God of Ecstasy (4 page)

“In two thousand years of you being trapped and pleasing
women or whatever it is you do, I’m the first one to get stalked by this
demon?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Why me?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Great. Awesome. That’s fan-fucking-tastic. So what do we do
about it?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. His eyes were dark and
had lost that little piece of mischief she’d come to rely on. “He’s contained
within the mirrors in this world, so if they’re covered, he shouldn’t be able
to watch you. He can’t get out—since I’ve taken his place in the bottle, he’s
free in the spirit world, so I’d think he should be content with that.”

“But he isn’t.” Jaime rubbed her forehead, thinking. Was
there something different about her, compared to the previous women Dionysus
had pleasured in the past?

Ugh, now there’s something she didn’t need to think about.
The idea of him with other women, and the idea of Jaime being one day
in the
past.

Great. She was being stalked by a demon, and now she was
jealous of a god’s past and future lovers.
Get it together, James.

That she could do.
Fake it ’til you make it, right?
Tomorrow is another day?
Any more clichés you can throw out there?
You’re safe for now, right? So sleep on it. You’re totally fucking exhausted.

Hesitantly, she asked the god, “Will you stay with me
tonight, in the bed?”

A smile blossomed on his face, and she smiled back. Her
request had restored his good cheer. He took her hand in his, rubbing her palm
lightly. “Of course. I’d be honored.”

Even with it covered by the blanket, Jaime knew she wouldn’t
be able to sleep with a mirror in the bedroom. It took both of them to move the
stained-glass mirror attached to the bureau into the hallway. It was her
favorite piece in the house, one of the only things that truly belonged to her
and wasn’t something she considered
that stuff Keith left behind
. She
hoped she could return it to the bedroom soon. They stashed the makeup mirror,
now covered with a garbage bag, in the bathroom, then curled up in bed
together.

Dionysus seemed to sense that she was still freaked out from
the djinn’s two appearances, so he didn’t make any moves. Jaime was content to
lie next to him, their thighs touching lightly through pajamas. She found the
warmth of his body soothing.

How different from the nights she’d slept alone over the
past year. It had taken her a while to get used to it and to stop startling at
every noise on the roof, but after that she’d loved sleeping alone. She’d felt
luxurious in the sheer space of the queen-sized bed, stretching out her legs
yoga-style so that one foot hung over each side. Rolling over whenever she
wanted, cocooning herself in the blankets, piling three pillows on top of each
other simply because she could, and there was no one to complain.

She let her breathing slow.

Did gods sleep?

The answer was yes; his breathing quieted and she focused on
his face. It was peaceful. She leaned forward to rest her chin on his shoulder,
softly so she wouldn’t wake him. Though maybe she wouldn’t mind waking him for
another fantasy. A grin played at her mouth and she suppressed it.
Come on,
James, you’re getting soft. One orgasm and suddenly you’re all goopy over the
mystery man?

Maybe just a little. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder,
through the fabric, and inhaled his scent. There was a woodsy depth to the musk
of him, but he was also bright like sunshine, crisp and fresh. He reminded her
of a vineyard, of course. Jaime let a small smile creep onto her face. Would it
be anything else for the god of wine?

Funny how she’d taken what he was for granted so quickly.

She rolled over to her back and stared at the ceiling,
tracing imaginary paths through its grooves.
Yeah, the ceiling is a metaphor
for your brain now, James. Beat the maze and suddenly all your thoughts will
make sense.

It didn’t work.

It was well after midnight now. There was no way she’d fall
asleep any time soon.

Jaime quickly crept out of the bed, making her way to her
home office. While she couldn’t use her laptop or desktop computers (their
screens were covered with black plastic now) she had a non-reflective tablet
that she used for writing copy outdoors. Its screen wouldn’t reflect the sun.
She hoped that also meant the djinn couldn’t gain access.

And if he does?

She grabbed a sweater out of the closet just in case. An
opaque knit one with no fancy lacing, so she could cover the tablet quickly and
let nothing shine through. Then she could yell and wake up Dionysus.
What, a
man in your bed and suddenly you can’t protect yourself?

A few moments later she had a fork from the kitchen. The
knives were too reflective; she left them in the drawer. But a good fork in the
eye could still hurt a demon, right?

