She lifted onto her toes, deepening the kiss, pulling him even closer. And then shocked him by bursting into light giggles. She leaned her head back, staring up at him. “Oh, Leo! You naked on the desk? That’s quite the temptation!”
Daphne couldn’t help smiling at Leo’s vivid and erotic imagination. She’d seen into his mind the moment their kiss had grown so heated, glimpsing a series of flashing images and desires. Including the various ways he was contemplating presenting himself fully nude, wrapped in his cloak. The edge-of-the-desk flash was endearing and funny, but also as sexy as anything she’d ever dreamed up on her own.
“You read my thoughts,” he acknowledged in a gravelly voice filled with need. “Not entirely fair, my love.”
She shrugged, beaming up at him. “Hazard of the Oracle’s profession . . . and of taking one as lover.”
“I’m willing to accept those risks.” He chased her mouth, capturing it once again. This time he thrust his tongue between her parted lips, sweeping it against hers with sensual pressure.
And then she caught another image, vivid and sinful. He wanted her spread out before him, on the floor and naked atop his cloak. A role reversal; he wanted her to lie on the floor before him like an offering to the gods, a king’s bounty.
She grasped his face between both hands, breaking the kiss. “Yes.”
“Yes . . . what?” He pressed his forehead against hers, obviously trying to steady his breathing.
She rubbed both thumbs across his bearded jaw. “Spread the cloak on the rug. And I’ll lie there, just like you want.”
He barked a laugh. “Did I say I was willing to accept the risks of loving an Oracle of Delphi?”
“You did, my lord.”
“Then I wish to restate the matter. I am willing, most infinitely willing, to accept the rewards of this venture. Of loving you, my Daphne, my spritely nymph.”
He kissed her almost chastely on the forehead, and then seemed to be considering something. She held her breath, unsure of what he planned. All at once, she found herself swept into his powerful arms, cradled against his brawny, bare chest. He was beautiful, almost painfully so, just standing there, holding her that way.
“Perhaps male nymphs exist in the form of ancient Spartan kings,” she murmured as he slowly moved with her across the floor.
“No, only ancient kings who dream of making love to impossibly beautiful, ever evasive and mysterious females. Kings who were lonely until they found their one true beloved nymph.”
He adjusted her in the crook of his arm, freeing his other hand. With a flourish, just as he’d done in the meadow, he unfurled his cloak and it sailed to the floor, spreading wide atop his antique Oriental rug. “There,” he proclaimed.
She clung to his neck, searching his face. Sometimes he could be frustratingly laconic. “There” didn’t exactly paint the full portrait of what he wished her to do next, especially since he didn’t seem to have any intention of releasing her.
“My lord?”
Gracefully, he allowed her to slide to her feet, but not before he caught the hem of her dress in his hands. Without a word, he lifted it, pulling it over her head until she stood nude as he was, revealed.
“You saw my fantasy,” he explained, pointing to the red blanketing fabric. “I wish to admire you without apology.”
She swallowed hard, nodding, and had to fight the urge to cover her naked body from his keen gaze. It was a vulnerable feeling to be so exposed, especially with Leonidas, a man she’d longed for and wanted for so many centuries and years. All that pining and unspent desire led to this moment, unencumbered by clothing or pretense, and to simply presenting herself to Leonidas, not a king now, not a ruler or a warrior . . . just the man she loved.
She slid to her knees, keeping her back to him for a moment. She trembled all over, a mixture of fear and excitement causing her heart to leap inside her chest. All this time, she’d wanted this. To become his lover, to belong to him. But no man had ever seen her nude, much less claimed her physically. Now that the moment was here, she found it hard to fight a slight sense of terror, even as her heart raced and thrilled at what was happening.
Resolved, she lay down on the cloak, curled on her side protectively at first, and then with a smile, she rolled onto her back. She kept her hands across her breasts, staring up at him shyly. “They’re not very big,” she said by way of explanation.
