God of Ecstasy

by Lena Loneson

  He was carrying a plate of breakfast. The dish was piled high with pancakes and blueberries. Jaime inhaled the scent of bacon. Yum.

  He cooks, too? Can I keep him?

  The god had a puzzled frown on his face. “How did you get that?” he asked. He stared at Jaime holding the fork, then down at his plate, then back up at Jaime. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked up at Jaime again. Or, rather, at her hand brandishing the fork. Dionysus held a matching fork in his own hand. “Do you have magic too?”

  She blushed. “Oh. Right. I didn’t teleport it here. I, uh, needed a fork in the middle of the night so I went and got one. You know.”

  “Right.” He nodded, as if it were a common thing.

  Cooks, gives head, and dismisses my seeming eccentricities?

  He moved closer to her and set the plate on the bedside table. He stumbled momentarily, frowned, and picked up the tablet at his feet. He turned it upside down, face puzzled, then looked at Jaime. His eyes sparkled and she lost track of what he was doing. She was drawn to the contours of his face, wanting to memorize them, to paint them, to touch them. She reached out and took the tablet with one hand, setting it next to the cooling breakfast. Her other hand traced down the bridge of his nose, across one of his cheekbones, tickling her fingers in his stubble, down to his mouth. It was warm and moist. He pressed a small kiss to her fingers.

  Jaime pulled him down on the bed. She wanted to count the colors in his irises, the dark browns and the lighter ambers, touches of green. She could lose herself in his regard. “Good morning,” she murmured, running a hand down his arm, trailing her nails roughly down the vines in his tattoo.

  “Morning,” he returned, and then she pulled his mouth to hers, pressing her tongue between his lips. He opened up to her and she could feel her body throbbing with heat, her face flushed, the folds between her legs leaking juices.

  He moved on top of her and she encircled him with her legs, pulling him close until she could feel his erection pressed right against her sweet spot. She ground against him as they kissed. Jaime hadn’t made out with a guy like this since freshman year—and even then, it had been ridiculous heated fumbling in the student lounge, body parts sticking out everywhere, neither of them with any clue as to what they were doing.

  The god Dionysus knew what he was doing.

  He pressed the top of his thigh between her legs, letting her rub her clit against him. She dipped one hand in the back of his pants, feeling the hot skin of his ass, pulling him tight against her body. He nipped along her chin and down to her neck. “Delicious way to wake up in the morning,” he said. “Much better than pancakes.”

  She laughed and the vibration her body made with the sound tickled her clit perfectly against the fabric between them. Why was there fabric between them? She laughed again, the echo of it reminding her of a silly drunk girl. “Where did you get this ink done? I would love to meet the artist. Maybe have him tattoo more of you.” She flexed her hand against his ass. She wanted to say something outrageous. “Maybe we’ll find a good use for the syrup?” Now there was a fantasy she wouldn’t mind him fulfilling. The two of them all sticky, rubbing together in bed, his cock pushing deep inside her.

  There was something she’d forgotten. What was it? His mouth was on her neck. She wanted it lower, on her nipples, trailing down her stomach, teasing at her pubic hair, moving ever lower. What had she forgotten? God, she could just eat him up.

  Eat him up?

  She remembered what she’d read last night about the things the women who followed him had done. Myth, children’s tales, right? They didn’t seem as bad now, in the light of day. But she had to know.

  Snap out of it, James.

  The fog in her mind was so pleasant, though, and she felt tipsy as though she’d had a glass or three of wine. Her body was heavy. Did she really have to stop?

  His mouth had left her neck. “Are you okay? Jaime?”

  She shook her head. She focused on clearing her mind. She took her hand out from beneath his pants and shoved at his chest, rolling herself out from under it. Jaime was panting hard, trying to think.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. She could hear hurt in her voice. She wanted to comfort him, but she also didn’t want to look at him. “Sometimes I forget the strength of my power. I can dim it a bit for you, if you like. I’d never make you do anything you don’t want—”

  He was right. She did want him. Even when she closed her eyes, knowing his influence was gone, she still wanted him. Her clit throbbed. Her whole body hummed with awareness of his presence beside her.

