Page 6 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)
Sira
“I’ve never done this before.” The shameful admission bursts out of me, cutting through the space between us like a blade.
Britomartis stills, her lips so close to my own that I can feel the warmth of her breath. “Sira…”
Her hands tighten around my own, pulling me closer. I can feel the heat of her against the backs of my fingers.
“You must show me what to do,” I whisper hurriedly. “But I promise to be a quick learner.”
Whatever happens, she can’t pull away. She can’t leave. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been left alone inside this temple. If she leaves, I may never get this chance again.
Her brow dips, those full lips turning down. Cool air rushes between our bodies, her hands slipping from my own as she steps back. A whimper escapes my lips, and only the weakness of my own legs keeps me from chasing after her. I lean back against the door instead, my palms sweaty against the rough wood.
“This isn’t… I shouldn’t…” Her gaze moves from the floor to my small bed at the other end of the room, her chest rising and falling with a rapidity that matches my own.
For a moment I find myself transfixed, captivated by the shape of her, the way the shadow and light dances over her skin in the lamplight. The swell of her breasts, the tops visible beneath the dipping V of her tunic. The lean strength of her arms, the mixture of hard muscle and soft curves.
And then the reality of her words sinks in.
“Oh. Oh. I see.” Mortification sears my skin, burning along the sides of my neck, my ears. I turn aside, ducking my chin against my shoulder, blinking rapidly. I will not cry, of course. I never cry. “Forgive me. I had thought…”
The way she’d looked at me, the way she’d held my hands. She hadn’t pulled away when I kissed the backs of her fingers.
Perhaps I should have gone to Astarte’s temple after all, years ago when I first felt desire stir within me. Then at least I would know the steps to this dance and not be standing here, stammering and blinking back tears like a foolish child.
“No. No. Sira.” Britomartis is before me once again, fingertips bruising as she grips my shoulders. I don’t dare look at her. “It’s not that. I did want... I mean, I do.” A shuddering sigh ghosts across my heated cheek. “Astarte help me, you have no idea how much I want you.”
“You want me?” I echo, daring a look in her direction. “Truly? Then why…” My throat swells, and I swallow back the words. Why did you pull away? Why won’t you kiss me? Why do you look like you’re about to run from my room and my life?
“Because I shouldn’t.” Britomartis gives a pained smile. I duck my head in confusion and she releases my shoulder, only to gently grip my chin, angling me to face her fully. “Look at me, Sira.”
I obey, blinking rapidly against the renewed sting.
“I’m not worthy of you. You… you’re sweet and trusting and artless as Pasiphae herself. And me—I’m not. And you’re… How can you know that what you’re feeling isn’t just loneliness? How do you know you really want this…” she gestures to the space between us.
I draw back, spine stiffening. Britomartis’ hand drops away, fluttering in agitation at her side.
“Of course I know what I want.”
How could I not know, when just looking at this woman send fire raging through my veins, has me struggling to think, to breathe? I take her hand in mine, pulling her towards me for emphasis.
“Perhaps I am lonely, but do you blame the bird for its cage? Do you tell it not to sing simply because it can’t fly? Would you deny me Astarte’s own blessing just for that?”
“I would deny you nothing,” Britomartis rasps, expression tightening with a flash of pain. “But the blessings of the gods are a double-headed blade…”
I narrow my eyes at her. Does she think I don’t know that? I, of all people, who experienced the fullness of a mother’s love, only to have it wrenched away. I, who was indulged my entire life, only to become trapped and helpless.
“I am not afraid,” I tell her simply, then pause, because that isn’t entirely true. “The only think I’m afraid of is missing this chance with you.”
Britomartis’ expression softens, her shoulders dropping as she steps towards me. Her free hand curls around the back of my neck, her bracelets tangling in my hair.
“Oh, Sira,” she sighs, stroking her thumb along the column of my throat. I tilt my head back, shivering at the feel of her touch, at the rough calluses against my skin and the way her hands tremble. “Poor, sweet Sira.”
