Chapter 6
WHERE FORCED PROXIMITY TROPE MORPHS INTO ONLY ONE BED TROPE (AND THE MUSE MAKES LISTS)
E rato considered herself a worldly woman.
She had been everywhere, seen most of it—what hadn’t been obscured by a woman’s legs or breasts, that is—and overall had been thoroughly unimpressed by that very world.
Unless the world in question contained the above mentioned legs or breasts.
And now she had a third element to add to her “gobsmacked by” list. Demeter applying a layer of lotion to her graceful neck.
That was it. The whole list.
Legs,
Bosoms,
The Goddess of Harvest running a hand down the long expanse of her neck, casually dipping it lower to her collarbones and then up again.
Then Demeter lifted the rather dowdy checkered robe and took care of her calves.
Erato actually gulped. Then died. She didn’t know if muses went to heaven, or if there was even a heaven in the entire concept of Olympus and Greek mythology—because no fucking way sharing an eternity with the likes of Zeus and Ares and the rest of the useless louts was anything resembling heavenly—but Erato was officially there.
Demeter raised a questioning eyebrow, as if inquiring about the gulping.
Erato, however, was deceased and in the most sensual of heavens, placidly and probably dumbfoundedly and hopefully not overtly lasciviously following every movement of long fingers, slick with lotion over the olive skin of shapely calves.
And being deceased, Erato was not able to answer the questioning eyebrow.
Them’s were the breaks, but she knew she had died very happily.
Still, all jokes aside—though joking about this particular set of calves should be some kind of blasphemy—this evening Erato was facing a real test of her immortality.
It wasn’t that she had never shared a room with a woman. She had shared plenty. Rooms, shacks, closets, palaces. It wasn’t even that she hadn’t shared a room with a Goddess. Her years with Aphrodite were divine, pun intended. However?—
“I assume you don’t much care about which side of the bed you take, Muse?”
Yeah, however… In fact, quite a number of howevers.
Erato had never shared a room—A BED—with this particular Goddess.
Fates, they hadn’t made it to bed during their one night in Vegas.
And the second “however” among the many “howevers,” Demeter’s tone, with just that little touch of disapproval, that “I know whom you did, and not just last summer, but every summer” was decidedly working for Erato.
It shouldn’t be working. She really wasn’t into being put down. And yet… It did something to her. Maybe because underneath all that prideful disapproval lay a woman who came like molten lava on her fingers, on her lips, on her face.
Moreover, something—probably her eternity of experience, which she rarely boasted about—told her this tone of Demeter’s ran much deeper than mere disapproval.
Because while Demeter was her cool, calm, collected self, her hands shook ever so slightly when she moved the mountain of pillows around the California king bed.
“I’ll take a quick shower before we turn in, if that’s okay?” Erato watched carefully as Demeter’s eyes darted towards the immense expanse of the penthouse suite and the largess of the bathroom. A plump lip was sucked in, breathing turned a touch shallow, and then Demeter’s cheeks caught fire.
Oh, yeah, with them being bonded to never be more than a few feet away from each other, she’d have to be present as Erato showered.
In the confines of the rather small private plane, they’d so far managed bathroom breaks just fine.
But here? Here, Demeter would have to observe. Erato did so love an audience.
She smirked and the crimson tinge of Demeter’s cheekbones made its way down her ample decolletage. The Goddess took a deep breath, visibly collecting herself, and haughtily motioned with her chin towards the bathroom.
Once they were both there, she turned away from Erato and tapped her foot impatiently.
Erato followed instructions very well, so well it had gotten her compliments and sonnets and love declarations.
But she only followed them well when they were uttered by mostly naked women who had designs on her person.
Women who had other motives to issue instruction were usually less successful.
Demeter’s shower had been quick and efficient and Erato barely had a moment to consider what had been happening.
But now it was her turn, and Erato took her time.
Her leather jacket hit the floor first, buckles making as much noise as possible and she watched Demeter jump about a foot in the air.
Her boots followed and this time the Goddess of Harvest was more prepared.
But these articles of clothing were just the beginning in Erato’s quest to unravel the true intentions beneath Demeter’s myriad of mixed signals.
She very slowly, with as little noise as possible, took off her jeans and watched as Demeter’s entire body went rigid.
When she gently lifted her tank top, she could have sworn there were goosebumps running up Demeter’s nape.
And when Erato’s boxers hit the floor with the faintest of sounds, Demeter’s fingers curled into fists.
Well, now… This was an entirely different game.
Erato hurried through her ablutions. She knew better than to torture.
