“You know,” Amaranth says, sliding closer without picking her bare foot off the cool floor.
“That is sacrilege!” Sidoné cries. It echoes up to the broken dome.
Amaranth puts a shocked hand on her collar. “I would never ask you to take from me what belongs to the Moon-Eater,” she whispers. “Never, Sidoné. He is mine, and I am his. That is not what this is about.”
Sidoné swallows. She studies Amaranth, taking everything in, and Amaranth believes Sidoné sees her. Truly sees her, as if they’d remained body-twin and Mistress, best friends and sisters, their entire lives. The small king’s short, curled lashes flutter as she looks away. Mirané skin does not flush, but there is a subtle shift in her posture that shows Amaranth the desire in Sidoné’s whole being.
“Tell me what you would do, what you would want me to do,” Amaranth says. “If you were the Moon-Eater. If you could have me.”
Sidoné’s knees hit the floor hard. It sounds like it hurts, and Amaranth feels it in her heart, of all places. To hide the feeling, she laughs lightly. “That is not the position I’d have chosen, but if you—”
“Shut up, Amaranth,” Sidoné whispers. “Get on the altar.”
Amaranth sprawls onto the stone altar so fast she almost laughs at her own desperation. She throws the robe apart, but Sidoné snaps, “I didn’t tell you to do that.”
A gasp clogs Amaranth’s throat as her hands freeze. She can see the scars on the broken dome overhead, her eyes so wide and unblinking they dry out too fast. Slowly, waiting to be reprimanded again, she draws the robe closed.
“What do you think of when you do this, on a good day?” Sidoné asks, very conversationally.
“The Moon-Eater, the feeling of him when we come together. It is not physical, except that I’m coming, but I feel it in every part of my body. I think of that. The—the release that is not release, but a—a…”Amaranth shakes her head; she genuinely does not know how to describe the moment of communion. Iriset called it love. She called it architecture. Amaranth smiles crookedly, lazy, at the memory.
“I would kiss you,” Sidoné says suddenly.
Amaranth looks at her. Sidoné is nearer, gaze caught on Amaranth’s mouth. “And?”
“That’s where I’d start. I don’t know what next, if I could kiss you… That’s as far as I’ve imagined.”
“Kiss me,” Amaranth insists.
Sidoné shakes her head in denial. Her hair is cropped short, little curls clinging to the lovely shape of her skull. Gold cuffs her ears. She’s got a mask of delicate metal around her temples like a diadem. Little curlicues fall around her cheeks, and a few spike up like waves. It’s simple, hardly distracts from the features an apostate could steal. But it’s there, it’s a silver counterpoint to her rich mirané skin. Amaranth wants to lick the tips, let it prick her tongue.
This is definitely helping.
Amaranth presses her hands down her sides, grips her own hips, and then spreads her legs wide. Behind her, Sidoné sucks in a slow breath. Imagining her watching, eyes locked to Amaranth, makes Amaranth tingle in a good way. Burn like desire, not grating discomfort. “It could be your hands,” she says, pinching a nipple, smiling with her teeth. “It could be,” she murmurs. “The Moon-Eater wouldn’t mind having both of us, Sidoné Rask.”
“I’ll stay here, thanks,” Sidoné says, obviously trying for snappish, but it comes out breathy.
Feeling irresistible really does it for Amaranth. Her body finally, finally responds. Hot, wet even, and she digs her fingers into herself, reaching to press against the rim of her hole, the Moon-Eater’s real mouth, ha ha ha.
“That isn’t what I would do,” Sidoné says.
“Hah?” Amaranth stops, two fingers tugging at the edges of herself.
“I would—would tease you, probably, because I’m not sure what you like. I’d kiss you, and touch lightly. It would probably feel like a tease.”
Amaranth hears what Sidoné doesn’t know how to say: She withdraws her fingers and skims against her clitoris instead. She plays there, tapping again, again, teasing herself like she’s being toyed with by someone who doesn’t understand what the little knot is for. It’s not her style, but it works, because Sidoné gave it to her. As vulnerable as Amaranth is, should be, right now, Sidoné gave this to her.
“Sidoné,” she murmurs, then moans.
“Ah, no, Amaranth,” Sidoné pants, shoving away from the altar—who knew she’d gotten so close. “I can’t. This isn’tforme.”
Then she’s leaving, and Amaranth doesn’t stop driving herself closer to communion. “Wait outside,” she has the presence of mind to call before sinking into finally, finally, finally the Moon-Eater’s churning, tightening presence.
When the binding knot snaps back into place, when the unraveled Moon-Eater expands and contracts again, locking the Holy Design back where it belongs, Amaranth sighs in satisfaction.
A little while later, though not nearly as long as Amaranth would prefer, she’s got not only her godgrass robe properly tight around her, but an over-robe and a layer of wrap pants snugly tied to her hips. Her hair is a mess and she needs her mask paint redone. But that will all be part of preparing for Diaa of Moonshadow’s memorial.
She strides out to find Anis mé Ario, her body-twin, standing with Sidoné Rask, both of them leaned together. Their whispered conversation halts so fast they must have been talking about Amaranth. She snorts.
