by Cass Morris
“Well, I wasn’t anticipating getting abducted and nearly murdered, but when it came to the fire, yes. I knew I had to try, at least. I knew it was dangerous, but I also knew it would work because it had to. I couldn’t allow anything else.”
He knew that feeling, the inability to accept an alternative because to do so meant ruin or death. She spoke with such vehemence, such passion, and beneath that, a yearning to be heard and acknowledged. It shone in her emerald eyes, fierce and defiant, and he felt a rush of affection for her. “I admire you for that more than I can express. If what you did was in one way foolish, it was, far more than that, brave and noble and worthy of you.”
She presented such a perfect picture of loveliness that Sempronius thought the image of her in this moment would be burned in his memory for all time. Soft tendrils of golden hair fell around her face, and her lips were slightly parted, too invitingly, whether she knew it or not. “Worthy?” she asked, after a moment. “What do you mean by that?”
“It was extraordinary, Latona,” Sempronius said, still so softly. “Not just the magic, but you. You were extraordinary. That you would risk yourself and venture so much on this city’s behalf . . . That was the bravery I knew was in you.” He was beaming in admiration. “You faced down the danger. You strode forth, and damn it all, because you wanted to do what was right. So, yes. I find that extremely worthy.”
It seemed woefully inadequate, but she managed to say, “Thank you.”
“You have no need,” Sempronius said, “but you are most welcome anyway. You are a woman of great potential, Latona, and it has for too long gone unencouraged.”
Latona looked back up at the lambent glow from the house. “We will be missed. My sister—”
“Is four cups in, gambling, and not likely to stir from her couch anytime soon,” Sempronius said. “Not with the streak of luck she’s having. And it’s Saturnalia. Nights like this, Latona, were made for mischief.” Somehow his hands had slipped around her waist, his thumbs sliding over the soft swell of her ribcage, so nearly brushing against the underside of her breasts. “I know you feel it. With the Fire of Venus thrumming in your veins, how could you not?”
“The Fire of Venus?” Latona half-chuckled. “What a thing to say . . .” And yet something within her tugged and pulled, whispering that this was something her gifts were meant for. She felt the force of it, the straining urge to call on those blessings. It was a palpable ache, pounding in her heart and swelling in her breast, a pang in the secret place between her legs. Every part cried out for her to sway into Sempronius Tarren, magnetically drawn to all that he was and all that he had to offer her.
“Your problem, Latona,” Sempronius said, and he was close, so close that Latona almost felt that they were breathing together, sharing the rhythm of air and life, “is in not demanding enough on your own behalf.”
Latona recognized the challenge. It was the same, in essence, as what he’d been needling her with for months—the imperative to want more, to be more. With the same mad impulse that had driven her towards the flames, she looked straight and unblinking into Sempronius’s eyes. “Kiss me.”
He smiled, then bent his head slowly to hers. His lips ghosted over her earlobe, along her jawline, so achingly gentle that she shivered. His hands gripped her tighter, pulling her body flush against his, so that she could feel the solid strength of his chest, the insinuating curve of his well-muscled thigh. When his mouth finally found hers, she wanted to sigh with relief. From such a tender initiation, Sempronius’s kiss grew steadily more possessive, more demanding, and Latona was only too eager to yield.
She could feel the thrum of her blood, loud in her temples, almost a painful ache in her chest as he brushed aside the fabric of her gown and tunic, his lips following the fabric as it dropped over her shoulder. The silken folds fell just short of exposing her chest to the night air, a tantalizing strip of fabric all that stood between her sensitive skin and the stars. Sempronius’s kisses scorched across her collarbone, and her breath drew shallow, hesitant, as his hand slid up to cup her breast through her gown.
Sempronius knew what a dangerous transgression he was leading them both into, but from the instant she had admitted her desire and opened that door, he did not think he could have stopped himself. He knew, as his fingers explored her curves, the swell of hip, narrowness of waist, and gentle blossom of ribs into breasts, that they would never forget her shape. Never given to such reckless risk-taking, Sempronius allowed himself to be lulled by the darkness, the supposed seclusion provided by ivy and columns—but even more, to be drawn in by her. Something in Latona’s brilliant burning seduced him as thoroughly as his words did her, nudging him into forgoing the need to plan and hedge and wait. For months, he had prodded her to take a chance, to spread her wings and see how high she could soar, and now that she had, he discovered that his only choice was to take the flying leap along with her. He kissed his way up to her mouth again, holding her so close that he could feel her rapid heartbeat against his chest, could sense the heat pooling between her legs.
Only one thing could have broken the spell on them, and it came in a hissing voice: “Latona!”
XLVII
Latona whirled around, clutching at her disheveled gown, suddenly shot cold with terror. She relaxed a fraction when she saw that it was Ama Rubellia, standing a few feet away.
“You can’t do that here.”
It took Latona a moment to realize that Rubellia had not expressed condemnation, only concern for the setting. Rubellia strode towards them, glancing over her shoulder. “There are too many people milling about. You’re certainly not the only ones with such matters on your minds. Felix is about to—well, you might have company soon, so I thought it best to come warn you.”