  “It’s just, well, it’s quite the power you have there. Makes it hard to think.” She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly and counted stars. She still felt a little drunk, from sleep and from him.

  “Why don’t we take a break?” he said. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

  She tentatively opened one eye. He was smiling sheepishly, seated on the far side of the bed now, away from her, holding the breakfast plate out to her. She opened the other eye and boldly stared right at him. He was still handsome but the sheer animal magnetism of him had been dimmed a little. It would have to do.

  “I need to ask you something.”

  He nodded. “You want to eat, or talk first?”

  “Both, I guess.” She felt a little weak and heady still. Food would do her good. She took the plate and cutlery from him, stabbing at the food. The pancakes were perfect. A little cold, but fluffy and moist. She tried hard not to think of the word moist. She retrieved the other fork from where it had fallen in their lust behind a pillow and handed it to him. For a moment, they ate in companionable silence.

  “Last night after you fell asleep, I did some searching on the Internet.”

  “On the what?” He spoke through a mouth full of pancake.

  “The Internet. On my tablet. Nothing fancy, I just checked out a few mythology websites and Wikipedia.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Are you still speaking English?”

  “What?”

  He said something in another language. Greek? Then Latin. She thought. He sounded a little like her lawyer sister, so it had to be Latin. Great job, James, you broke him.

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying.” Then she glanced down at his pants. Bellbottoms straight out of the sixties. “Wait a minute—you said you were trapped in the bottle between, uh, customers?”

  “Masters. Or mistresses.”

  Mistress, huh. Sounds kinky. Don’t get distracted again, James. “Right. Uh. So, when was the last time you were, you know, out in the world? Do you know the year?”

  “1967.”

  “Ah. Right. Well, I’m going to have to explain a few things.”

  Jaime launched into an explanation of the history of the Internet, sounding pedantic even to herself as she turned on the tablet and took him for a small tour.

  He didn’t need to know about Tim Berners-Lee, really, or about TCP/IP, cascading style sheets, or social networking, but she found herself telling him anyway. She knew she was stalling because she didn’t want to have to ask the questions that wouldn’t leave her brain. But he nodded along with each point, his eyes growing wide with childlike wonder and he grinned when she demonstrated how to play Angry Birds.

  She pulled up her university’s alumni site, from a fine arts school just a few blocks away, and showed him three of her best girlfriends, photos of Liv and Missy and Giselle. He seemed particularly interested in how email addresses and Twitter worked, and was amazed that she could contact them without having to dial a phone (she laughed at his literal use of the phrase dial a phone, and made a mental note to show him her cell later). Then she followed links to websites displaying their art.

  “This is amazing,” he said, holding the tablet close to his face. “I’d seen your televisions the last time I was out in the world, black-and-white and full of—what do you call it? Static? But this is like a scrying glass, magic only gods have.” He marveled over a photo of one o
f Liv’s oil paintings, a phoenix in flight. “You said you’re not an artist professionally?”

  “No.” Jaime felt again as though she’d disappointed him. I think you’re projecting, James. It’s not the god you’ve disappointed. “I don’t paint anymore.”

  “Why not? Did you hurt your hands?” He looked alarmed, reaching for her.

  “No, I just—well, you don’t make a lot of money from art these days.”

  He nodded. “There aren’t many patrons anymore. I remember that much from my last few stays out of the bottle.”

  “So I used to keep it up as a hobby, but well, paints are expensive and there really wasn’t room for a studio, Keith and I each needed an office. My ex-husband.”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore? So now you have room for a studio.” He grinned at her, pleased to have solved one of her problems.