My eyelids flutter shut at the sound of my name on her lips. It’s a hopeful, hungry sound. Show me how to worship Astarte, I want to beg. Show me what to do with this fire the goddess has lit within me, before it consumes me whole.
“Will you kiss me?” I murmur, not daring to open my eyes, her hand gripped in my own, pressed between the warmth of our bodies. “Please?”
Britomartis gives a pained groan in response, her fingers flexing against my throat. And then her lips are crashing against mine, bruising and hungry. It’s surprising enough that my own lips part in a gasp before I remember I should be kissing her back.
When I do, it’s a stumbling and awkward thing, like the steps of a dance I once knew but have forgotten. It’s different than the wine-tinged kisses stolen at the dark edges of a festival, the kind that are quickly followed by careless laughter. This is kissing someone in the light of day, with a clear head and only the music of our own heartbeats.
For a brief moment, fear and self-consciousness steal the heat from my limbs, coiling like ice in my stomach.
And then Britomartis releases my hand, pulling me against her. My eyes fly wide at the feel of her body flush against my own, of her thighs against my thighs and her breasts brushing teasingly against my own through our tunics. I moan, a ragged sound against her lips, and then I’m kissing her hungrily back, slanting my lips against her own, revelling in the softness of them, careless of my inexperience.
Britomartis’ hand tightens on my throat, then on my jaw, tilting my head back, moving me where she wants me. Her tongue chases my own, delving deep and stealing my breath until I’m melting against her, trembling and burning as if Astarte’s own lightning is running through my veins.
“Please,” I rasp, when she pulls back. “Please.” Though I hardly know what I’m asking for.
Her forehead presses against my own, and I can feel the rise and fall of her chest, can taste her on my tongue. She’s everywhere, surrounding me, holding me up. When I dare to open my eyes, it’s only to be swallowed up in her own, in pupils blown so wide there’s hardly any color left at all.
“Bed?” The word is a whisper against my lips, hot and sweet. I nod eagerly in reply. “Are you sure?” I narrow my eyes. And then we’re moving, stumbling together, skirts tangling with legs as we collapse on my thin mattress, the wooden platform creaking ominously beneath our combined weight.
“Please,” I say again, when she settles on top of me, her hips between my thighs. The feel of her there, of the pressure of her body against my core, even with the thick fabric of our skirts between us—it has me arching against her, reaching for her, my knees widening to make room for her.
“Shh,” she murmurs. Her lips brush against my own, teasing, before peppering kisses against my cheek, the underside of my jaw. I think I can feel the shape of her smile against my throat, and I can’t help but smile back at the feel of it. “Let me take care of you, Sira.”
I nod, my hand skating frantically along her back, feeling the strength hidden beneath the fabric. I tug at her over-tunic, desperate to feel more of her. To see more of her.
She chuckles, sitting up to kneel between my thighs. “You want me to take this off?” Her fingers work, effortlessly undoing the ties that hold it in place, then slipping it off. It flutters to the floor, the golden threads catching in the dim light.
I sigh at the sight of her, her hair still elegantly woven, the loose strands falling wild over her shoulders. The thin linen under-tunic dipping low between her breasts, the short sleeves exposing golden skin and lean muscle. The fabric is so sheer I can see the dark hint of nipples beneath. My fingers twitch at my sides. I grasp the worn linen cover of my bed to still them.
“You’re beautiful.” My tongue darts out to wet my lips. Lips that still taste like her kisses. “So very beautiful.”
She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head, then settles over me again, chuckling against my throat. “That’s just desire speaking,” she argues. “You are the beautiful one, Sira.”
I frown, ready to disagree, but then she’s trailing kisses along my collarbone and every thought and argument scatters like fallen leaves on the wind.
“I want to see you,” she murmurs, the words hot against my skin. “Can I?” Her fingers follow the path her lips forged, teasing the collar of my tunic, pulling it gently back from my shoulders. I nod, making a whimpering sound of agreement, practically scrambling beneath her to untie the laces at my waist that hold my tunic in place. Only, the ties just seem to tighten, and I find myself pulling desperately against tightening knots.
