17 - Iona #3
Iona sighs. She’d done this once before at college when she first learned how to conjure fire, but Samuel had been kind enough to set the targets much closer. She has to aim well to hit her marks, and it turns out she has yet another weakness to add to her growing list of faults.
She conjures another fireball and hurls it, missing another target entirely. The ball bounces through the grass, leaving a trail of fire as it rolls away.
“These did nothing against Elise,” Iona mumbles.
“If we’d burned the forest down around her, it might have made a difference,” Ariadne says.
“Why didn’t you?” Iona asks with slight sarcasm.
“Crescentia lay unconscious somewhere in the trees, and there were other students searching for the ritual site. A fire could have burned them, too,” Ariadne says. “And most of all, you would have never forgiven me for killing your cousin.”
Iona frowns. “If she hadn’t been my cousin, would you have killed her?”
“Yes,” Ariadne says, without hesitation.
Taken aback, Iona says, “You told me you weren’t a killer.”
“Defense of oneself or others is not murder,” Ariadne argues. “There is a significant difference between the two.”
Iona’s mind races, so many questions threatening to burst past her lips, each of them too frightening to ask.
“Let’s continue,” Ariadne suggests, sensing her turmoil.
She conjures another ball of fire and hurls it. It strikes the side of another target but doesn’t quite hit the center.
“You’ve given up,” Ariadne accuses.
“No…” Iona says. “Can I not step closer?”
“Ten bullseyes,” Ariadne says. “That is all you need. It is not that difficult.”
Glowering at her, Iona makes all of the targets combust, the flames burning them up in seconds until they are reduced to piles of ash.
“You are the sorest loser,” Ariadne chuckles.
“You’ve specifically chosen a skill I am horrible at so you can win again,” Iona says.
“Would you prefer another flying lesson?” Ariadne asks.
“No,” Iona says quickly, recalling their lesson the day before, when Ariadne had crafted an illusion of a manticore chasing her about the sky to practice evasive maneuvers. It had been a most unsettling lesson indeed.
“What should we do then?” Ariadne asks.
“Something useful that I am capable of mastering!” Iona slumps onto the ground and pulls a few blades of grass with her fist, fiddling with the pieces of green between her fingers.
Ariadne walks away and Iona stiffens, wondering if she’d angered her past the point of speaking, which is never a good sign.
But Ariadne returns with a handful of stones in her hand. She drops them to the ground and sits cross-legged in front of her.
“Moira taught me this trick.” Ariadne plucks up one of the stones and holds it in the center of her palm. “Démolir.”
Iona flinches, expecting an explosion, but there is none.
“Throw this,” Ariadne says, then quickly clarifies, “Throw it far.”
Standing and gingerly taking the stone from her, Iona throws it as far as she can and, just as she’d suspected, the stone explodes the moment it hits the ground, chunks of dirt flying up into the air from the force of the blast.
“Clever,” Iona says.
“Try it,” Ariadne says, motioning for her to sit again.
They spend a few minutes enchanting the stones until all are imbued with magic. The feat had once been a challenge for Iona at college, but with help from the pendant she finds it significantly easier.
“Now the fun part.” Ariadne takes half of the stones for her own and steps forward.
They throw their explosive stones far, admiring the damage they create, riddling the earth with deep craters, nearly shattering their eardrums from the deafening bursts, until they’ve run out of ammunition.
“Those might be better for the likes of you,” Ariadne says, conjuring water to clean the dirt from her hands. “No need to aim as accurately, so long as you throw them far enough.”
“It is an adequate alternative,” Iona admits.
“I suppose we can finish for the day,” Ariadne says. “Unless you think you can hit six more targets.”
Iona snorts, conjuring away her clothes to make it easier for the both of them.
“Suit yourself,” Ariadne grins.
“I’m yours,” Iona says with a mockingly coquettish smile. “What is your fantasy now?”
She inhales sharply when Ariadne sends a gust of air to shove her backwards. She puts out her arms to break her fall, but she lands on a soft plush cushion.
Ariadne conjures one of her own and sits gracefully atop it.
“But…” Iona marks the space between them.
“Do not be a sore loser here, too,” Ariadne says. “I’ve won. Fair is fair.”
“Yes, I know,” Iona says. “But how am I meant to touch you from over here?”
“Who said anything about touching me?” Ariadne asks.
She stares at Ariadne with her brow furrowed, until realization dawns.
“You want me to…” Iona trails off.
“Touch yourself,” Ariadne says.
“You could have me do anything you want,” Iona says.
“I know,” Ariadne says.