“They’re perfect.” Leo beamed at her, taking several appreciative steps backward. “You’re the most ideal woman I’ve ever glimpsed. In any century, in any country. Anywhere. You are the arista! The very best, my love.”
“Don’t let Aristos hear that,” she teased lightly.
Leonidas scowled back at her. “Don’t even mention another male, not now. Now, when I alone am offered this pleasure, this honor of seeing you like this. You are mine,” he proclaimed.
Daphne flushed at his possessiveness, something new in Leo that she’d never really experienced. Things were changing between them, becoming forever altered.
“You are mine, as well,” she countered, knowing she was being cheeky, “so perhaps you should start satisfying my own fantasy. You, nude with the crimson folds about your body. That could be most handily accomplished if you come and lie with me here.”
Leo gave a single nod and knelt beside her. She noticed that he hesitated briefly, the slightest frisson of pain passing across his features. It was his right knee; it had always hurt and bothered him, the one old injury that hadn’t been truly restored in Styx.
But that grimace almost instantly passed, and Leo was there beside her, kissing her. And then, glorious surprise, he mounted her. Big as a bull, bare as he’d been made, her Leo slid atop her body. For one suspended moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Would he take her now, just like this? She wasn’t even sure how long lovers prolonged things, just kissing and touching before actually making love.
Her uncertainty was resolved when Leo gave her a wicked, lusty smile. “I have an idea.”
Spreading her legs beneath his hands, he snaked downward, trailing kisses across her breasts, and then her abdomen. He lapped at her belly button with his tongue until she giggled in aroused delight.
Cradling her hips in his palms, he gave her a questioning glance. “I have an idea,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me if you like it.”
Leo dipped his curly head lower, right between her thighs and kissed her slowly, sweetly against her most intimate place. He lapped at her there as he had with her belly button, light, teasing strokes.
The Oriental rug prickled Daphne’s back and buttocks, but she paid no heed. Her only real awareness was of Leonidas’s beard bristling against her upper thighs, rubbing between her legs, making her even more damp. She savored the rough pleasure, squeezing her thighs and lifting upward. Then she jolted, shocked and surprised when she felt the slick warmth of his tongue sweep over her slick folds. It was a quick thing, a flick, a moment of tasting.
Then he raised his head, meeting her gaze. There was a question in his eyes. Should he continue? Did she indeed like it?
“Yes, yes!” She moaned and then thrust her hands into his hair, urging him downward again. She stroked his curls roughly and he began to lick all about her dampness, an exquisite sensation unlike any she’d ever known. Pressure built inside her core; the longer he tasted and stroked her with his tongue, the more intense that sensation became, building, making her lift and thrust her hips in reaction.
She squeezed her thighs until Leo’s face was cradled tightly between them, needing more, desperate to find release. Right then, he stilled, removing his tongue from against her intimate place. He couldn’t stop, not now! But she held those words inside, poised on the brink, expectant.
And then the world turned to liquid fire, as he blew against her opening, the lightest breath of a touch. The match that sparked her full inferno, setting her core ablaze.
She rode up against him, crying out his name, shuddering deep
inside. She would be forever changed, and she felt herself falling into him, becoming more alive than ever before.
Trembling between her legs, the explosive waves turned liquid, too. Slower, less intense, until all she could do was collapse against the floor and moan the most beautiful name she’d ever heard. Leonidas. Leonidas.
“My love, you are the aristos. The very best.”
“Ah, well, so long as you’re not calling out my warrior’s name, I won’t object.” He moved upward again, lying beside her. She felt rubbery inside, all spent even though they’d not attended his needs. She felt his erection bob against her hip, too, as he rolled closer.
Wasn’t it now the moment when he should take her? Enter her and release his seed? Yet he seemed relaxed, aroused but settled beside her.
She rolled to face him. “My lord, I am inexperienced in these matters. You know that. But . . . what of you? What shall I do to pleasure you?”
He gave her a thoughtful look, stroking a fingertip along her eyebrow. “This is but our first intimacy. I plan to spend hours making love to you tonight, but not on the floor. In my chambers, on my bed . . . perhaps in that obscenely lavish garden tub. There will be countless ways, and I will be your tutor. Teach you in the ways of physical love.”
