God of Ecstasy

Lena Loneson

Jaime Leighton has had some pretty unremarkable sex in her
lifetime. So when she rubs a bottle of wine and a hot, half-naked tattooed man
appears in her bathtub, offering three fantasies, he’s pretty hard to resist.
Dionysus claims to be the Greek god of ecstasy, wine and madness—and he can
breathe underwater. Thus begins the best three nights of Jaime’s life.

They also turn out to be the most dangerous, when the evil
djinn who cursed her new sex partner attacks. Now Jaime must come to terms with
her growing feelings for the god and break the magic spell inked into his arms
before the djinn snatches away both her love and her life.

The man appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of white mist,
smack in the middle of Jaime Leighton’s giant claw-foot tub. Jaime herself
hadn’t entered the tub yet and, standing beside it, she jumped backward,
stumbling and off-balance, barely hanging on to the wine bottle she’d been
holding. In her shock, all she could think to do was place the bottle on the
edge of the tub.

His wasn’t a quiet arrival. A loud thump-splash had startled
her as he struck the water and the bottom of the tub, legs giving way under
him. Bubbles from the bath went flying, the plum-scented water hitting Jaime in
the face and covering the utilitarian white walls. She knew it was actually
happening and not a dream when the soap stung her eyes.

She wiped bathwater away from her face, blinking, and when
her vision cleared he was still there, disoriented, reaching out blindly for
the wall, his back facing her. Only candles illuminated the room, flickers of
light throwing shadows on the man’s body. She caught a glimpse of tan skin,
swirls of mottled purple down his arms (Bruises? Tattoos?), dark curly hair,
now damp, that reached his shoulders, and brown pants beneath the water—he was
on his knees, now.

Jaime dove for cover, throwing herself toward the bathroom
door. She missed and fell, hitting the floor hard.

There was a strange man in her bathtub. How often had Jaime
imagined that scenario over the past year during the lonely nights as she
waited for her divorce to finalize? Dozens if she also counted her fantasies of
doing it on the cold gray tiles of the bathroom floor. She slipped on them now,
reaching out to pull herself back up on the counter.

Her heart thudded desperately in her chest, pounding out a
warning—
red alert
,
James, get moving,
she thought.
This isn’t
one of your silly fantasies.

Jaime scanned the bathroom for a weapon. Four lit candles by
the tub. She could set his hair on fire?
No, dunderhead, he’s soaking wet.
Blind
him with the hot wax, maybe. Okay. That was now Plan A. Plan B? Pink toothbrush
on the marble counter by the sink. Poke him in the eyes or the neck. Yes. The
mirror above the sink, sparkling with a bit of bubble bath on it—she could
smash it, wrap a shard in a towel, slice him in the femoral. No, the jugular,
right? Both. Either. His back was still to her. She could sneak up, cut him
before he even made a move. She smashed an elbow into the mirror. It didn’t
break.

The man in the tub was starting to move.

Jaime glanced down at the bottle of wine.

The bottle of rosé was full and corkless. It would suck to
lose that much good wine. And
old
wine—the bottle had been dusty, and
Jaime’s last memory before the intruder appeared was wiping it with the sleeve
of her robe.
All right, James. Step one: Whack him over the head, stunning
him. Two: Smash the edge of the bottle on the tub, breaking it. Three: Slice
him to tiny pieces. Aaaaaand, go!

She moved forward, bare feet sliding a little on the wet
tile, and raised the bottle high.

Before she could get a good swing going with her arms, the
man spun around. She caught a glimpse of panic on his face and full lips
opening. “No!”

He rose to his feet in the tub, slipping worse than she had.
She swung the bottle at him and his strong hand gripped her around the wrist.
Shocked, she dropped the bottle. He caught it with his other hand, throwing
himself off-balance, lurching over the edge of the tub, and the two of them
went tumbling in a sudsy mess to the bathroom floor, the man holding the bottle
high as if it were his most precious possession. Jaime landed sprawled over his
stomach, an elbow smashing into his chest, her robe falling open just enough
for her bare skin to touch his. She was grateful he at least had pants on. With
both their bodies damp and sprawled on the floor, this was getting a little too
close to some of her favorite fantasies.

James, you numbskull, first rule of self-defense: Don’t
fantasize about men who appear in your bathtub and are likely here to murder
you.