“And this is what you came up with?” Iona squeaks.
“Put on a show for me, nymph. I more than deserve it after your rather lackluster performance today,” Ariadne mocks.
Her gaze is a caress as it travels down Iona’s exposed skin, making her heartbeat thrum in her chest and between her legs. She remains frozen in place.
“Do not tell me you’ve forgotten how, since I’ve been responsible for all your pleasure for nearly a year,” Ariadne taunts.
“If you want me to do this, you must be silent.” Iona flushes.
Ariadne stands and approaches her. “On the contrary, love. I intend to be quite vocal.”
She’s aware of her every breath, every pulse of her blood, as Ariadne takes her left hand and slides off her amethyst ring, holding her gaze as she does it, then stands tall and removes her own bloodstone ring, placing both of them in her trousers pocket.
Then Ariadne returns to her cushion and sits, leaning her head against her hand and waiting for Iona to decide if she’ll obey.
“Non sono una donna paziente,” Ariadne says.
Iona sucks in a breath at the sound of her unaltered voice.
Ariadne’s responding smile is infectious until they are both giggling.
Out of curiosity, Iona peers into her mind and finds her thoughts unreadable too, a mixture of many languages jumbled together.
All Iona can decipher with any clarity are feelings and images, which are always the easiest to perceive.
“Nymfi?” Ariadne raises an expectant brow.
She lowers her gaze and feels suddenly very shy. Ariadne has seen her in countless vulnerable positions, but nothing quite like this. She will be entirely exposed and performing an act she’s only ever performed in private.
“Oh, ne sois pas timide, mon amour. Nous sommes désormais bien au-delà de cela,” Ariadne coos.
“Just… hush,” Iona says, her flush deepening. “I know not what you say, but I’m certain it would only irritate me.”
Ariadne’s eyes flare as she grins, reveling in the effect her words wreak on Iona’s nerves.
“For goodness sake,” her voice trembles as she shifts so she is kneeling atop the cushion.
Ariadne’s smile disappears the moment her legs are spread wide, utterly transfixed when Iona runs her hand from her neck to her breast, squeezing it gently, pinching her pink nipple between her thumb and forefinger.
She lets her other hand drift past her ribs, over her stomach, to brush against her swollen flesh between her spread thighs and lets out a soft sigh.
“Koíta me,” Ariadne demands.
Her lids flutter open as she meets Ariadne’s gaze, the approval there telling her that she must have done something Ariadne wanted. Her eyes had been closed. Perhaps Ariadne wants them open.
Iona glares from beneath her lashes as she moves her middle and ring fingers in slow circles, her lips parting as her pleasure simmers. She relishes the thought that Ariadne can feel an echo of every stroke, though to her credit, Ariadne does not let on. She only stares back with hooded ruby eyes.
“Allora queste delizie potrebbero commuovermi la mente, per vivere con te ed essere il tuo amore,” Ariadne murmurs.
Iona moans, her fingers moving faster as she palms her breast and squeezes firmly, the way Ariadne often does. She shudders as she slips one finger inside, then another, curling them into herself as she thrusts in and out.
“Amo modum quo tremis,” Ariadne whispers. “Sa'amut min 'ajlik hubiy.”
Whimpering softly, Iona pulses her fingers against her most sensitive spot until she trembles with need. Then Ariadne stands and takes leisurely steps through the grass. Iona feels her eyes roving over her, drinking her in, committing it all to her perfect memory.
“I need you,” Iona begs, hoping the desperation in her tone will be indication enough of what she wants.
Ariadne climbs onto the cushion and has Iona lean against her so her full lips are in line with her ear.
She whispers strings of beautiful words, a soliloquy of sweet nothings to spur her on as she loses herself.
Despite the barrier of language, the reverence in Ariadne’s voice needs no translation.
Snaking a hand around her torso, Ariadne whispers in her ear, “Are you so desperate for me, love?”
Iona startles, turning to look back at her in shock, but she only laughs and holds up her other hand to show that she’s put her ring back on.
Sighing with impatience, she allows Ariadne to slide her amethyst ring back into place where there is now a line of paler skin to indicate its constant presence on her finger.
Ariadne peppers soft kisses down her neck to her shoulder, then back up again.
“Nymph.” Ariadne’s breath tickles her ear. “You know better.”
“Yes,” Iona breathes. “I am desperate for you.”
Ariadne’s long fingers replace hers, sliding through her wetness and making her squirm.
“I can tell.” Ariadne grins against her cheek, her other hand slipping around her throat and holding her still.