“Like just now,” Daphne said dreamily. She let her eyes drift shut, remembering. “I never knew of such a thing.”
“Imagine all the other . . . explorations we shall make together.”
She opened her eyes, laughing, and caressed his cheek. For a moment, she just drank in the sight of the man she loved, with adoration shining in his eyes—and also love for her. But then her gaze wandered to the edges of his eyes. The silver in his beard had been obvious after her return from Olympus. But she’d not noticed that faint lines had appeared at the edges of his eyes. He was aging, as they both knew he was going to do. But still the slight alteration in his appearance made her throat tighten.
She blinked, not wanting him to notice, and burrowed her face against his bare chest. As she stroked his back, she felt the rough puckering of his war scars. She couldn’t help thinking how miraculous it was that he’d evaded death’s final call so many years ago. Surely, he could do so again.
“We’re on limited time now,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Everything stands in unique perspective. Nothing matters; everything does.”
She kept outlining his thickest scar, tracing her fingertip back and forth along the span of it. “Sort of like that timeless question,” she said. “If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do today?”
He pulled back and gazed at her seriously. “There are two things. One of them would be to rally my warriors and allies, which means I need to gather them all tonight. The other, fair Daphne, is to love you with all my heart and soul and body. And I’ve already begun that. I intend to make you mine. Fully mine. While I still can. But first, I must summon everyone. Not just my immortals, every human, too. Time is fading now, and we must strike quickly if we’ve any hope of changing that fact. For stopping your brother and his curse is the only way that I can hold you, just like this, forever. No death or separation. Just me loving you throughout eternity.”
Together. No threats, no curses from Ares. No separation, ever again.
Nothing had ever sounded closer to Elysium than those very words, and she prayed that Leonidas, in all his wisdom as a warrior, would find a way to defeat her brother.
Chapter 7
The sun hovered low on the horizon; nightfall was coming soon. Sable searched the open fields of the Spartans’ compound, making sure he wasn’t observed. Then, cursing himself a full-on idiot, he trotted into Leonidas’s barn in search of a grooming brush. Instantly the horses began blowing and shuffling in their stalls. They might be stupid beasts, but they were damned brilliant at recognizing a grotesque, unnatural creature when they spotted one.
He clomped across the barn’s shaving-covered floor toward one of the more agitated beasts and scowled at it. Just for plain meanness’s sake. It blinked big, sad eyes back at him, jerking its head and blowing air.
“I’m not just a centaur.” He stared at it with menace. “I’m a demon. A wicked, base, torturing demon.” Gods of Olympus, the creature was worse than his one-time minion, Mirapish! It only gazed back at him, dumb as any of the fence posts out in the pasture. Of course these horses couldn’t understand him; they were only disturbed by how abnormal he was. Half man, half horse. He stared down at his front hooves, switched his tail angrily, then rubbed a trembling hand over his bare, human chest. No wonder they were terrified—he was an ungainly, hideous sight.
He took a few careful steps backward, angling his rear so as not to bump the stalls directly behind him. Those horses became more unsettled by his proximity, one even kicking at its door.
“I’m the big bad wolf come in horsey form,” he murmured to them, lingering on the fear he tasted in his mouth. It had been too damned long since he’d indulged his junkie’s habit of sipping on terror or anxiety. Months, even. He excused his current indulgence as less dark because these were horses, not humans, and the emotional cocktail was far less complex.
Yes, that was why his mouth tasted bitter and he could feel his big horse’s belly roiling.
Just keep fooling yourself, Sable, you horse’s ass. The truth was he couldn’t stomach being cruel, not anymore. Not since he’d begun to move from darkness and into the light—a freewill choice that belonged to every Djinn demon. And he cursed himself a moron for having made it, but the transformation was nearly complete. It had begun almost six months ago, even before he’d aligned with the Spartans to defeat Ares and his demonic cousin Layla. There wasn’t much point in backing off from it now.
