Aurelius: Ashtet's Temple: Qemassen
She was sweat and sweet and heat, and she was laughing, kissing him, smiling, happy. Aurelius kissed her back, long and hard, pulling her against him, pulling her down as he leaned back against the cushioned settee where they were lounging. It wasn't his bed, wasn't his home, wasn't his wife. And he felt better for that.
Lately, he always felt better for that.
Beside him, on a patterned stool, his dagger glinted next to what little remained of Qanmi's sapenta. The Ajwatat who now lay on the floor with her head propped against the settee had swallowed most of the poppy drink before collapsing in ecstatic oblivion, leaving Aurelius and the second woman to their fun. Not that she was missing much, with her heart no doubt sailing Tanata's clouds. Aurelius and his beautiful stranger were only paddling in the shallows.
He leaned his head back and back over the rim of the cedarwood and the woman whose name he didn't know and hadn't asked slunk lower. Face to chest with him, she curled the tip of her tongue inside the notch at the base of his neck then licked slowly upwards, tracing a straight line from hollow to chin.
Aurelius's skin prickled. He closed his eyes.
Her tongue was soft, but in his mind it was a hard dagger. In his mind, cold metal shaved slow against his skin. Its sharpened point drew blood with so little pressure. A bead of red, caught on the blade's edge. As welcome as a lover's touch.
He'd scraped it hard against his skin when he'd been playing with it two days ago—the shear so close it'd caused a rash.
Let me have you, it had said, as the woman said now, pulling at his flesh, crawling atop him, the breath of her words tickling the hairs on his skin. He reached his arms all the way around her. He dug the tips of his fingers in just enough, delicately drawing them down her spine and smiling when she squealed.
Flesh and steel swarmed before him when he closed his eyes, or when he opened them. Was this how Dashel had felt? Was it what had kept him alive?
Until Aurelius had killed him.
Aurelius laughed, off-pitch, and the beautiful stranger sat up, straddling him. Her confusion was ice cold in the air.
Without opening his eyes, Aurelius traced his fingers across her torso, feeling her ribs, the dip of her stomach, her belly button. He should ease her worries. Perhaps she feared the displeasure of a king. Perhaps she did this out of duty.
He'd lost them.
The thought pulsed in his skull, bobbing on a sea of sapenta and wine.
He'd killed them.
The woman's hands cupped his shoulders, the hair between her legs rough and soft all at once against his cock.
Now there was only him. The only one he deserved. The only one he'd ever truly cared for.
He'd betrayed his brother for a whore who'd robbed him of his son, his future, his sense. It might as well have been Aurelius's cruelty that had driven Ashtaroth mad and then missing.
Not missing. Dead. Everyone knew he was dead—like Qwella and Dashel and Aurelius's father.
The woman slunk down, her nipples grazing his chest as she sought some new way to stir his desire. She was gentle, unsure, soft like all the others before her.
Bree's had been a cold heat and a hard love. She'd have dug her nails in, raked them down his chest till they left a mark. She'd have bitten his lip, feigned disinterest at the skill and spectacle of Aurelius eq-Eshmunen.
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