Page 80 of Gates of Tartarus

“OK.” He’s losing the battle. Any second, and he’s going to crack.

“Abigone.”

“Sure thing,” he gasps, and then he can’t help himself, and laughter comes pouring out of him in a flood. He laughs so hard tears come to his eyes, and I can’t help but think that it’s a bit uncalled for. An injury is an injury. Jorge and Kavi are no help; they’re wheezing away like a couple of overweight hippos.

“It’snotfunny,” I mutter indignantly. “Ihurtmyself.”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Emlyn says, wiping his eyes. “I’ll get you a bandage, a nicebigone.” He goes to a drawer and comes back with a length of gauze which he proceeds to wrap tightly and ostentatiously around my finger. “There you are.All better. Now, would you like some help?” Jorge and Kavi chime in, offering to take over.

“No,” I sigh. “I can do it.” I am a brave little soldier.

Emlyn busses me on the top of my head, and Jorge and Kavi give me a squeeze and a pat on the shoulders, then they all file out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with my nemesis. I pick up the knife and go medieval on the pumpkin.

???

A few hours later, I’m starting to flag. It’s just all takingsolong! I’ve peeled the potatoes and chopped the beans and sliced the onions, and I’m currently boiling the cranberries. I’ve managed to cook the pumpkin by sticking it on the shelf underneath the turkey, and the cursed vegetable is now cooling in preparation for adding the eggs, butter, and milk. All I can say is thankfeckfor ready-made pastry. But there’s still the cranberry sauce to finish up, and the white sauce to be made, and the potatoes to mash, and oh, the gravy to make when the turkey comes out of the oven, and why, oh why, did I think having a Thanksgiving meal would be a good idea? What possessed me? And Seef is due here any minute, and Emlyn, Kavi, and Jorge are all getting dressed up in my honor, and I haven’t even had time for a shower. I’m feeling hot and sweaty and gross, and my finger is throbbing.

The doorbell rings just as I’m finishing up the sauce, and I shout for someone to get it. There’s a murmur of voices, then Kavi sticks his head round the door. “Maela, Seef’s here.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Hi,” I say wearily.

The man himself appears at the doorway, sizing up the situation at once. “Right, princess. Red, white, or rosé? I didn’t know what you’d want so brought one of each.” He advances into the room, putting a carrier bag down on the table.

“Nothing,” I whimper, prodding at the pumpkin. “No time to drink.”

“There’s always time.” He clasps my shoulder, steering me firmly towards the table. “Now, sit. We’ll finish up here. Ryder! Alfaro! You’re needed in the kitchen.”

The men come as called, looking delectable, freshly showered and dressed in smart-casual clothes, and all of a sudden, the kitchen is a feast of maleness. Someone turns the stereo on, and classic jazz joins the hum of conversation. They all set to work, and I know I shouldn’t, but I pour myself a large glass of rosé and settle back in the chair to watch.

Dinner is ready in a surprisingly short space of time. Ordinarily, the turkey would be overcooked, because I miscalculated after all, but putting the pumpkin beneath it had the effect of lowering the heat and so inadvertently saving the day. The food’s not perfect – the stuffing is way too dry and sliced onions don’t really work the same way as pearl onions – but it’s edible. We all dig in, and Emlyn makes a little toast when the pie comes out. “To Maela, for shedding blood, sweat, and tears to make us this wonderful meal.” Awww, well, he’s being kind, but…

“To Maela,” the others say, raising their glasses.

I can’t help it; I preen and nod graciously. I have no problems accepting compliments, however uncalled for. “You’re welcome. You guys are worth it. I’m really thankful for you.” I find myself starting to get emotional and take a deep breath and a bracing sip of wine, then look around the table. Jorge’s eyes are soft; Kavi is smiling; Emlyn winks at me; and Seef looks serious – though not downcast, more like quietly content. I settle back into my chair feeling happy and whole.