“Be still, Sira,” Britomartis chides, pressing a nipping kiss to the top of one breast. She reaches between us, grabbing my hand, holding it firm against my stomach. I find myself going limp beneath the strength of that hold, my body melting like honey in the sun.
“Let me take care of you,” she says again, only this time her voice is lower, a throaty rasp against my sternum. My nipples ache, peaking against the rough linen of my tunic. There’s a throbbing low in my belly too, beneath where Britomartis’ hand presses against my own. I squirm beneath her, widening my thighs in an effort to ease it.
“Will you be a good girl and hold still if I let you go?” she asks, giving my hand a meaningful squeeze. The move has her fingers brushing against my stomach, right below my navel, and I whimper. “If you pull at those ties anymore, you’ll never get the knots undone.”
Her lips drag along the top of my breast, right at the collar of my tunic, and then she’s pressing a bruising kiss there, dragging the tender flesh between her lips, teasing it with teeth and tongue. I gasp and arch towards her.
“I’ll be good,” I moan, hardly knowing what I’m saying. All I know is I want her mouth lower. That I want to feel that mouth on my nipples, to feel her drawing me in until I can no longer breathe. “I’ll be so good, Britomartis. I promise.”
She chuckles, the sound vibrating against my heated skin as she releases my hand. “Now…” she sits up, so that she’s kneeling between my spread thighs once more. “Let’s get this untied…”
Her hands make quick work of the knots, and I shiver at the cool air on my skin and the brush of fabric as my tunic falls open. “Please,” I whimper, blinking up at her.
Behind her, the winter sun filters through the high lattice window, casting her in golden relief. I widen my knees, just a little, but take care not to move my hands from where she’s placed them — one against my now bare stomach, the other raised above my head.
“Since you asked so nicely…”
A teasing smile curves her lips, but it quickly morphs into something less amused and more hungry as her gaze takes in my exposed form. “Goddess, but I could devour you,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
You can , I want to tell her. You can have all of me . But then she’s slanting her lips against mine, stealing every word and thought from me as she kisses me with teeth and tongue and lips that are soft against my own.
I arch against her, basking in the feel of her body pressed against my own, at the way our bodies line up, the curve of her breasts against my own, the linen of her tunic rough against my exposed nipples. At the way her muscled thighs make my own legs spread wider to accommodate her, and the feel of her mons pressing teasingly against my core.
By the time she releases my mouth, I’m gasping, panting, trembling beneath her. She grips the hand above my head in her own, her fingers tangling with mine as her lips move down the column of my throat, skating over my collar bone, to the curve of my breast.
“Sira,” she murmurs, and I feel my name against my skin like a brand, right above my heart. “Sweet, sweet Sira.”
Her lips find my nipple, brushing against it teasingly as she lifts to her elbows to cup my other breast in her free hand. Fire rushes through me at that gentle touch, at the feel of her mouth teasing me, and a whimper escapes my lips. That whimper grows to a full-throated cry when she draws me in, sucking deep at one breast, her other hand rolling my nipple between thumb and forefinger in steady, relentless pulls.
“Oh!” My eyes fly wide, my head tilting back as I arch towards her. “Oh!”
I widen my fingers across my stomach, not daring to move my hand from where she placed it, but unable to hold still. Beneath my skirt, my core throbs, desperate for pressure, for friction, for more. If I were alone—if it were just me and my unformed dreams in the darkness of my bedding—I would slip my hand lower, beneath the layers of my skirt. I would find that aching bud nestled between my swollen lips and tease it until pleasure was rolling off me in waves.
If it were just me, I would never have the patience to tease myself as Britomartis is teasing me. To be honest, I’m not sure if I have the patience for it now.
Britomartis releases my nipple with an audible pop. “Does it feel good?” she asks, the question a breath against my skin. “Is this what you wanted?”
I nod vehemently, a wordless, garbled answer tumbling out from panting lips.
She chuckles, brushing one cheek then the other against my breasts, drawing another inarticulate murmur from me. “Good,” she says, “Because I could play with these gorgeous breasts all day.”