She was in the business of satisfying, so she didn’t drag it out.
In fact, she went through her usual routine much quicker than she normally would.
After all, everything about Demeter spoke—nay, screamed—that she was absolutely ready for a repeat of their Vegas performance, except when she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in one of the fluffiest robes, Demeter’s face was a picture of torn torment.
There was desire, sure. But there was something else, something so sad and pained that caused Erato’s chest to nearly cave.
She did not like this feeling. She had an entire list of why she positively despised said feeling.
Erato—the charming and debonair Muse of Erotic Poetry and everything else involving sex and smut—did not do feelings.
Erato—the in demand and highly pursued prized lover—had no time for feelings, especially not of the pained and tormented variety,
Erato—the devastatingly gorgeous deity—for the life of her had no idea what to do about these feelings, her own—which she decidedly did not have, thank you very much—or Demeter’s, who surely must simply have indigestion of something.
Settling for the latter, Erato nipped out of the bathroom, leaving the clearly distressed Goddess to herself. They had indulged at Dionysus’s, and who the Hell—sorry, Hades—knew what that fool put in his food. Definitely no quality control in his house.
But Demeter did not settle for number three of Erato’s above enumerated points and followed her out of the bathroom, turning the lights low and laying down silently on the left side of the bed.
Technically, that was Erato’s side. She said nothing and since she normally slept in the nude, tightened the robe around herself before lying down on the covers.
Her heart hammered in her ears. In the deafening silence of the room, in the immensity that was the California king, Erato felt alone with her thoughts. And with her hammering heart. Neither was pleasant company at the moment. Erato had assiduously avoided them both whenever she could.
Because in the dark and stillness, she had to confront that wretched list again. And add a number four to it.
Erato—the almighty seductress—would (probably, possibly, absolutely not certainly, thank you very much) give a lot to reach out and clasp Demeter’s still trembling hand lying just inches away from hers.
What that meant, Erato didn’t know. See point 1 on this list. Also see points 2 and 3 on this list. She desperately tried to cling to them, to no avail. The tremble of the graceful limb was barely there, yet the surface of the bed shook ever so slightly.
The possible and probable happened and Erato didn’t yet know what she’d have to give, but slowly scooted over and intertwined her fingers with the soft, for once cold ones of the Goddess of Harvest.
Demeter did not gasp, but Erato sensed it was a close call.
She was beginning to learn that her bed fellow did not allow herself much expressionism.
In fact, the way their Vegas encounter had proceeded, everything about Demeter signaled that it went against what she had established as her standard of behavior.
And yes, she screamed in ecstasy—Erato smiled at the memory—but Erato also suspected it was a one off.
An exception. She, the lowly muse, had been an exception.
The thought did not scare her as much as it should have.
Plenty of mortals and immortals made an exception out of her.
After all, she was gorgeous and sexy and outrageously good at what she did.
And she did women of all ages, inclinations and creeds.
So they made said exceptions for her all the time.
But this one? This Goddess who was all about duty and order and diligence?
Who was graceful and lovely and whose tentative smile lit something in Erato’s heart. This one was special.
Well, if being an exception did not scare Erato, the absolute idiocy of this last thought almost made her bolt out of bed. Only Demeter, anchoring her, fingers warming slowly in hers, managed to keep her still.
Lit something in Erato’s heart? What on Gaia’s green Earth was she thinking? She had a list. She had several amazing lists! Points 1, 2 and 3 were unimpeachable!
Then Demeter sighed and scooted a bit closer to her, their shoulders brushing now, their fingers intertwined, the luscious curls tickling Erato’s cheek and she forgot the lists, and the thoughts and Gaia’s green earth. Who cared?
She was holding the hand of the most beautiful woman.
A woman who despite being rather mean to her—as an Ice Queen would be—trembled in her arms and got possessive when others gyrated in her lap and scolded foolish drunkards who didn’t know who she was.
Really, none of that was particularly healthy, but then Erato didn’t do healthy either, not to mention hearts and feelings and loveliness.
That something that had been lit in her heart, burned just a touch brighter.
When Demeter’s breathing evened out and her hand relaxed, Erato smiled like a completely smitten fool and turned on her side to watch the gorgeous features of the woman sleeping next to her.
She was a total sap. But it was okay, since she had a list, and didn’t do feelings, plus Demeter would totally smite her if she ever found out, and if Demeter didn’t, then Hades or Hera surely would.
So it was okay. She was off limits. In her sleep, Demeter squeezed Erato’s fingers and scooted even closer.
Erato’s smile didn’t leave her face till morning.