Female Fantasy
The night of the ball, Mira dresses me in a skintight, serpentine skirt that resembles the tail of a fish.
Made of brightly pigmented rainbow scales in the colors of royalty, it swishes around my ankles as I walk.
Upon my bosom, I wear a similarly shaded brassiere made of thick mud pearl.
It fits my curves like a corset, emphasizing the tops of my breasts and the flat of my abdomen, now toned with muscle.
My thick brown hair has been braided down my back with combs of coral, and sea glass jewelry hangs from my neck and ears.
Mira insisted on rubbing some kind of serum into my skin so that every time I catch the moonlight, my entire body shimmers.
For the first time in my life, I feel remarkable.
Until, that is, Ryke knocks on the door to my room.
He swims in front of me, his onyx tail strong and thick, swishing behind him.
He is wearing a matching long-sleeved shirt that looks like a second skin, the material coarse, like embossed leather.
It highlights every finely honed inch of him, from his pectoral muscles to the V shape of his torso, which forces my eyes to trail down his chest. His dark hair has been combed back with a material that looks slimy as squid ink, and his face is hidden behind a gold mask.
A disguise, but not one capable of hiding those beautiful golden eyes, sweet as honey and bright as the sun.
When he sees me, those eyes immediately darken.
“You look…” His voice trails off.
I cannot help but blush. “As do you, my prince.”
He offers me his arm, and I accept, careful not to burst my air bubble. But my core strength has vastly improved in the last few weeks. I am now able to control the direction in which I swim without popping the force field around me that allows me to breathe.
Ryke watches me closely. “I am impressed,” he says.
Color creeps up my neck.
“Wait until you see me dance,” I say. “I have been practicing.”
I watch the muscles of his throat work as he swallows.
“I look forward to it.”
As we swim toward the palace, Ryke and I review our plan.
We are to enter together, two foreign travelers visiting Atlantia from a faraway sea.
To avoid suspicion, we are to do our best to speak to no one.
I am to resist the urge to acknowledge Dylan, Guinn, Mira, and Kai.
They are known former associates of Ryke’s who had to publicly denounce the royal family in order to survive.
Communicating with them out in the open could put everyone at risk.
We will do a round of the ballroom and dance once, after which I will create a diversion while Ryke sneaks into the throne room and steals the treasure trove.
He doubts that the mer have moved the priceless artifacts from where they were laid to rest by Ryke’s family, under lock and key.
Lucky for us, Ryke still has a copy of said key.
“Are you nervous?” he whispers.
His breath tickles the back of my neck and makes me shiver.
“Not at all,” I lie.
Ryke chuckles darkly. “You lie so sweetly, little minnow.”
The sand castle is so grand, it resembles a tiny town more than a home.
Looking down at it from above, I count six towers, three of which are connected by arched bridges carved with ancient symbols I do not recognize and illustrations of mer using pronged instruments to maim sea beasts with eight tentacles and big teeth.
There are spiral staircases leading between the entryways, a moat with a beautiful fountain shaped like a dolphin, and stained-glass windows made of sea glass similar to what I wear around my neck.
Flags flutter above each spire, each featuring a mer with blood running from their fanged teeth.
The symbol of the siren.
“Okay, now I am nervous,” I whisper to Ryke.
“Just squeeze my hand,” he says. “I will not let anything happen to you.”
The doors to the ballroom fly open, and we are immediately greeted by the sound of glorious music, a band of merry mer playing an upbeat melody I have never heard before on instruments I have seen only in my dreams. On the floor, pairs of mer clad in finery and riches move to the rhythm, their tails hovering above the sand-paved floors.
They dance mainly with their abdomens and hips, a sensual mating ritual of sorts.
Couples maintain eye contact, practically gyrating against each other, seducing one another with their movements.
The sight sets off a tingling between my legs that I am not meant to have.
I press my thighs together to contain the sensation.
In the corners, mer are gathered, laughing loudly and drinking ale.