As if to emphasize her words, she cups my breasts between both hands, bringing them together, her mouth opening wide as she attempts to take both nipples at once. My breasts are almost full enough, and soft enough, for her to manage it. Perhaps if I were on top, leaning over her…
“Britomartis,” I gasp, because I can’t tell where her hands and mouth begin and end, but whatever she’s doing, it’s setting my blood on fire, sending lightning racing from my nipples straight to the aching bud between my spread thighs. “Goddess, please. Britomartis!”
I’m rocking against her, my core pushing against the empty space she’s created between our bodies. I’m no better than one of the stray dogs roaming the streets in Knossos, than a cat in heat in the grain stores, mindless to everything but my own pleasure. Perhaps later I’ll be ashamed. Right now, I can’t find it in myself to care.
“Hmm,” she says, between teasing tastes and suckling kisses. “That’s right. Say my name, sweet Sira. I want to hear it. Just like that. I’m going to play with you until it’s the only word you know.”
I give a dismayed sob at her words, the sound pitiful even to me. If she teases me any more, I think I might die.
“Britomartis,” I whine. “Britomartis, please. I need… I need…”
I pause, my brow pinching as I consider what it is I’m actually asking for. Of all the things I’ve heard that lovers do when they’re alone or worshiping at Astarte’s temple. Most of them—at least, the ones I’ve heard women do with male lovers—never sounded very appealing to me.
I should have spoken to one of the acolytes at Astarte’s temple, before I lost my chance.
“Shh.” Britomartis releases my breasts, rising up to stare down at me, her kohl lined eyes filled with compassion. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
I nod, and for some reason my lower lip trembles at her words. At the look she’s giving me, so full of patience and gentle care and hunger. Is this what it is like to be truly wanted? To have someone look at you and see you?
“I trust you,” I whisper, blinking away the sting prickling behind my eyes. It’s a warm, sweet sort of pain though, so I don’t mind it. Or, perhaps it isn’t tears that I’m feeling, but the piercing of Astarte’s arrow through my very soul, tearing me apart and remaking me just for Britomartis. “Only… please. I need to come.” My cheeks heat at the admission, but I’m too far gone to really care. “I’ll do anything. Just please, let me come.”
Britomartis’ expression softens into something that is almost tender, her brow contracting, her lips parting in surprise, as if whatever it is she’s seeing—or feeling—is cutting through her with the same, sweet pain that is rushing through me.
“Goddess,” she murmurs, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts, then sitting back on her heels. “This is...” She drags one hand over her face, staring down at my body with reverence. As if I am the goddess of which she speaks, and not just an ordinary mortal, born to hope and suffer and want and die. “How can I deny you anything, when you beg so prettily?”
And then she’s sliding between my legs, lifting the heavy layers of my winter skirt up past my thighs, until they billow out around me, leaving me entirely exposed to her. I gasp at the sudden rush of cold air, at the thought that she is seeing all of me, spread out, just for her.
“Oh, Sira,” she murmurs, sliding her palms from my knees to the insides of my thighs. “Look at you.” Her thumbs stroke my aching outer lips, gently spreading me open, making me quiver beneath her touch. “So wet. So swollen, and so soft.” Callused fingers lightly roll the swollen bud, that sacred spot, and I cry out, a desperate, mewling sound. “Is all this for me?” she rasps.
“Hmmm,” I whimper, unable to form a more coherent reply. Yes, yes. It’s all for you. All of me. Touch me. Take me. Love me.
“So beautiful.” She bends, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee. “So sweet.” Another kiss, this one higher, to where the skin is soft and sensitive, just before the juncture of my thigh. “I would make you mine, if I could.”
This last part is said so low, so quietly, I half think I’ve imagined it — especially when her tongue darts out, warm and wet, teasing my exposed sex.
“Britomartis!” I gasp, my hands flying to my sides, fingers like claws as I grasp at the bedding, at my skirt piled up around me, at anything. “Oh. Oh. Britomartis!”
“Touch your breasts,” she urges, her voice low and hot and rumbling against me. “I want those beautiful nipples to be swollen and pink. They are too beautiful to be neglected.”
