He kisses the place between my jaw and my ear, sensitive skin that’s hardly ever touched by anyone but me.
He kisses the front of my throat.
Licks me there.
I’m a heated puddle in a frigid ocean, all of me curled against all of him. Panting into the night sky. He cradles my head with one hand and brings my face to his.
It’s the first time I’ve really seen him. What he looks like in the ocean, warm and wet.
He’s fucking beautiful.
Droplets cling to his dark hair like diamonds. Like the water can’t bear to be away from him. I reach for his name, for anything to say, but there’s nothing to say in the face of this. Nothing, nothing.
Poseidon leans in and kisses me, full on the mouth. I’ve been hanging off him for who knows how long and it’s still a collision. The water around us doesn’t soften it at all. It’s like drowning, only it hurts less.
And it hurts more.
He flicks his tongue into my mouth, tasting me there, and I part my lips for him. This isn’t like when my head went under. He tastes like the sting of salt but better, so much better. There’s a noise at the back of my throat. I’m making it, but it doesn’t sound like me. Not any version of me I know.
Poseidon lingers over it, drawing it out of me again and again with his lips and teeth and tongue.
Until finally he pulls away.
In the moonlight, he’s all shadows and lines, a satisfied darkness at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go,” he says again.
This time, I can’t argue.
8
Poseidon
She’s smart enough not to fight me on the way back to the ship.
Smart enough, and tired enough. The princess put on a hell of a show out there. Didn’t get as far as she thought, but I don’t tell her that.
Back at the ship I put her over my shoulder and pull us both out of the water. For once I’m not craving the dive back in, not wishing for it. I don’t know what that says about me, or about her. It probably says more about the virtues of physical exercise than anything else.
Nicholas is waiting on deck, arms folded over his chest, glaring.
“If you’re not careful, your face will stay that ugly,” I tell him. I transfer Ashley from my shoulder to my arms. Her eyelashes flutter. Trying so hard to keep those eyes open, and it’s such a pointless task.
“How long were you planning to stay out there?”
“This long.”
He purses his lips, and I can tell he’s weighing whether his next words will be worth getting thrown overboard for. “I ran a bath.”
“Good choice. You’re in charge this shift.”
“Lucky me.” Nicholas’s voice floats after us. No, I did not strictly give notice before I went after Ashley. It’s not usually my custom to abandon ship without warning, but sometimes a princess with a death wish calls.
I take her to the bathroom and strip off her clothes. Ashley helps this time, standing up while I do it, and when I pick her up to put her in the bath she opens her eyes. “You’re not mad?” She lets out a hiss as the water touches her skin. It’ll feel scorching, but it’s not.
“No. I’m entertained.”
“That’s—” I dip a washcloth in the water and skim it up over her chest, her shoulders. Over two perfect tits. She’s so cold she doesn’t feel it anymore. No shiver response. Either that, or I kept her warm enough. “That’s not nice,” she whispers.
“If someone told you I was nice, they lied.”
Ashley closes her eyes again and lets me bathe her. Wash the ocean out of her hair. Rinse. I want to be irritated about this, about constantly having to rescue her and strip her and put her in clean, hot water, but I can’t summon it.
All I can summon is the memory of her lips on mine.
She’s practically asleep when I lift her out of the tub, but she puts a hand on one of my shoulders and stands while I towel her off.
It’s painful, touching her like this. Painful in multiple ways. But there are lines not to cross, and so forth.
When she’s dry, I work a comb through her hair, dress her in a shirt that’s large and loose enough for my purposes, and put her into the bed. Ashley’s sleeping before I draw the blankets up to her chin.
I leave one ankle out.
That’s all I need.
I keep the ball and chain in a drawer with other things that don’t have a place. This piece isn’t authentic anymore—the ball is original, according to the man who gifted it to me, but the chain is newer, and the ankle clasp newer still. It won’t cut her when she tries to walk.
Ashley’s breathing doesn’t change, not so much as a hitch, when I fasten it around her ankle and put the ball on the floor. The key goes into my pocket. And then I turn off the light by the bed and let the moonlight settle over us.
I’m tired. Pleasantly tired. So I take my usual chair by the bed for a minute, meaning to get up and bother Nicholas, meaning to do almost anything else but fall into a light sleep. The whispering starts almost immediately. Wordless, barely audible, like a second-by-second report from the sea that it exists.
A horrified gasp turns into a strangled scream and slaps me awake. Ashley’s sitting up in the bed, blankets thrown off, both hands clawing at her ankle. “What is this? What did you do?”
I stretch in the chair. “I wouldn’t try swimming now, if I were you.”
She lunges for me. Good. I catch all her momentum in my hands and pin her to the bed, her eyes wide and furious, her whole body alive with her struggle.
I’m alive with her.
Because as much as the runaway princess wants me to believe she hates this, her body tells me the truth. The blows across my chest are an invitation. Her hips thrashing against the bed are a promise.
I could take her wrists in one hand and hold her in place, but I don’t. I let her keep up her battle. It’s like a butterfly fighting a hurricane.
And that’s what I feel like—a hurricane. High winds and unpredictable twists and turns. My control ebbs away like the tide and I fucking want this. I want her. I want her to see me. But I want my mouth on her more, so I lean down and lick the side of her neck.
Ashley lets out a noise that’s half moan and half sob, turning her face away to expose more of her neck. Another invitation. Her fists beat at my chest, but they’re worse than useless. I nip her over the trail of my tongue. I take her chin in my hand and turn her head until her cheek is pressed against the pillow and the pad of my thumb meets frustrated tears.
I lick those, too, and her fine-boned jaw opens in my hand. Her lips give me a whimper that very nearly makes me come in my own pants.
“Please.” That’s a favorite of hers, that please. I can’t help but notice that it’s not please don’t. It’s not Poseidon, stop. It’s shameful. It’s hot.
I bite her earlobe and laugh, then push her thighs apart with one hand. Ashley stops trying to leave bruises on my chest and reaches for the hem of the shirt. It’s too late. I’ve got it shoved up around her waist, and I shove it up higher to show her who owns the damned thing. Her hands search for it, try to push it down. I like that. I fucking like it. I like the way her hips beg me to touch her while she pretends they’re not.