But yet she lay there, panting on his chest. When their eyes
met a shiver of pleasure rushed down her body. A smile played at her lips and
she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She felt suddenly wild, capable of anything. She
wanted to run down the street singing, spinning, blonde hair flying out around
her head in a halo, a mad lion’s mane; but mostly, she wanted to lie here,
skin-to-skin with this stranger, and drink him in.

Find another weapon, you idiot. The candles.

She quickly sat up, pressing her back to the tub and pulling
the robe tightly closed around her breasts. The robe was made of slinky purple
silk, and she hadn’t worn it in years, only donning it tonight as a
post-divorce treat. Now, she was happy about the decision. Funny how she’d
stopped caring if Keith saw her as sexy, but suddenly the opinion of a
potentially criminal stranger mattered.

He held her stare as he placed the bottle of rosé delicately
on the floor beside them. “Please don’t hurt the bottle.”

“What the fuck are you—
were
you—doing in my bathtub?”
She reached behind her for a candle. Instead, she knocked it into the bath with
a splash.

“I’m here to fulfill your fantasies. Three of them,
specifically.” His smile was hopeful and a bit hesitant.

Oh god, this can’t be good,
Jaime’s brain told her
.
Her body was saying something else entirely. It was like something had
overtaken her—something hot and heavy and very unlike her. Shouldn’t she be
trying to kill him?

She slipped on the floor again, trying to rise.

“Please don’t—you’ll hurt yourself.” He reached out with a
hand to steady her, and pulled himself up by the towel rack. His smile was
kind. Too kind for a murderer—right?

“I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you want me to, but I
don’t think that’s your thing, is it? And no, I’m not reading your mind, just
the panic in your beautiful periwinkle eyes.”

Huh
. It had to be a line, but it had been a long time
since a man had said
anything
about Jaime was beautiful. And
periwinkle.
So much more exotic-sounding than blue. It appealed to the artist in her.
She couldn’t help but blush a little at the compliment. She felt her body
relax, the fight-or-flight instinct leaving it. What was happening? Some sort
of mind control?

“Three fantasies,” she thought out loud. Why did that sound
so familiar? What had she been doing before he appeared? Keith had signed the
divorce papers today, and this was supposed to be her big celebration. Bubble
bath, candles, a little music, and that bottle of rosé Liv had given them at
the wedding. It had been collecting dust in the pantry this whole time. She’d
rubbed at the dust, and—suddenly the pieces came together. Magic appearance,
rubbing a bottle, three wishes. “You’re a genie?”

“No,” he said with a sigh. “I’m no djinn. My name is
Dionysus. Ancient Greek god of wine, ecstasy, theater and madness. Also known
as Bacchus, Trietês, Bromios, and a hundred thousand other names you likely
can’t pronounce.”

Right. She was standing on the sopping wet bathroom floor
with a Greek god. This had to be a dream, didn’t it? Jaime thought of how she’d
felt the sting of the soapy water, and of how her knees throbbed from her landing.
It seemed real enough, crazy as the story might sound. Ever since she’d locked
eyes with him, she’d felt that maybe, just maybe, this was
right.

For the first time she paused to fully take in his
appearance. He didn’t look like a god. Not that she’d met many gods before, but
she’d always seen depictions of overly muscled men holding weapons—Zeus or
Thor, she supposed. Dionysus was built more like a swimmer or a gymnast—his tan
chest was lightly muscled with a scattering of dark hair. The markings on his
arms were indeed tattoos, and absolutely gorgeous ones. Jaime didn’t think
she’d ever seen ink that clear. Vines of wine colors—deep purple in the
shadows, light rose in the highlights—intertwined starting at his collarbone,
running over his shoulders, weaving their way down his arms, spiraling to end
in a circle around his wrists. For all their beauty, they made her think of
handcuffs. Chains.

Brown bellbottoms clung to his legs above bare feet. The
pants seemed transported directly from the seventies, not the twenty-first
century. His whole appearance was anachronistic, really. The length and cut of
his hair, falling just past his shoulders in wild, wet tangles of darkness.

Oh, how she’d love to paint him. Jaime imagined mixing the
oils on her palette, deep shades of maroon for the tattoos and his mouth, dark
swirls of umber for the curls in his hair, long lashes, and the scruff on his
cheeks. She’d use shadows of black for his eyes, with a light burnt sienna to
capture the permanent twinkle.

That twinkle watched her now, and he wasn’t bothering to
hide the smile on those lips. How long had she been staring? She blurted out
the first thing that came to mind.