  She smiled back. “I guess? I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it would be fun to paint again. But I think I’ve forgotten how to be an artist.” They had settled back into regular conversation and she was starting to feel comfortable with him now. “Maybe I’ll paint the house, make it my own again—I hate these cream-colored walls. I’ll paint them some crazy color that would make it impossible to resell. Purple everywhere. I could get the girls to help. If I ever get around to it.”

  He was studying her face carefully, a serious expression on his own. “That sounds beautiful.”

  “Well, maybe you can help. Can you paint?”

  He cocked his head and seemed thoughtful. “No, but I might be able to help.” Then he changed the subject abruptly. “What do you do, if you don’t paint?”

  “I’m a web designer. The sites I just showed you, Missy’s and Giselle’s and Liv’s, I made those.” She explained the coding again and pointed out the online albums presenting photos of their art, the menus she’d designed, the choice of fonts and colors. “It sounds so technical coming out of my mouth, doesn’t it? I don’t even remember how to talk like an artist anymore.”

  He took the tablet from her again, staring at Liv’s website with a photo of her up close and center. “But this is beautiful. You’ve pulled out the green in her eyes for the background, just as if you were to paint her. The letters—what did you call it, font? They’re smooth and mysterious, like her smile, and curled in the same way the brushstrokes in her paintings are. You’ve captured her perfectly.”

  Jaime blinked, looking at the website as if for the first time. Of course she’d known all this already—she’d chosen everything deliberately, she supposed, even if she didn’t think of it in terms of painting. But to have someone else see it that way, her boring day job as art?

  A grin played at her mouth. He really understood. She turned and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Of course. Now what is it you wanted to ask me?”

  Jaime pushed down the last of her disquiet. What did history mean, anyway? Especially history from thousands of years ago. “It doesn’t matter.” And in that moment, she was almost convinced that it didn’t.

  Chapter Four

  After they’d showered together, necking like teenagers and washing each other’s hair, Dionysus asked Jaime what she’d like for her second fantasy. She refused to tell him, saying only that she had a plan, but needed to go out for supplies. His black curls bounced as he nodded and smiled at her, waving goodbye. Then lowered his head back to her tablet computer, which he’d been obsessed with since their last discussion.

  She was tempted to dismiss the fantasy concept and tear off her sundress, pushing him to the floor and taking him there in the foyer, but instead she grabbed her purse and let the door close behind her.

  As Jaime’s heels clicked down the stones of her walk, she pressed down the questions that were bothering her now. If tonight would be her second fantasy, the next would be her third. What would happen then? Would he vanish back into the bottle, forever, or at least until his next mistress called?

  It had been over forty years since the last time he’d surfaced in her world. Would she even still be alive the next time it happened? Would she ever see him again? She wanted to see him again.

  Get a grip, James. Not everyone gets to have three wishes granted by a literal Greek god. Enjoy what you have, while you have it. Stop acting like a schoolgirl in love.

  But still, Jaime found herself humming as she shopped, filling a bag with her secret supplies—a student grade set of watercolors and brushes from the art store, some fur-lined handcuffs and a blindfold from the woman-friendly sex toy shop. She’d even managed to avoid blushing too much as she made her purchases. If only Keith could see me now. Would he be horrified, or jealous?

  Her ex-husband had been as vanilla as they came. Which was fine, she supposed, if you liked that. It was only recently that Jaime realized that maybe she didn’t.

  She spent the next few hours meeting with her latest clients in a coffee shop, a young gay married couple, both involved in theater, as most of her work came via word of mouth through the local arts community. She blew on a cappuccino, sinking into the leather couch and trying to keep that silly grin off her face as they discussed wire-framing and color palettes for their websites. Her favorite colors felt decadent in her mouth—aubergine, emerald, crimson, sapphire, caramel.

  She was very aware of her tongue, the handcuffs in the purse beside her, and the heat between her legs. Hold it together, James. Mitchell and Greg aren’t exactly into your type even if you wanted them to be. It had clearly been too long since she’d had a man to go home to.