Jaime had no idea what could hurt a demon. Maybe she
would
wake up the god for help. But only if she had to.

She made her way back to the bed, carrying her treasure.
She’d seen the pain that telling the beginning of his story had brought the
god, so she’d leave the majority of her questions for information that only he
could provide. The rest, well, the internet was a wonderful thing. She pulled
up a search engine and started typing, fingers flying across the touch screen
of her tablet. Light padding sounds filled the room as she worked, no louder
than her own heartbeat to her ears.

Some of what she read disturbed her. She learned that
Dionysus was indeed a god that attracted women, and gave them freedom in a
world where they had no rights and no vote (while the ancient Athenians
invented democracy, it was for male citizens only). He gave them the chance to
live amongst each other as sisters and sometimes lovers, to write, paint, be
spiritual, commune with nature, and take pleasure where they saw fit.
Sounds
a bit like undergrad,
Jaime thought, smiling in memory of drunken
late-night painting sessions with her friends. She thought of Liv with her
riotous brown curls hanging out the studio window, catcalling to undergrad boys
asking them if they’d like to model nude.

Jaime’s brow furrowed as she kept reading. The pit of her
stomach turned cold.

The maenads, Dionysus’ hordes of female followers, were
often driven to madness, running through the woods for hours until their feet
were bloody, chasing down a stag and tearing it to pieces, eating the meat raw
with their hands. The articles she found referenced further atrocities, and the
word
cannibalism
appeared more than once.

How could she reconcile that with the man who lay beside
her? He had shown her kindness and respect, and made it clear that anything
they did together was her own choice. She’d felt a piece of the madness in her
own heart, but he had told her how to counteract it by simply closing her eyes.
The wildness she’d experienced was wholly freeing and pleasing, not dangerous.
Was it? These were just stories. Stories and myths, which were always
exaggerated. Right?

He hadn’t finished the story about Agathe. What had happened
to her? What had happened to
him
in the past two thousand years as a
slave to the djinn’s bottle? Had it changed him, made him more cautious and
empathetic than the impetuous young god in the stories?

She didn’t know. She hoped so, but she couldn’t be sure.

Jaime didn’t sleep until the sun began to rise.

A loud thud startled Jaime awake. She shot up in bed and the
tablet hit the ground beside her. She grabbed at the fork still by her hand and
held it out in front of her like a sword.

The room was bright with sunlight—it had to be close to
noon. Dionysus stood in the doorway wearing his own bellbottoms and one of
Keith’s green button-up shirts. It didn’t suit him, but the tangled curls and
scruff on his face definitely did. A warmth rushed over her and straight to her
pussy. Her body, at least, had forgotten the previous night’s fears. Her mind
raced, knowing that something was wrong, but as she held eye-contact with him,
her inhibitions melted away. She wanted him, bad.

He was carrying a plate of breakfast. The dish was piled
high with pancakes and blueberries. Jaime inhaled the scent of bacon. Yum.

He cooks, too? Can I keep him?

The god had a puzzled frown on his face. “How did you get
that?” he asked. He stared at Jaime holding the fork, then down at his plate,
then back up at Jaime. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked up at Jaime
again. Or, rather, at her hand brandishing the fork. Dionysus held a matching
fork in his own hand. “Do you have magic too?”

She blushed. “Oh. Right. I didn’t teleport it here. I, uh,
needed a fork in the middle of the night so I went and got one. You know.”

“Right.” He nodded, as if it were a common thing.

Cooks, gives head, and dismisses my seeming
eccentricities?

He moved closer to her and set the plate on the bedside
table. He stumbled momentarily, frowned, and picked up the tablet at his feet.
He turned it upside down, face puzzled, then looked at Jaime. His eyes sparkled
and she lost track of what he was doing. She was drawn to the contours of his
face, wanting to memorize them, to paint them, to touch them. She reached out
and took the tablet with one hand, setting it next to the cooling breakfast.
Her other hand traced down the bridge of his nose, across one of his
cheekbones, tickling her fingers in his stubble, down to his mouth. It was warm
and moist. He pressed a small kiss to her fingers.