I obey, my hands trembling and palms damp as I cup my breasts, bringing them together as she did earlier, tugging at my already sensitive nipples. I frown with irritation. It doesn’t feel as good as her touch, as her mouth. But then she’s spreading me wide, and lapping up the length of my slit, latching onto that swollen bud—and every thought and feeling flies from my mind, leaving me with nothing but painful, hungry bliss.
Her mouth is relentless, sucking and licking, her tongue flicking and working me until I’m writhing beneath her, until she’s forced to grip my quaking thighs in strong hands and pin me down. All the while, I pull and pinch my nipples, arching like a cat beneath my own ministrations, my head rolling back until I’m sure my hair must be tangled around me like seaweed.
“Britomartis,” I rasp, unable to think of anything but her name, of anything but her. “Britomartis. Britomartis.” It is a chant, a new homily. Only, unlike the songs sung to appease Potina, I think I could sing her name forever, and never tire.
She moans against me, the sound vibrating through me as she releases my thigh to tease my entrance with her fingertips. She doesn’t press in though, just lightly brushes against my opening, waiting. Teasing. Tormenting me. I sniffle, my core contracting and fluttering around nothing.
“Please,” I whine. “Britomartis. I need… I want you in me. Please.”
“I… I don’t want to hurt you,” she protests, and I shudder at the feel of my swollen clit popping free of her mouth, at the sudden rush of cool air.
“You won’t,” I assure her. “I promise. I trust you. Please. Fill me up.” This last part comes as a desperate cry, a mewling sound that is pitiful even to my ears.
I might be an inexperienced lover, but I’ve felt the relief my own fingers can bring. I need it, need that relief like I need air. Like I need Britomartis. I want to be full of her, consumed by her. I want…
I let out a strangled, gasping ungh as two strong fingers press inside me with a steady determination that has the breath punching out of me. Her fingers are thicker than my own, reaching deeper than I’ve ever been able to do myself.
“Oh, gods,” I breathe. “ Ahh . Hngh .”
“Is it too much?” she asks, her fingers stilling inside of me.
“No. No. More,” I rasp, widening my knees for emphasis, baring myself to her, as if it would be possible to offer myself up to her any more. “Please don’t stop. Please. Britomartis. Please.”
She obeys, thrusting her fingers to the hilt. My head lolls back, my vision whiting out with a mixture of pleasure and the faintest hint of stretching pain. She pulls back, then thrusts in again, and again, and again, fingers curving inside me, hitting against that spot in me with an intensity that I’ve never been able to master, until I’m crying out beneath her.
When she adds a third finger, there’s a sharp sting, a bite of pain that goes beyond pleasurable. I whimper, biting my lower lip so hard that I taste copper. For a moment, I think about telling her to stop, that it’s too much, but then the pain fades, and a new rush of slick coats her fingers, rushing from between my thighs.
“So wet.” Britomartis gives a pained moan, keeping her fingers buried deep in me as she covers me with her body, taking my aching nipples back into her mouth as she works me with her hand. “Look at you, holding these gorgeous tits for me, just like I told you.” Teeth tease one nipple, not quite biting, but sharp enough that I shudder when she licks away the sting with her tongue. “Did it feel good, playing with yourself? Did you like it?”
She sucks in my other nipple, a hard, deep suck. The fingers within me seem to widen, filling me, stretching me. It hurts, but not like before. This time, I want more of it, want more of the burn, the pleasure-filled pain.
“You’re so obedient.” Her words are hot against my skin. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”
I nod, whimper, then let out a shuddering breath that sounds more like a sob. Her words have heat rushing through me, coiling deep within my belly, like a tidal wave building, ready to crash against the shore. When it comes, it’s going to shatter me, break me into a million pieces. When it comes, I’ll never be the same again.
Britomartis pulls out, then pushes in again, moving in short, rapid thrusts, and this time I wonder if she’s added a fourth finger, if what I’m feeling at my opening are her knuckles. I’ve never been this stretched open before, this raw and exposed. This full.
Her fingers curve inside me, and I scream.