In celebration of selling a Trojan War story this weekend (see post below) today's excerpt is from another Greek-myth-inspired tale, Ruby Seeds, which appears in my Dark Enchantment collection:
Saffy is at a cocktail party and getting her flirt on:
With a sharp intake of breath I refocus on my surroundings: the hotel balcony, the party, Patrick. ‘How do I look to you?’ I wonder.
There’s a hint of teeth in his smile: he recognises he’s being challenged. ‘Bored with the party.’
I’ll grant him that, though he doesn’t score high. ‘I’ve been to a lot of parties.’
‘At first I thought you were one of the athletes.’ That gives his gaze an excuse to drop from my face and go exploring. ‘A swimmer, maybe, with a strong beautiful shape like that. But -’ He rescues himself from simple lechery by suddenly focusing on my hair and face with uttermost seriousness: on the black dreadlocks, pale skin, gold piercing in the side of my nose. ‘That’s not swimmer’s hair. You’re track and field, perhaps. On the other hand, you’re drinking. None of the athletes drink, not the night before the first heats. So maybe you’re like me, attached to a corporate sponsor. But – forgive me – you don’t look like a corporate drone either. Too much of an independent spirit, I’d say. So you’re a mystery.’
I giggle, pleased by his ingenuity - and by the raw, tight lines of his body under the evening-wear. ‘And a mystery is intriguing?’
‘I find it irresistible.’ His green eyes tread a dangerous line, leavening their appetite with a hint of twinkling self-awareness. My own body squirms with impatience but I force myself not to seize him.
‘I won’t ruin it for you then.’ I brush the rim of my glass down my throat. ‘Some things you’ll have to work at finding out.’
‘I’ll enjoy that.’ He’s standing very close now. The electricity between us is delicious and I can’t hide a shiver as he brushes the back of my wrist with his fingers. ‘Are you cold?’ he murmurs, tracing a line of goosebumps up my arm.
‘A little.’
‘Shall we go back inside?’
‘No.’
His gratification is undisguised. He knows I am his for the taking. ‘Well,’ he suggests; ‘my jacket, then.’ Slipping it off, he furls it gently about my bare shoulders. I ease away from the rail to make it easier for him, and am enveloped in his warmth and the perfume of his skin and whatever male scent it is he wears. My sex responds to the pheromone shock by blossoming into wet petals. He runs his fingers down the lapels of the jacket, those big knuckles just brushing the jut of my breasts, his grip saying I could pull you to me, his eyes promising a rough landing. I’m still holding my glass. When he looks down it’s there between us, tilted toward him, the carnelian contents threatening to spill.
Then Patrick lifts an eyebrow, the merest brush of his fingertip outlining the ring on my third finger.
‘We’re separated,’ I whisper. Most men don’t care, even when they do notice.
‘Ah.’
‘Nearly a year now.’ I don’t know why I have to say that, and I’m annoyed with myself as the words slip out.
‘Shall I?’ He moves to take the glass from my hand – but I’m quivering with tension and in the exchange I manage to spill a little down the side and onto his fingers. I laugh and lift the flute and his hand in both of mine, so that I can lick the dribble first from the cool hard glass and then, my eyes never leaving his, from his fingers. I lap those knuckles and suck one long finger into my mouth, teasing the sensitive skin with my tongue even as I hold it captive. ‘Oh God,’ says he softly, with reverence.
I take the glass and throw it over my shoulder. It hits a bush somewhere in the garden below. He touches my mouth with his other hand too, as if wondering how much I can fit between my full lips.
‘There’s got to be a quiet room somewhere…’
‘No.’ I pull my lips from his fingertips. ‘Out here.’ I watch the look of surprise and doubt and delight flash in his eyes, and I lay my hand on his shirtfront. Under the cool cotton his stomach is warm and flat. I slip a button and ease my fingers in through the gap, finding firm flesh. That’s too much for him; he finally steps in to close the gap between us, his thighs brushing up against mine, his hands taking my hips. His lips scout gently across my upturned face, checking for hostility and finding not even token resistance
‘We’re a bit visible,’ he murmurs.
‘Then we’ll have to be careful.’ He has a lovely hard bulge of anticipation in his trousers already, I’m pleased to find. ‘I promise not to scream if you don’t.’ I lick his bottom lip, then catch it in my teeth and give it a teasing nip, just as my hand goes to work on his cloth-covered erection. As our tongues meet he gives a thick little groan. Then he surprises me by taking the initiative and sliding his hand up between my thighs. He doesn’t have to lift the hem of the dress far to find the velvet mound of my pussy under the flimsiest of silken triangles. It’s shaven smooth, a fact he discovers as his fingers stroke me softly through the cloth. His tongue stirs my mouth in assured counterpoint to the movement of his hand.
I can’t help the noise that escapes as he finds the edge of the silk at the crease between thigh and pubic mound, but my moan is kept private by his lips. It’s a secret between us – like the secret movement of his finger slipping beneath the fabric to caress my bare flesh, soft and slow. Like the secret rush of heat to my sex. Like the hidden cleft of my sex-lips that he inevitably finds. Suddenly I’m not soft velvet under his hand any more, I am hot liquid melt and his fingers are delving the shallows of my furrow, back and forth.
Our tongues still dancing together, we shift out stances very slightly. I ease my legs open to make room for his hand. He leans in to me harder, arching me over the rail. To any observer it ought to look like we’re simply locked in a deep kiss. From the balcony windows the partygoers will only be sure of the hand he has locked on my hip, not the one plundering my panties. They’ll see the arm I have draped around his neck, not the way I’m stroking the thick bulge in his trousers, squeezing his tumescence greedily. They might guess, but however avidly anyone is spying upon us they cannot be sure.
What if he loses patience? Will he blow our cover? Will he pull the front of my dress down to expose my breasts, hoist my skirt and fuck me properly in full view of them all? The thought makes me wetter still. His fingertip skids in slippery circles upon my clit, stealing my senses.
He’s perfect.
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