“Rubellia—” Latona started, though not sure what she intended to protest.
“The Autroniae have some guest chambers down that way,” Rubellia said, nodding towards a garden path that led down the left side of the house. “If you follow the promenade to the end, it takes you to a separate part of the house. New fashions and all that. And,” she added, as casual as though it were of little consequence, “the doors have bolts.”
Latona could only gape at her in astonishment. Sempronius, though, found his voice. “I’m grateful for the information, Ama Rubellia, and so shall refrain from asking how you came by it.”
Rubellia’s lips curled in a secretive smile. “The House of Venus hears many things. I can keep the particulars to myself while still helping others to benefit from the knowledge. I’ll cover for your absence, should anyone ask.” With a conspiratorial smile, Rubellia kissed Latona’s cheek. “Go with grace.”
Bearing the blessing of the Priestess of Venus to assuage her conscience, Latona turned to Sempronius. He held out a hand, and Latona realized she had this moment to choose. She could easily plead her virtue and return to the party with Rubellia. Or she could go with Sempronius, well and truly adulter herself, and find out what would happen if she gave vent to the embers kindling inside of her.
She gave Sempronius her hand and let him lead her down the twisting garden path.
* * *
A narrow corridor ran between the row of cubicles and what must have been originally intended as the outer wall of the domus proper. Sempronius bypassed the first two, tested the door of the third, and found the room empty.
It held nothing more than a narrow, simply dressed bed and a wooden stool, as was common for guest chambers. A single lamp hung near the door, already lit, no doubt anticipating the need of any inebriated guests who had to stumble in rather than finding their ways home.
As soon as he slid the bolt on the door, Sempronius Tarren descended upon her like a starving man, clasping her head with both his hands, kissing her feverishly. Latona melted into him with a little moan, clutching at his tunic. One of Sempronius’s arms encircled her waist, pulling her against him with such f
orce that it brought her up onto her tiptoes, unbalanced. His desire was palpable, his focus as hot and intense as the sun in midsummer. The kiss felt like it could go on forever, like it was trying to make up for all the impassioned kisses Latona had missed in her life.
When Sempronius at last tore his mouth from hers, it was only to press his lips to her cheeks, her temples, into her hair. “I have wanted you, Latona,” he breathed. “So long, I have wanted you.”
Latona could scarcely find words for the fervor overtaking her. She had given herself to Herennius out of duty and to Ocella out of necessity, but this was her own choice, driven by heat and ravenous desire. If she were going to sin, then she intended to do so thoroughly.
Sempronius’s strong arms wound around her back, holding her fast. Those arms were a surety, and Latona had the strange sense that nothing could harm or even distress her while she was in the circle of his protection. There was a rightness to it, what they were doing, despite the secrecy—and despite the illegality. ‘There are higher imperatives.’
Before she could wonder where that thought had come from, he was kissing her again, his hands exploring her body, her own roving fearlessly over his chest and shoulders and arms, gripping and caressing what she had for so long denied herself. His touch sent white-hot thrills through her veins, jolting every part of her body to a strange new awareness. She felt a warm scarlet glow rising, that tangible radiance—Venus’s gifts, burning so brightly in her, and Sempronius clutching her as though he would drink it all in.
She threw him off-balance far more than he had expected. Not that he had ever expected Latona to be a casual fling, a simple tumble, easily enjoyed and easily forgotten; she was too extraordinary a woman for that, but this inebriating effect, he had not anticipated. It would be easy, so easy, to lose himself in her, to give over to the brilliance of it all. He felt an urgency that could not rest at the initial glow. Her body was warm and soft in his arms, and her lips tasted of cinnamon, and Sempronius had to have more. With one arm secure around her waist, he bent her back slightly, his teeth grazing her earlobe and nibbling down her neck.
Latona blushed to realize she was trembling like a virgin girl, though it was with eagerness, not modesty, as Sempronius finally moved to pluck the brooches from her shoulders, unpinning her gown, then tugged at the thin ties of her tunic straps. When the first side fell, exposing one breast, she drew in her breath sharply, in anticipation rather than surprise. Slowly, reverently, he bent to take her nipple in his mouth, wetting it with his tongue, giving a little suck. Somehow the sensation was so intense, so joyously thrilling, Latona thought she might fall all to pieces right then. But he kissed his way back up to her mouth, and his nimble fingers pulled the belting sash from around her waist.
Gown and tunic together fell in ripples from her body, catching slightly at the swell of her hips before slipping down and pooling at her feet. Sempronius sank to his knees, his hands sliding down her sides, glorying in every curve and arch of her body. “My goddess,” he said, his voice a husky whisper.
To be the object of such intense regard should have made Latona uncomfortable, should have had her fidgeting, moving to cover herself. She knew she was being wanton in the worst possible way, utterly shameless, standing naked in one of Dula’s guest chambers, with the noise from the Saturnalia revels faintly audible through the walls. She knew that. Yet all she wanted to do was let Sempronius Tarren worship her, to drown in the depths of his passion. She slid her fingers through his hair, then trailed her fingers down to stroke his cheek and curl under his jaw. “Love me,” she whispered.
And Sempronius obliged.
