“Oh, Andromeda,” he practically purrs. “I’ll tell you exactly what I’d like you to do to me. And what I would like to do to you, as well. But that will wait for another night, I think.”
He stands and walks behind me, brushing my hair away from the side of my neck with his long fingers. A gasp leaves me as he runs one finger down the side of my neck and across my collarbone, my body trembling slightly at the sensation. I have to fight the urge to lean into his touch, to bare my neck further, my muscles betraying my brain as a heated flush covers my skin.
I half expect him to pull me from my seat and bend me over the table, but he steps back and assists me in pulling my chair out. As I stand and face him, my gaze reaches to his chest, forcing me to look up into his eyes. He runs his fingers down the side of my face and touches the ends of my hair once more before quietly dismissing me.
“Goodnight, Andromeda. Sleep well.”
The Captain’s gentle caresses still radiate on my skin as I walk back to my cabin in a haze of confusion. My flesh feels hot and flushed, my breath uneven. The mist from the sea cools my burning cheeks as I travel over the deck. He had done none of the depraved things I anticipated — merely fed me, observed me, and asked a few questions. To make matters worse, I’m not sure if I am more confused over his behavior, his questions about my previous life, or the reaction my body had to him.
I wish I wasn’t sharing a room with Lyra this evening because the ache I feel between my legs after the Captain’s touch will keep me awake tonight without satisfaction. When I creep into our room, the dim candlelight outlines Lyra’s sleeping form in her bunk. Silently as possible, I undress and crawl into my bed before blowing out the candle and turning my back to my cabin mate to will myself to sleep.
Chapter 7
I’m sixteen again. The spring evening air is warm, and a soft breeze wraps itself around me and the other initiates as we await the start of the rites. Sheer panels of fabric that look like sea foam wrap my body, matching the other girls around me. Each of us wears a coordinating mask, hiding enough of our identity to make it hard to know who we are to untrained eyes, but we know one another closely and chatter nervously while we await the signal.
I know that boys from the nearby villages will devote themselves to the Goddess on this night too, and my only concern is that my partner is handsome and gentle. It will be the first time for both of us, and I am anxious and excited for the experience. I’ve lived in the temple for the past two years, learning the secrets of the Goddess and the ways of pleasure. I am ready to test my education.
The priestesses told us what to expect, and provided us the teas necessary to prevent us from getting with child — we are taught that bearing a child should be a choice to be made between two people who wish to commit to the babe and each other, not a punishment for a night of pleasure and merriment. I know, that as long as we take our time, the pain will be minimal and the potential pleasure great, so I am practically alight with anticipation.
The drums begin. My fellow initiates and I grasp hands in a line and proceed down the hill through the sacred grove of trees to the clearing, stifling our nervous giggles as we approach. A great fire lights the open center of the grove and the High Priestess has already addressed the ring of boys awaiting our arrival. As we enter the circle, we face the outer ring of young men and begin our dance.
We rotate through the circle once, twice, thrice, making eye contact with potential partners, admiring their bare chests and arms. Our loose hair flows around lithe bodies as we twirl. Some of the boys look to be barely old enough to partake, but each boy in the outer circle and girl in the inner ring are here by their own choice. The Goddess does not demand participation to worship Her, nor is there a required age one must join.
The drumming reaches its crescendo — our signal to mingle with the boys to choose our partner. If no one pleases our eyes, we can wait until the next rites. Several suitors have caught my attention, but one stands out. His eyes have been locked on mine since the dance began and I feel my chest tighten under his gaze.
I can only see full lips beneath his mask, but I can tell he is handsome. The firelight shimmers on his golden hair, hanging in loose waves almost to his shoulders. Those shoulders are broad, and even though he still needs time to fill out his frame, he is already taller than many of the other suitors. As he approaches me near the firelight, I see his dark eyes are green, not brown like I expected. They’re the color of the forest canopy we dance beneath. When he reaches out to stroke my arm, heat rushes through my body and pools at my core. This is him.
I take his hand and pull him outside the ring, asking as I tug him along, “Do you choose me?”
“I do,” he replies in a deep murmur.
Once we reach the trees, he pulls me to him and kisses me softly at first, then more deeply, our masks rubbing, but never removed. The sheer fabric that covers me slips between the skin of our chests. Even though we are inexperienced, instinct takes over and we know what to do: clothing is stripped away, warm skin lays flush with one another, needy kisses deepen in the darkness.
My lessons return to me and I giggle as I roll him onto his back, straddling his hips. He runs his hands over my small breasts and stomach as I rub my wetness against him. Soon, teasing isn’t enough for either of us and I gasp at the sting when he enters me. However, he is gentle, and I lower myself on him slowly until the pain is gone — until only the ache of wanting remains.
We move our hips together, stealing kisses, until I cry out with pleasure. As I clench him between my thighs, he follows me into oblivion and we lay together, sated under the starry skies.
* * *
I wake abruptly, filled with a longing I haven’t felt in years. My inner thighs are slippery with desire at the memory of the long-ago rites relived in my dream. It’s been years since I dreamed this vividly of that night and the sweet memory leaves me aching in my chest and core, forcing me to curl into myself in the bed.
I can still remember watching the priestesses from the temple when they visited my village as a child. They were ethereal, powerful, and feared. Men both trembled at their feet and sought their guidance on everything from livestock and crops to healing and divination.
These holy women prayed for blessings and taught knowledge from ancient texts. They cared for the people and the natural world. To lay with a priestess was a sacred act, one that was saved for rituals, or holy days, to ask for great blessings from the Goddess.
From the moment I saw them I knew I would be one, even if it hadn’t been expected of me by my mother. They accepted daughters from peasants and nobility alike, all treated as sisters under the Great Goddess.
But that was then. This is my reality now.
For a moment, in the haze of sleep, nervousness threatens to overwhelm me at finding myself in a strange room. The confusion briefly overpowers the lust and longing I feel before I remember… I’m on a ship.
Lennox’s ship.
Lyra rustles nearby, using the chamber pot — the sound of liquid hitting the side of the basin rather than the sound of retching. Thank the Goddess.
“Your stomach has settled?” I ask, propping my head on my hand.
“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” Lyra answers. She looks refreshed and has some color back in her cheeks.