“You’re seeing alotof me right now,” she mutters, but she tugs up her shirt to reveal her perfect breasts.
Every part of her is perfect. “You are so fucking beautiful.” I lick my lips and drag my tongue over her again. She’s even better this time, even wetter. I press her legs wider and higher, baring her completely to my mouth. She gives another muffled squeal when I dip down far enough to include her ass in my exploring. I can’t help grinning, but I move back up to her clit. I hope there will be time to have fun tormenting her with pleasure, but right now, I need to make her come all over my face.
It takes a few tries before I find the motion and pressure that has her hips rising to meet my tongue. She grips my wrists tightly enough to bruise, her head flung back as she gives herself to me. She’s so fucking perfect I can barely stand it. How we’ve denied each other for so long is a mystery now that I have my mouth on her. I never want to stop. Not for the city, the Thirteen, or the gods themselves.
Atalanta releases my right hand. “I need you inside me.”
There’s nothing to say but, “Yes.” I carefully press two fingers into her. Thank the gods I changed up my nails before this mess reached critical mass so I can finger fuck her to the end of time without worrying about hurting her. I curl my fingers against her inner wall, stroking lightly.
Her thighs clamp around my head, hard enough to make medizzy. “Don’t stop,” she moans.
She can crack my damn skull for all I care. I’m not stopping until she’s gushing all over me. I almost have to fight her to keep the exact rhythm up to bring her over the edge, but it’s more than worth it when she gives an exhale that almost sounds like surprise, and then she’s coming, her pussy clamping around my fingers the same way her thighs are gripping my head. For a brief moment, I actually think she might kill me, and I’ve never been happier. I did this. I brought her so much pleasure that she forgot to be careful with me. I fucking love it.
Atalanta slumps back onto the couch, her legs splaying wide and releasing me. She blinks down at me with something like awe. “You… I…”
I kiss her thighs and then move up to kiss her stomach, her breasts, her throat. “I feel the same.”
She wraps her arms around me and we hold each other like that while our heartbeats return to normal. I enjoy this closeness as much as I enjoyed the sex. She’smine. She’s always been mine in a way, but it finally feels real. No more restraining ourselves for the better good. No more denying our feelings oh so carefully so we don’t risk becomingtoohappy. Gods forbid. “I love you so fucking much, Atalanta.”
“I love you, too.” She strokes a hand carefully over my braids. “But it’s not just us.”
I sigh. “No, it’s not just us.” No matter what else is true, it never will be again. We’ve both made sure of that in our own way, giving in to the attraction Circe wields the same way the earth wields gravity.
29Hecate
It’s as if by speaking of her, even indirectly, we summon Circe. Or at least the reminder of her.
A cry sounds from the bedroom. It’s so lost and alone and full of despair that I’m on my feet before I make the decision to move. Atalanta is at my side as we rush down the hall and through the bedroom door to find Circe tangled in the sheet, her body taut with remembered panic, her head thrashing against the pillow. She’s clearly in the grip of a nightmare and terrified out of her mind.
Atalanta and I share a look of perfect understanding. Neither of us knows what the future holds, but we saved Circe from the river and we’ll be damned if it takes her now, even in the dreaming world.
We climb carefully onto the mattress, one on each side, andtake her hands. “Circe, baby, wake up,” I say softly. I don’t know if this is a nightmare or a night terror, but I don’t care if common knowledge says not to wake someone up; I’m sure as fuck going to do it. Just…softly. “We’re here.”
“You’re safe,” Atalanta matches my careful tone. Maybe she should look ridiculous kneeling on the bed in nothing more than my too-tight shirt, but to me she just looks like mine. Come to think of it, I probably look ridiculous, too, naked and clearly well-fucked. It doesn’t matter.
Circe gasps and jerks into a sitting position, her green eyes going wide. Her chest heaves as if she’s been running—or fighting for her life. Tears slide down her cheeks. “I… Fuck… I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can.” I press my free hand to her back and Atalanta does the same to her chest. “Inhale, baby.” She gasps. “Slower. I’m going to count to three for you; match your inhale to the count. One…two…three.” She shudders in a breath to my count. “Good, now exhale the same way. One…two…three.”
It takes a few minutes, but she slowly calms down enough to fully register where we are andwhowe are. Circe gently pulls her hands from ours and wipes at her tears. “Gods, this is embarrassing.”
“Actually, it’s PTSD.” Atalanta sits back on her heels. “There are some extremely effective therapy techniques for dealing with it, and they don’t include bringing down the regime of the Thirteen and killing a bunch of people in Olympus.”
Okay, not the angle I would have taken. I give Atalanta a sharp look that she returns unrepentantly. Right, I stroke Circe’s back. “You’re safe.”
“I’m really not.” Her breath hitches a little on her inhale, butshe ignores it and searches my face before turning to Atalanta. “Antigone is dead, isn’t she?”
We share another look over her head, but this time, Atalanta ignores my silent command to keep things soft right now. She nods slowly. “Yes. She and the others who were on the bridge. I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault,” Circe whispers.
She looks so fucking lost in this moment, nothing like the commanding woman I’ve come to expect. She looks like…like the Circe I knew so long ago. Magnetic, yes, but a woman who always felt so deeply, who loved with everything in her. She wasn’t romantically involved with Antigone—I’d stake my life on it—but she cared about her the same way I care about Eros and Dionysus and Hades. The loss I felt when Eros died…and I didn’t even consider myself directly responsible for his death the way she clearly does about Antigone.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. And I am. I’ve never been able to stand the thought of the world giving Circe more scars on her soul. This time she may not be a victim of anyone but herself, but it doesn’t change the fact that I hate seeing her in pain. “Circe—”
“I don’t want to think about it. Not tonight.” She looks at me and then Atalanta, her eyes wide. “Morning will come soon enough. Please.”
“We don’t have to talk about it tonight.” I keep a soothing tone to my voice. “You can go back to sleep. We’ll stay, and—”
