him, Sira.”
Her hands slide between my thighs, spreading me wide, until I can feel the hot water of the bath teasing the innermost part of me. She spreads me open, parting my swollen lips to reveal that hidden bud at the apex of my thighs.
“Don’t stop,” she warns with a nip at my throat when my hands still beneath the water. “Unless you want me to.”
I shake my head, then nod, at a loss for what answer I should give her, but certain that I don’t want her to stop. “Yes. I won’t. Please.”
I don’t want to stop touching him either, not when holding him like this sends a thrill racing through me, not when he’s staring at me as if I am made of starlight instead of flesh and bone. I keep up my stroking, daring to try different speeds and angles as my confidence grows.
Meanwhile, Britomartis is teasing my open core, tracing circles around that swollen bud, dipping a pad of one finger into my throbbing opening, pulling at my puffy lips until I’m panting, until it’s hard to focus.
I do though, pushing through the lust fueled haze as I press kisses to Lykos’ throat, sucking at clean skin as if I’m searching for the taste of him, my hands working his cock, finding a rhythm that has him bucking beneath me, clawing at my thighs, panting wordless cries into the steam filled air.
“Sira,” Lykos gasps. “I’m… oh gods, please, please.”
“Not yet, barbarian,” Britomartis chides, voice sharp. “This is not a race, Achean. Not yet.”
“But I… I can’t… not when she’s… oh gods.”
I slow my pace, tightening my grip on his cock, as if I can keep his release from coming. I don’t know why, but I want him to be good for Britomartis too. She is so knowledgeable, after all.
Lykos whines, a desperate sound, and I whisper my reassurances against his throat. I’ll give you what you want , I want to promise him. But I’m hardly in any position to make such promises, not when my own pleasure is climbing higher and higher, a painfully sluggish pace beneath Britomartis’ relentless teasing.
You have to learn his body , she had said. Perhaps if I do that, then she’ll give me more. Give me that release I so desperately crave. Slide those fingers deep inside me, fill me up, press her palm against the aching source of my pleasure.
Resolution made, and keeping one firm grip on Lykos’ throbbing length, I let my other hand explore him. First, the throbbing head of his cock, then the dip at the head—sensitive, going by the way he grits his teeth and hisses. I pluck at it softly, drawing out mewling whimpers and wide-eyed unseeing stares and desperate sounding pants.
Then lower, to the part of him I haven’t explored yet.
His testicles are heavy, the skin fine as silk beneath a downy coating of pubic hair. I marvel at the feel of them, at the way those mysterious orbs shift beneath the skin, at the way each featherlight touch seems to have him quivering. When I reach the base of them, he throws his head back, until it’s resting on the stone ledge of the basin, his legs spreading wider beneath my own.
“That’s it, Sira,” Britomartis murmurs, her fingers finally, finally finding that aching bud. “See how responsive he is.”
My own vision threatens to white out at the unexpected burst of pleasure rushing through me, but I push it down, breathing through it, my thighs trembling as I hold myself hopefully open for her.
I give Lykos’ cock a lazy stroke, my fingers tracing the seam at the underside of his balls, almost absently, more focused on the feel of Britomartis’ fingers and the aching emptiness in my core than anything else.
Until my fingers brush that stretch of taunt skin, and then his hidden hole.
“Oh gods, Sira, Sira, Sira,” Lykos cries, his eyes squeezing shut as his cock bucks against my grip. “Oh please. Brita, let her, please, for the love of all the gods.” And then he’s shifting beneath me, Britomartis pulling me off his lap so he can lift his knees, before settling me back between his spread thighs.
Nothing more than a quick, wine-fueled barb , he had said.
The meaning of those words registers with a burst of recognition, a rush of exhilaration. He’s holding himself open for me, I realize, in the same way that I am opening myself for Britomartis. Hoping, desperately hoping to be filled.
I could fill him. I could do that for him. Perhaps… perhaps if I do, Britomartis will fill me too.
Gently, tentatively, I trace the rim of him. A question. Does he want this?
He groans in answer, biting his lip as he stares down between us, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. I press one finger against him, remembering how carefully Britomartis first pressed one finger into me that first time. Only he’s so tight…
“Is this okay?” The words are light as the steam rising around us.
Lykos nods, eyes wide with desperation. “Please,” he gasps, the word rising to a whine. “Please, Sira.”
I draw in a breath and push one finger carefully in.
He cries out, an unintelligible stream of words, knees widening for me, his cock hard as it thrusts into my other hand.
“Give it to him, Sira,” Britomartis murmurs into my ear.
At the same time, her own fingers find my opening, two slender fingers sliding into me in one fluid motion that has my own cries joining Lykos’.
“What did he call it, the heathen? A spur? A barb? He wants you to barb him, sweet Sira. Can you do that for him?”
I nod, a wordless answer of pleas echoing around us. I thrust into him, imagining how a lover would take him, what a cock would be like. Bigger. It would be bigger than one of my small fingers. But I don’t want to hurt him.
Carefully, I let my middle finger join my index finger, pressing both into him. This time, it’s as if he’s opening up for me. Like a flower unfurling beneath the sun. I sink in deep, going to the knuckles with one solid thrust. He’s panting, mouth open, teeth bared, eyes glazed.
A wine-fueled barb.
Jealousy spikes through me at the thought of those past lovers, and anger too. At the thought of them barbing him, as he calls it. Taking him, without a thought perhaps to his comfort. Without a thought to his heart .
“That’s it,” Britomartis encourages.
Three of her slender fingers push into me, curling inside of me until white hot bliss is stealing my vision, filling my ears with a roaring hum of pleasure.
“He wants it hard, just like you do.”
I curve my own fingers inside him, thrusting in time with Britomartis’ relentless thrusts, following the rhythm she’s setting. It’s all I can do, especially when she reaches between my thighs with her other hand, fingertips hard against that aching bud.
“Oh please. Brita. Brita, please.”
“Make him come,” she orders in response.
Yes. Yes. I can do that. I can. Oh gods.
I add a third finger, then loosen my grip on Lykos’ impossibly hard cock at the same time. I watch in awe as he pushes against me, his mouth opening in a silent scream as he bucks against my loose grip on his cock. Heat bursts against my wrist, hotter than the cooling water of the bath. He tightens around the fingers of my other hand, holding me in place inside of him as his eyes roll back, the muscles of his throat cording.
Beautiful. So beautiful.
“That’s it,” Britomartis purrs. “Look at him. You did that to him.”
The wave of my pleasure crests, and I cry out in reply to Britomartis’ praise, my body convulsing beneath her relentless touches, my fingers slipping free of Lykos’ trembling body. I’m flying, spiralling, those golden cords deliciously tight. I can see them now, in the bright space of my bliss, the way we are all linked together, our bodies and our souls both.
I fall back against Britomartis, shivering against her as the lamplight dancing against tile and water comes back into focus. Lykos grips the edge of the basin, face flushed and eyes glazed as he carefully moves through the cooling water to press against my front, ignoring Britomartis’ protests when his strong arms band around my waist, pulling me from her.
“Share, priestess,” he says, his voice muffled against my throat. “She is mine too.”
“She’s getting cold,” Britomartis argues, and I find—now that I’m drifting down from my bliss, like a feather dropping from the sky— that she’s right.
“But… what about you?” I ask, pulling Britomartis’ arms around me, delighting in the feel of both my lovers pressed against me. “I want to make you feel good too.”
“You will,” Britomartis huffs against my neck, the words full of amusement and dark promise. “I’m not done with you yet.”