Besides, a quiet voice taunted, you’d hurt Sophie if you went dark again. Break her.
Sable hissed angrily, growing tense from the mere act of thinking about Sophie Lowery. An utter nitwit, like most humans, that’s what Sophie was. She also loved animals, and often visited this barn to dote on the horses. She’d be annoyed with him that they were all shuffling and unsettled by him, that he’d upset them intentionally.
The horse in front of him jerked its head some more, and Sable sighed, having gained no pleasure from tormenting the creature. “Shh,” he soothed, trying to mimic River, the Spartan who cared for all the horses on the farm. “I’m not so bad. Just ask . . .”
Sophie. He’d almost said her name. Just ask the woman who was worse than any thorn he’d ever borne along his flank or side. Without his permission, she’d healed all those horned protrusions—a curse he’d received from Ares—until none remained. Even though healing him always brought her pain and suffering because she wasn’t just a healer, she was empathic, as well.
She was stupider than the horses in this stable, unable to keep away from him no matter how many times he explained that he was not her beloved. And no matter how many times he lurked around her, determined to make sure that she didn’t come to harm. She was utterly naïve, especially about the forces of danger in the world . . . demons like himself who longed to rape and soul suck and possess.
But, no, he didn’t care about that female, or feel any desire or attraction. She held no appeal to him at all, with her springy, thick black curls and blue eyes that were almost too big for her heart-shaped face. Her pale skin was the color of alabaster, so ivory cream that sometimes when she talked to him, splotches of red appeared on both her cheeks. Still, Sophie meant nothing to him . . . less than nothing.
Which was exactly why he’d come to this barn in pathetic search of a brush, because he didn’t care about Sophie, or about how he might appear to her, with his dirty horse’s coat and tangled tail. It was only out of simple pride and vanity that he wished to maximize one of his greatest assets: his shiny black coat.
His minions wouldn’t come near him anymore—he reeked too much of light and decency. Damned inconvenient, that was, even though he couldn’t stand the stench of his former associates, Mir
apish and Krathsadon. He’d nearly retched all over the addle-brained duo on the few occasions when they’d harassed him, taunting him for having “gone light.”
How did the Spartans stand it, the sulfuric odor of demonhood and evil? All these years and they’d battled and fought every form of darkness—including some run-ins with Sable himself, yet he didn’t recall them ever whining about the bloody awful smell.
He trotted farther into the stable, searching for the grooming supplies. Saddles hung on the wall, along with bridles, and Sable shivered at the thought of them. Imagining some human trying to saddle and ride him was almost as distasteful as admitting he was turning light. He might be half horse, but he’d never be tamed. Not even by petite, wispy little Sophie Lowery. Oh, but how she’d been trying, with her healing touch—she’d even restored his blasted scalp! She’d tricked him and gotten her healer’s palms there, erasing the scars that had prevented his hair from growing.
Now, almost six months later, and he finally had a head full of thick black hair, for the first time in several thousand years. It wasn’t long, not as he’d once worn it in ancient times, all down his back and to his hips. It wasn’t even past his ears. But it was silky and healthy and he’d seen the way Sophie looked at him now when she thought he wasn’t watching. When she believed he wouldn’t see desire in her water blue eyes.
She wanted him. Badly. So she wasn’t quite as good and pure as he’d once believed. No way would any untainted creature long to take a Djinn demon in her arms. As if such madness were even possible, with he in centaur form because of how Ares had cursed him so long ago. Why hadn’t she seen him as he’d once been? Glorious, with multicolored wings and unblemished skin.
He stamped at the dirt floor, angry. How could he ever hold her in earnest, or take her to his heart or arms . . . much less into bed?
He closed his eyes, picturing the other way she often looked at him: with genuine kindness and caring in her gaze. As if he were human, not a beast. As if she might love him. Sighing, he opened his eyes again and searched out the brush. He began stroking it across his upper legs, and dried dirt lifted into the air, the late sun catching the cloud in a lazy beam of light.
Red Mortal Page 7