He guided her down onto the little bed before shucking off his tunic and undergarment and joining her. His body was every bit as well-formed as Latona had guessed, broad shoulders and narrow waist and lean muscles. The fingers roving over her had calluses, well-earned not just through military training, but through the sort of labor few patrician men put themselves to. She had seen him at it, and admired him for it. And as she glanced lower, following his well-defined hip bones to the juncture of his thighs, Latona was surprised at the surge of lust swelling in her. The male organ had always seemed a strange and perfunctory thing to her before, almost comical, yet now, seeing Sempronius in the dim light of the tiny room, it became attractive, enticing.
Sempronius took his time discovering her. Aware that their time together was at a premium, he wanted to memorize every inch of her. He smiled to hear her little gasps or soft moans as his fingers traced her curves or his teeth teased at some tender spot. From breasts to stomach to hips, he left no arc unexplored, and when his hand slipped between her legs, Latona fought to keep from screaming with pure, twisting need. His head dipped lower, his mouth drifting over her hips, then lower, ever nearer to the part of her most desperate for attention.
Latona knew people did such things, of course. It was one of the radiant joys Aula had spoken of so glowingly. But certainly Herennius had never been so inclined, and Latona had never thought to own such bliss herself.
A hot coil burned inside her, swirling and pulsing and yearning, and when it erupted in rapture, she felt the sweetness of it rolling all the way down to her toes and back up again, wave after wave of cascading pleasure. And the glow that overtook her, the spiraling heat of her magic, Fire and Spirit surging together out from the core of her being, was stronger and fiercer than anything she had felt before. She surrendered herself to it—and so did Sempronius.
A man who rarely allowed himself to be overwhelmed by anything, Sempronius willingly gave himself over to the sweet rush of Latona’s emotions. It was a danger, he knew, to let the powerful influence of her magic wash over him so thoroughly, but somehow he could not bring himself to put a stop to it.
‘This was what Anchises felt, laying with the goddess Venus,’ he thought as he kissed his way back up her body, ‘when he sired on her the founder of our nation. This was how Ulysses lost himself in the arms of Calypso.’ When he looked at the radiant smile on Latona’s face as she lay, half-swooning, beneath him, there could be no question that his surrender was more than worth it.
When they joined at last, Latona had to clamp a hand over her own mouth to stifle herself. The joy was too great, the ecstasy too brilliant to hold in, as though her body might simply burst apart into a thousand rays of light. It was almost a delirium, physical sensation and ardent passion, the gifts of Fire and the empathy of Spirit, all whirling together and quite overwhelming any scrap of rationality she might have held onto. Her arms fell around Sempronius’s shoulders, and she clung to him near-desperately, arching at the ripples of pleasure shuddering through her body. She could feel no shame, no regret in this. The more he moved within her, the more frenzied their rhythm became, the more she felt aglow with the rightness of it.
Somehow, Sempronius summoned the presence of mind to withdraw before his own climax hit, spilling himself on the bedding rather than inside her. Even embracing this willing madness, they could only risk so much.
For several long, silent minutes, they lay entangled, panting. Latona was experiencing the extremely strange sensation of being completely exhausted and thoroughly energized at the same time. Her body was aching—in such sweet ways, but still, aching—and yet her spirit soared like Phoebus in the heavens.
Almost at the same instant, they turned their heads to look at each other. Sempronius reached out with one finger to brush a sweat-damp tendril of hair from her brow. “We can’t stay here,” he said, voice made soft with how little he wanted to admit that their stolen moments had to end.
“I know.”
The golden cocoon of her bliss shattered, and the crash rippled through the magical haze she had cast over them both. Sempronius felt it like a trickle of cold water, though he did not need Shadow’s intuition to guess at the cause of her sudden shift in mood. He leaned over, kissing her brow, her closed eyelids. “The Fates do not bring two such a
s us together without a greater purpose,” he said. “This is not all there is for us. I swear that to you.”
Latona nodded, her eyes still squeezed shut. He could not guarantee that, but it comforted her that he wanted to say it.
He dressed himself first, then gently brought her to her feet and helped her to repin her gown. “I don’t know that there’s much we can do for your hair,” he said, entwining his fingers in the disheveled golden locks.
“At this hour of the night, I doubt anyone will find it unusual.”
He stroked her cheek with his thumb, then bent to kiss her again. Latona’s hands gripped his tunic, unwilling to part from him. It was Sempronius who found the strength to break away, though he did so with a regretful sigh. “Come now, my lady,” he said. “Back into the light we go.”
He opened the door and glanced out, then gestured for her to come along. As they scurried back towards the garden, Latona heard muffled cries and the slapping of flesh against flesh from another of the guest cubicles. She wasn’t sure if it shamed her or thrilled her, to know she was not alone in her wickedness.
It had grown colder out in the garden since they had been secluded in their little room, or perhaps it only seemed so, the merciless chill of reality dousing the too-brief dream they had allowed themselves. Latona shivered as the enormity of what they had done finally settled in. The law still allowed a woman taken in adultery to be killed by her husband or father, and the thought was no less chilling even though it had not been enforced in generations. Sempronius was in perhaps even greater danger, if it were ever known.