“Dionysus, hi. I’m Jaime, by the way. With an A-I, not I-E.”
She wrinkled her nose at her own words.
Babbling like an idiot of course.
Fantastic.

“Yes,” he said. “Jaime, from the French J’aime, or,
I
love.
” He reached out and touched her hand. She let him take it in his own,
surprised at the lack of callus as he ran a finger down her palm. “You have a
strong love line. I can see why your parents chose it.”

“So you’re a genie
and
a psychic.”

“Neither. Just a god.”

His touch was hypnotizing. She tried to break the spell with
questions. “Why can’t I break the bottle? And why are you acting like a genie
if you’re not one?”

“Over two thousand years ago a djinn placed a curse on me. I
was a bit naughty, got his mistress to fall in love with me and leave him
behind. Now I’ve taken his place, and the bottle is my home, until a beautiful
woman such as you frees me temporarily.”

She bent over and picked up the bottle, handling it gently
to avoid alarming him. She let him keep her other hand, holding it above her
head as she moved, pretending not to notice the way his fingers rubbed her
palms, sending warm blood rushing to her cheeks. It felt too good to ask him to
stop. “There’s no way this bottle is thousands of years old. The font right
here is clearly computer generated. Lucida sans, I’d say, invented in the
eighties. Not to mention it’s in French, not Ancient Greek.”

“The bottle morphs with each generation. As do I. Otherwise
I’d have to spend half my time learning contemporary dialects. It would be a
bit of a pain, and I’d rather use the time on pleasure.”

“Huh. Neat.” She forgot about the bottle, and let him take
it from her hand. He placed it on the counter. The story was ridiculous, but
how else could she explain a man appearing from thin air? A genie-cursed god
was as plausible as anything. His thumb was drawing tiny circles over the veins
in her wrist. His hands were still damp and warm from the bath. When he let her
hand go, it felt chilled in the air, missing his touch.

“Now,” he said, “I’ve promised you three fantasies. As the
god of ecstasy, I think that’s a little more appropriate than three wishes. And
I assure you, I’m well-equipped to fulfill them.”

“Wait a minute here. You mean—
sexual
fantasies?”

“Of course.”

“Oh. I, uh—well—”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?” She asked the question only because her brain told
her to feel suspicion. What she actually felt was surprise, temptation and
desire. She wanted to run her own fingers up the ink on his arms and find out
if his lips were as soft as his hands.

“My gaze has a certain influence, if you will, over women.
Not mind control, nothing so distasteful, but a lowering of inhibitions. Like a
good bottle of wine. If you close your eyes, any thoughts and decisions will be
yours.”

“Says you.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she
could stop them.

He smiled as if she’d said the right thing. As if she’d made
him proud. His lips held a touch of mischief in them, echoed in the dimples in
his cheeks. She thought,
He’s a charmer, all right. If I met him in a bar,
I’d go home with him. If I were the sort to go home with guys I met in bars.
And
really, didn’t she already know more about him that she would a random hookup?

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a certain amount of trust involved.
It’s your choice, of course. Always and entirely your choice.”

She believed him. And when she dropped her eyelids, holding
them tightly closed so she wouldn’t be tempted to peek, she still believed him.
She wanted him. It had been so long since she’d tasted a man, or had one inside
her. And it wasn’t as if Keith’s lovemaking was anything to write home about,
if she could even use the term “lovemaking” to describe her ex-husband
thrusting to completion, rolling over, and ignoring her own needs. She was
ready for a change. She was ready for an adventure.
James, this might be the
stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

Perhaps.

But so what?

Could it really be dumber than marrying Keith? Than giving
up her painting, the one talent that had brought her more pleasure than
anything else in her life so far?

Jaime opened her eyes, deliberately meeting his with her
own. She felt a bit of madness work its way into her mind, filling up her
chest, moving down her body like a warm massage. “How about a bath?”

After she said the words out loud, Jaime’s heart
somersaulted into her stomach. Although she’d been convinced this wasn’t a
dream, it also hadn’t felt quite like reality. Now, with that invitation,
everything in the room solidified. The cold tile beneath her bare feet made her
shiver. The flickering candlelight created ghostly shadows dancing on the walls
and across the god’s chest. Her hands were shaking. Maybe this was all a joke,
a gag Keith put together to humiliate her, and this man wasn’t a god at all,
just an actor hired to play the part.