I spot Dylan, Guinn, and Kai doing just that, the latter’s gaze glued to the dance floor, where Mira moves in time with a mer with long auburn hair.
When she throws her head back and shimmies, Kai clenches his teeth and downs his entire glass.
Interesting.
And above the dance floor sits a golden dais supporting a throne made almost entirely of reconstructed rare shells.
Its painted edges threaten to cut anyone who dares get too close, but its alluring textures and colors simultaneously invite strangers in.
And hovering above the dais are three menacing mer.
Not mer.
Sirens.
Ryke has prepared me for this, too.
In the center is Talassa, the false queen.
And on either side of her are Naia and Nix, her younger twin sister and brother.
At first glance, the three creatures are beautiful.
Their skin is deeply tanned, as if they have spent their days sunning upon the shore instead of buried deep beneath its secret surfaces, their hair white as untouched sand.
But upon closer examination, their eyes are vacant and bloodred, a reminder of the lives they took to gain their strength.
Above all, they feel wrong. As if their bodies have been poisoned, taken apart, then put back together.
I shudder as the sensation creeps over my skin and caresses my flesh.
“Do not look at them,” Ryke commands. “Follow me.”
The musicians are now playing a fast-paced jig that demands the mer dance as a group, divided into two clean lines.
When they join forces by linking arms, they look like a blooming flower, gorgeous and organic.
We approach them quietly, but the second we take our places in the lines, the music changes to something slower.
More enchanting.
Seductive.
My heart begins to race. I have never moved this way before, even in private, let alone in public.
When I was married, the joining was for the sole purpose of procreating, birthing life.
I have never experienced lovemaking or pleasure for pleasure’s sake.
When I shared my deepest desires with my husband, admitted to the fantasies I harbored and the curiosities I allowed my mind to linger on in the dead of night with my hand between my thighs, he called me a whore and refused to speak to me for a week.
I have never worn my sexuality on the outside before.
I do not know where to begin.
So when Ryke locks his brilliant eyes with mine, lowers his thick lashes, and starts to move to the music, I allow him to take the lead.
We circle each other like great white sharks smelling blood in the water.
Ryke juts out his chin in a silent question, and I nod, granting him permission.
Then his hand is on my lower back, right above the curve of my backside, the other lightly ghosting across my collarbone.
I feel all the air rush out of my lungs at once.
The madness around us seems to momentarily still.
And when Ryke’s hardness brushes against the softness only he knows lies at the apex of my thighs, all thoughts vacate my brain.
And then he begins to move.
Slowly at first, grinding his hips against mine.
A light friction.
A tiny moan escapes my lips.
And at the sound of my desperation, Ryke growls.
His movements become feral. He holds me, practically thrusting his hips against mine to the leisurely, tantalizing beat.
Our bodies join together, and we become one on the dance floor.
I feel his pulse race below my fingertips, his breath lavishing my mouth.
My eyes linger on his lips for a second, and his grip on my lower back tightens as if he is in pain.
“Merriah,” he whispers. “What are you doing to me?”
I dare not answer, only close my eyes and allow myself to feel him.
All of him. His desire flooding my senses, making me his without ever truly claiming me.
The beat, a tantric rhythm of persuasion, possessing me until I have no choice but to swerve my hips from side to side, to arch into Ryke’s touch, to tip my face up toward the moon and sigh.
And then there is a tiny pull.
It feels like an anchor in my chest, leading me somewhere I cannot see, only sense. An invisible thread in a larger tapestry, forming a picture I cannot yet comprehend.
The same tug that led me to the conch.
Fate is now hauling me toward the treasure trove, begging me to grasp the objects in my hands and give in to their magical properties.
The trove can control armies.
And I am destined to control the trove.
My eyes fly open, and when they do, Ryke is staring right into them. His red mouth is slightly parted, his nostrils flared. I bite my lip, and his gaze rakes over it, indicating what he’d like to do with his tongue. He reaches out and traces the bow with his fingertips.
But I know I should tell him about my revelation.
“Ryke,” I start to say.
And then he swallows my voice as his mouth crashes into mine.