Jaime pulled him down on the bed. She wanted to count the
colors in his irises, the dark browns and the lighter ambers, touches of green.
She could lose herself in his regard. “Good morning,” she murmured, running a
hand down his arm, trailing her nails roughly down the vines in his tattoo.

“Morning,” he returned, and then she pulled his mouth to
hers, pressing her tongue between his lips. He opened up to her and she could
feel her body throbbing with heat, her face flushed, the folds between her legs
leaking juices.

He moved on top of her and she encircled him with her legs,
pulling him close until she could feel his erection pressed right against her
sweet spot. She ground against him as they kissed. Jaime hadn’t made out with a
guy like this since freshman year—and even then, it had been ridiculous heated
fumbling in the student lounge, body parts sticking out everywhere, neither of
them with any clue as to what they were doing.

The god Dionysus knew what he was doing.

He pressed the top of his thigh between her legs, letting
her rub her clit against him. She dipped one hand in the back of his pants,
feeling the hot skin of his ass, pulling him tight against her body. He nipped
along her chin and down to her neck. “Delicious way to wake up in the morning,”
he said. “Much better than pancakes.”

She laughed and the vibration her body made with the sound
tickled her clit perfectly against the fabric between them. Why was there
fabric between them? She laughed again, the echo of it reminding her of a silly
drunk girl. “Where did you get this ink done? I would love to meet the artist.
Maybe have him tattoo more of you.” She flexed her hand against his ass. She
wanted to say something outrageous. “Maybe we’ll find a good use for the
syrup?” Now there was a fantasy she wouldn’t mind him fulfilling. The two of
them all sticky, rubbing together in bed, his cock pushing deep inside her.

There was something she’d forgotten. What was it? His mouth
was on her neck. She wanted it lower, on her nipples, trailing down her
stomach, teasing at her pubic hair, moving ever lower. What had she forgotten?
God, she could just eat him up.

Eat him up?

She remembered what she’d read last night about the things
the women who followed him had done. Myth, children’s tales, right? They didn’t
seem as bad now, in the light of day. But she had to know.

Snap out of it, James.

The fog in her mind was so pleasant, though, and she felt
tipsy as though she’d had a glass or three of wine. Her body was heavy. Did she
really have to stop?

His mouth had left her neck. “Are you okay? Jaime?”

She shook her head. She focused on clearing her mind. She
took her hand out from beneath his pants and shoved at his chest, rolling
herself out from under it. Jaime was panting hard, trying to think.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She could hear hurt in her voice. She
wanted to comfort him, but she also didn’t want to look at him. “Sometimes I
forget the strength of my power. I can dim it a bit for you, if you like. I’d
never make you do anything you don’t want—”

He was right. She did want him. Even when she closed her
eyes, knowing his influence was gone, she still wanted him. Her clit throbbed.
Her whole body hummed with awareness of his presence beside her.

“It’s just, well, it’s quite the power you have there. Makes
it hard to think.” She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly and counted stars.
She still felt a little drunk, from sleep and from him.

“Why don’t we take a break?” he said. “Breakfast is getting
cold.”

She tentatively opened one eye. He was smiling sheepishly,
seated on the far side of the bed now, away from her, holding the breakfast
plate out to her. She opened the other eye and boldly stared right at him. He
was still handsome but the sheer animal magnetism of him had been dimmed a
little. It would have to do.

“I need to ask you something.”

He nodded. “You want to eat, or talk first?”

“Both, I guess.” She felt a little weak and heady still.
Food would do her good. She took the plate and cutlery from him, stabbing at
the food. The pancakes were perfect. A little cold, but fluffy and moist. She
tried hard not to think of the word
moist
. She retrieved the other fork
from where it had fallen in their lust behind a pillow and handed it to him.
For a moment, they ate in companionable silence.

“Last night after you fell asleep, I did some searching on
the Internet.”

“On the what?” He spoke through a mouth full of pancake.

“The Internet. On my tablet. Nothing fancy, I just checked
out a few mythology websites and Wikipedia.”

He furrowed his brow. “Are you still speaking English?”

“What?”

He said something in another language. Greek? Then Latin.
She thought. He sounded a little like her lawyer sister, so it had to be Latin.
Great job, James, you broke him.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying.” Then she
glanced down at his pants. Bellbottoms straight out of the sixties. “Wait a
minute—you said you were trapped in the bottle between, uh, customers?”

