Poseidon’s lips tilt up in an arrogant smirk. So he enjoys easy females and loose skirts. Freaking typical.
I lay the sword in my palms and present it to him. He runs a finger along the metal, and it ignites in a golden glow as previously invisible words flare to life. “This is one of my prettiest creations,” he muses as his eyes flick to me. “Only to be cared for by the prettiest of creatures.”
Yuck. He tilts his head and leans forward, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Would you care for a private tour?” he whispers.
Why is he whispering? Everyone here knows if I walk out with him, it’s because my floof is about to get fondled.
“I would love that,” I answer. He lurches to his feet and nods at his subjects.
“Dismissed. Cancel tonight’s dance. I believe I am about to be preoccupied.”
Mr. Tick winks at me as we leave the room and stroll down a hallway. Sea creatures stare wide-eyed at us.Nothing to see here. Move along. Just a mysterious Lady and her sword traversing the ocean.
“What would you like to see first?” he asks.
Your bedseems too direct, but I’d also like to not put him off by entertaining more chaos. The sooner the better. There is one thing he can solve for me, though, which might lead us indirectly to his bedchamber.
“I have been wondering something, and nobody has given me an answer,” I say, trying to go for sultry. I think I sound constipated, which would be factual.
“Ask away,” Poseidon says.
“Where do you poop?”
Not exactly a sexy question, but a vital one. Everyone is so wrapped up in the sword that they have forgotten some basic needs.
“I can show you,” he declares. Wow, they are really progressive if they go for communal poops down here. Not sureI would ever be comfortable doing that. The faces people pull while pooping cannot be erased.
“That would be awesome,” I tell him. Because clearly it’s something he’s proud to share, and I’m not about to shit on his poop parade.
As we veer left, then right, and make yet another turn, the soft, shimmering light of bioluminescent coral guides our path. We climb a spiral staircase adorned with intricate mosaics depicting tales of ancient mariners. When we reach the top, Poseidon swings the door to the vast chamber open with a flourish.
Before us lies a magnificent bedroom within the grand underwater palace of Atlantis. Vast and resplendent, the arched windows bathe the room in a mosaic of colors as iridescent fish flit about, casting mesmerizing reflections across the pearl-studded walls. The ceiling mimics the sky above, adorned with hundreds of tiny crystals that resemble stars, twinkling against the deep blue hue. In the center, a colossal bed draped in silken sheets is reminiscent of ocean waves. Coral carvings embellish the headboard, depicting the mythical creatures of folklore and legend.
Magnificent pieces of furniture crafted from driftwood and adorned with delicate seashells that pulse with an otherworldly glow surround the room.
“These are my chambers,” he declares as he leads the way inside and deposits his trident on a similar stand my sword sits on. He spins to face me. “Now, did you really want to view the bathing room, or were you just using it as an excuse to have your wicked way with me?”
Umm. I guess pooping can wait until I’m back at the Hallows, so long as it’s in the next turn. Otherwise, things may get messy.
“Definitely wicked way,” I decide. But not the kind of wicked he desires.
He strides up to me and glances at the sword between us with a raised brow. “Did Frank talk to you about what I like?”
He needs to give instructions? What exactly does he like? Hopefully, I can escape before I find out. “Yes?” It definitely comes out as more of a question.
He sighs. “Excellent. Are you up to the task?”
I glance at the bulge in his pants. I mean, do I need to be up? He’s doing a fine job himself.
“Yes, I can’t wait.” Eagerness is sexy, right?
He turns and tugs open a cabinet to reveal a plethora of black tools. A whip, some kind of paddle, weird bulbous objects, restraints. That will not work. I can’t escape if I’m tied up, and there are only four men I trust that much. None of them are here.
He opens a drawer and tugs out a leather corset and panties, along with very tall, pointy boots. “Change into those,” he instructs.
I search for an excuse to get me out of this. Any excuse. That poop is suddenly far more insistent.
“Are these clean?”