  When the meeting was over she ran a few more errands, picking up groceries and venturing into a lingerie store for the first time in years. Previously, her cotton underwear and bras had been ordered online. By the time she stepped off the cherry-red streetcar to head for home and the man awaiting her, it was nearly dark. The air smelled damp, as if a storm were coming. But the sky was still partly clear, a crescent moon peeking brightly through clouds in the sky. Jaime smiled and filed the image away as she often did for later inspiration in her work.

  She was surprised to see Liv’s sedan parked on her gravel driveway. Jaime’s heart leapt into her throat. What was Liv doing there without texting first? It was unlike her. And more importantly—had she met Dionysus? How was Jaime going to explain a man in her house? What if Liv had asked where they’d met? What on Earth might the god have said? Calm down, James. Maybe he’s hiding in his bottle and Liv just got there. She knows where the spare key is. She let herself in.

  That thought died the second she stepped up on the verandah. She could hear music playing, Joni Mitchell, cranked loud. The lights were on in the distance, but not the foyer. She heard distant laughter. The laughter of a god—she’d know that voice anywhere—and at least two women, if not more.

  With shaking hands, Jaime fished in her purse for her keys. The pattering of several pairs of feet approached the door.

  The door swung open. “James!” Missy cried, her feathered blonde hair bouncing. “Surprise!”

  “W-what?”

  “Jamie!”

  “Jamison!”

  She was being embraced by all three women now, Missy, Liv and Giselle. They were giggling, faces flushed, and smelled of wine. Giselle planted a kiss on each of her cheeks and whispered in her ear with a small hiccup, “He’s so handsome.” She fanned herself exaggeratedly. Her lips were dark with wine, standing out starkly against her alabaster skin.

  Liv gave her a thumbs-up, her green eyes flashing. “You have my full approval.”

  Missy hung back a little now, shyly. “Ladies, shouldn’t we see if she likes it?”

  “Of course!” Liv grabbed Jaime and spun her around, blindfolding her with a hand. Someone took her purse and—Jaime assumed—set it down. Between Liv’s fingers Jaime could see just barely that the lights had been turned on.

  “Dee, get over here!”

  Dee?

  Dionysus cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, Jaim
e.” His voice was quiet, but had barely suppressed excitement. “I invited a few of your friends over using the electronic mail.” The girls let out giggles at hearing the term. It seemed Dionysus’ powers worked on more than just Jaime.

  Or the girls were drunk. Or both.

  Liv spun her around again. “Okay, walk forward. Six steps please.”

  Jaime kicked off her heels and did as her friend instructed. The tile was cold against her toes. Liv’s hands smelled like paint. Jaime called up a mental picture of what she’d first seen when she arrived at the house and realized Missy’s golden hair had had red paint in it as well, and Liv had some streaked on her freckled nose. Giselle was tidy, but then, Giselle was always tidy.

  What had they been up to?

  Jaime’s feet hit carpet. She burrowed them into the lush fabric.

  Liv removed her hand and Jaime gasped in surprise.

  The room had been transformed. It was still her living room leading into the open-concept kitchen, but she barely recognized it—the plain cream walls Keith had insisted on were gone.

  Jaime’s first impressions were of a miasma of color. Purples, blues, reds, deep pinks, a splash of orange, all contrasted against the stark white of painter’s cloths draped over the sofa and tables.

  “This is absolutely incredible.”

  Her three artist friends had transformed the room into a sunset. It was absolutely stunning. Jaime spun around, craning her neck to capture everything at once. She recognized Giselle’s brush strokes in the pink clouds, the swirling texture reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The fading gold of the sun in the horizon stretched out over the kitchen was definitely Missy, and Liv’s touch was visible in three sailing birds sketched in black on the kitchen cupboards.

  Jaime couldn’t stop smiling. She spun like a wild dervish, taking everything in, wanting to see it all at once.