“Masters. Or mistresses.”

Mistress, huh. Sounds kinky. Don’t get distracted again,
James.
“Right. Uh. So, when was the last time you were, you know, out in
the world? Do you know the year?”

“1967.”

“Ah. Right. Well, I’m going to have to explain a few
things.”

Jaime launched into an explanation of the history of the
Internet, sounding pedantic even to herself as she turned on the tablet and
took him for a small tour.

He didn’t need to know about Tim Berners-Lee, really, or
about TCP/IP, cascading style sheets, or social networking, but she found
herself telling him anyway. She knew she was stalling because she didn’t want
to have to ask the questions that wouldn’t leave her brain. But he nodded along
with each point, his eyes growing wide with childlike wonder and he grinned
when she demonstrated how to play Angry Birds.

She pulled up her university’s alumni site, from a fine arts
school just a few blocks away, and showed him three of her best girlfriends,
photos of Liv and Missy and Giselle. He seemed particularly interested in how
email addresses and Twitter worked, and was amazed that she could contact them
without having to dial a phone (she laughed at his literal use of the phrase
dial
a phone
, and made a mental note to show him her cell later). Then she
followed links to websites displaying their art.

“This is amazing,” he said, holding the tablet close to his
face. “I’d seen your televisions the last time I was out in the world,
black-and-white and full of—what do you call it? Static? But this is like a
scrying glass, magic only gods have.” He marveled over a photo of one of Liv’s
oil paintings, a phoenix in flight. “You said you’re not an artist
professionally?”

“No.” Jaime felt again as though she’d disappointed him.
I
think you’re projecting, James. It’s not the god you’ve disappointed.
“I
don’t paint anymore.”

“Why not? Did you hurt your hands?” He looked alarmed,
reaching for her.

“No, I just—well, you don’t make a lot of money from art
these days.”

He nodded. “There aren’t many patrons anymore. I remember
that much from my last few stays out of the bottle.”

“So I used to keep it up as a hobby, but well, paints are
expensive and there really wasn’t room for a studio, Keith and I each needed an
office. My ex-husband.”

“He doesn’t live here anymore? So now you have room for a
studio.” He grinned at her, pleased to have solved one of her problems.

She smiled back. “I guess? I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe
it would be fun to paint again. But I think I’ve forgotten how to be an
artist.” They had settled back into regular conversation and she was starting
to feel comfortable with him now. “Maybe I’ll paint the house, make it my own
again—I hate these cream-colored walls. I’ll paint them some crazy color that
would make it impossible to resell. Purple everywhere. I could get the girls to
help. If I ever get around to it.”

He was studying her face carefully, a serious expression on
his own. “That sounds beautiful.”

“Well, maybe you can help. Can you paint?”

He cocked his head and seemed thoughtful. “No, but I might
be able to help.” Then he changed the subject abruptly. “What do you do, if you
don’t paint?”

“I’m a web designer. The sites I just showed you, Missy’s
and Giselle’s and Liv’s, I made those.” She explained the coding again and
pointed out the online albums presenting photos of their art, the menus she’d
designed, the choice of fonts and colors. “It sounds so technical coming out of
my mouth, doesn’t it? I don’t even remember how to talk like an artist
anymore.”

He took the tablet from her again, staring at Liv’s website
with a photo of her up close and center. “But this is beautiful. You’ve pulled
out the green in her eyes for the background, just as if you were to paint her.
The letters—what did you call it, font? They’re smooth and mysterious, like her
smile, and curled in the same way the brushstrokes in her paintings are. You’ve
captured her perfectly.”

Jaime blinked, looking at the website as if for the first
time. Of course she’d known all this already—she’d chosen everything
deliberately, she supposed, even if she didn’t think of it in terms of
painting. But to have someone else see it that way, her boring day job as art?

A grin played at her mouth. He really understood. She turned
and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course. Now what is it you wanted to ask me?”

Jaime pushed down the last of her disquiet. What did history
mean, anyway? Especially history from thousands of years ago. “It doesn’t
matter.” And in that moment, she was almost convinced that it didn’t.