Today Samantha MacLeod is back with her latest story, Persephone Remembers the Pomegranates, which is published TOMORROW for Valentine's Day.
You’ve heard it was the pomegranate.
Those six juicy, ruby seeds, staining my lips and fingers. Sealing my fate. Damning me.
Well, maybe so.
But that’s not entirely the truth.
He had a chariot, a great black chariot leaping and dancing with blue flames. It have terrified me once, but his hands held my arm as I climbed to the seat, and I was not afraid. I suppose we must have vanished through a cleft in the earth, descending to the underworld. We must have crossed the River Styx, gone past the great three-headed Cerberus.
I noticed none of it. Once we mounted the chariot, he pulled me onto his lap and pressed his lips to mine, and all I remember of the journey was the way he made my body burn. My legs wrapped around his waist, my chest pressed to his, and I felt his arousal throbbing against the loose weave of my chiton. His breath caught in his throat when I moved my hips against his. As I ran my fingers down his back, his body responded to my touch, my lips, my fingers, as though I were the driver and he the chariot.
I didn’t even notice when the chariot stopped. I was kissing his wrist, feeling his pulse hammer jaggedly beneath his pale skin, listening to his gasping breath when he caught my chin in his hand and turned my head to face his. He kissed me and, as he kissed me, he stood, lifting me. I let him carry me, feeling his strong body move beneath me.
He walked with me until we were in a great, dark room, a room filled with burning candles and the heavy scent of flowers, lilies and roses. It was a room, I would slowly realize, he had prepared just for me. A room filled with things he imagined I would enjoy, with flowers I loved, with fabrics that would feel good against my naked skin.
But at the moment all I cared about was him, his lips and fingers and hands, his hard body against mine. He lay me on the enormous bed in the center of the room, and then he followed me down, his hand traveling up my robes for the first time.
I gasped as his fingers danced over my inner thighs. But he hesitated before my sex, running his fingers lightly over the curls of my hair without pressing, without entering. His hands pulled back my chiton, slipping the fabric over my hips and off my shoulders until I lay before him naked and trembling. Only then did he remove the himation from his own chest, revealing the pale lines of his muscular abdomen and strong arms.
I knew what men and women did when they were naked. I’d seen it often enough, with the animals. Athena and my mother explained it in cold, clinical detail. Both of them emphasized the pain I’d experience my first time, and the drudgery I could expect after that. So I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat when I saw his hungry eyes.
His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“What happens now?” I said, and then I cringed at the sound of my own voice. I sounded like such a child.
He smiled. “Now, I kiss you,” he said.
I sighed, relieved. I thought I knew kissing.
Once again, I was wrong.
His lips started on my neck, caressing the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and his breath on my collarbone made my entire body shiver. He traced my shoulders with his lips, his tongue dipping to the hollow in my clavicle. His lips moved to the swell of my breasts, taking one nipple gently into his mouth, cupping the other in his strong hand. I moaned again, that strange, animal noise, and his teeth closed gently around my hardened nipple. My hips began to rock of their own accord; I was losing control of my own body, first my voice and now my pelvis.
His lips traced a line of kisses between the swell of my breasts and down my navel, down to the delicate mound of hair between my legs. I gasped as his head dipped between my wet thighs. I’d never known you could be kissed there.
And, oh, when he kissed me—
My eyes closed as heat and pleasure rocked through my body. His lips and tongue moved inside me, and my hips swayed under his touch, rising and falling, coming to meet him. I didn’t know my body could burn like this, could feel so good. I lost the ability to speak, my voice a rough stream of moans and cries and then near soundless whispers of, “Yes, yes, yes…” Don’t stop, I thought. Don’t ever stop. The room spun as he brought his hand to the crest of my sex, pressing gently.
And my body exploded.
I shook under his touch and flooded with heat, my breath pressed out of my lungs, my mind a blank red emptiness. I thought for a moment I had died. Then I took a deep, jagged breath and opened my eyes to see him next to me. Yes, I thought. Yes, him.
I reached for his neck and pulled his face to mine, kissing him deeply. I tasted myself on his lips, salt and a touch of distant sweetness. I kissed him until my body began to burn again, and I felt his lips curl into a smile.
“Persephone,” he said, his voice rough. “I would make you my queen.”
Buy Persephone Remembers the Pomegranates at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Born and raised in Colorado, Samantha MacLeod has lived in every time zone in the US, and London. She has a bachelor’s degree from Colby College and an M.A. from the University of Chicago; yes, the U. of C. really is where fun comes to die.
Samantha lives with her husband and two small children in the woods of southern Maine. When she’s not shoveling snow or writing steamy sex scenes, Samantha can be found teaching college composition and philosophy to undergraduates who have no idea she leads a double life as an erotica author.
Samantha MacLeod's website
Amazon author page