After dinner, Emlyn turns on the stereo, and we settle round the table in the conservatory, getting into a discussion of global politics while the radio plays hits from the 70s and 80s. I slurp my wine, gesticulating when I want to make a point and narrowly avoiding knocking over my glass on at least three occasions, but mostly enjoying listening to the conversation and the golden oldies. After a while, though, I decide that we need to liven things up and suggest we should play sardines. I’ve read it’s like hide and seek, but in reverse, and it soundsmarvelous. Snuggled up in an alcove with three of the guys? Sign me up! I detect a certain lack of enthusiasm for the idea, but I insist and run out of the room, giggling madly, while the guys top up their glasses. Where to hide? Where to hide? The library? Under the blanket on the couch? Possibly, but, oh flip, someone’s getting up from the table. I race into the drawing room and speed behind the floor-length curtains at the far end. Hah! I rarely use this room, spending most of my time in the kitchen, library, and lounge, so they’llneverlook for me here. I wait and listen and then wait a little more. And listen. Before I know it, I’m singing under my breath.Do you come from a land down under? La, la, la. Can’t you hear, can’t you hear the thunder? You better run; you better take cover. Take cover. La, la, la.Oh no! Shhhhhh. Must stayveryquiet.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then the door opens, and a voice croons, “Mah-ey-la. Are you in here,querida?” Jorge’s voice is deeper than usual, and his accent more pronounced. I snort and have to slap a hand over my mouth. He sounds half-cut. “Hmm. Where could Maela be? Is she on the couch?” I hear him move around the room. “No? Behind the chair?” Footsteps. “No.Donde está?” I can’t help it: a small squeak escapes. Suddenly, the curtains part, and Jorge’s looking merrily down at me. “Te pillé!”

I squeal and pull him behind the curtains. “Shhhhh. We must stay very quiet. It’simportant.”

Jorge grins crookedly at me. “OK,” he says in a mock-whisper. I peer up at him through my lashes. He’s so lovely. Just so lovely. And he’s mine! My eyes trace the oval of his jaw, his straight nose, his sooty brows, even the long lobe of his ear, and I sigh. His hair is tousled, and his eyes are glowing amber in the soft light of the distant street-lamp. And I’m moving into him, smoothing the thin sweater over his chest, and he catches my hands in his. And then he’s sipping at my lips, gently, coaxingly, and I melt. I breathe him in, as if our souls are commingling, a benediction given and received; yet there’s nothing ethereal about this moment. Every sense is vibrantly alive. I can taste the sweetness of the pie we had earlier and the tart richness of red wine and feel the firmness of his chest and the strength of his arms as they come around me. His lips are soft, so soft, and I curl my tongue around his, learning him, exploring the silky warmth of the shelter of his mouth. I rub against him, restlessly, like a cat, and he’s lifting me up and placing me on the window seat. My knees fall open in welcome, and he comes to stand between them, kissing me all the while. I am pure sensation, mind and body united, at peace, here, and now. Jorge’s left hand cradles the back of my head, and his right traces slowly down my neck and over my shoulder to cup my breast. I shudder, and he rubs his thumb over the taut peak, back and forth, stroking the sensitive flesh. When his lips pull away, I whimper, but then he’s caressing me through the rough fabric of my shirt. I quiver, throwing my head back, giving myself up to his mouth. Damp heat flares between my legs, and he moves to my neglected breast. I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders, at the delicate suction. Jorge looks up through shadowed lashes, teeth closing around my nipple. He gives a small bite, and a sharp pulse shoots straight to my core.

Then he stills, grimacing, before he straightens, as if resigned, and starts to pull away. “Maela,” he begins.

No! I reach, hands grabbing at his sweater, eyes searching his. “Don’t make me beg,” I whisper.

“Nunca!” he answers fiercely. “Never!” He takes my mouth again, gently, reverently, stroking my hair back from my face, tracing the shell of my ear with his fingertips, then trailing them down to my throat. I mewl, almost fretfully, as if impatient with his tenderness, wanting him, wanting himnow, to just…take me.

Jorge stills again, eyes flaming to gold in the hushed black of the night. The world is gone quiet, shrunk to this one small space behind the heavy drapes, and we are alone in it. A pause. A breath. A heartbeat. Then he’s yanking my knees even farther apart, opening me to him, and I’m grabbing at his shoulders again, to anchor myself against the coming onslaught. His mouth lands on mine, forcing my head back, demanding that I yield, as his hands reach beneath my skirt. I can feel the delicate lace of my lingerie feathering down and half-lift myself, closing my legs slightly to ease its passage. This token retreat offends him, and he yanks savagely at the fabric, tearing it from my body. Now, I am bare to him, and I tremble, eyes sliding closed. Warm fingers, slightly calloused from guitar strings, scrape over the soft skin of my inner thighs. Warm lips, pressed almost bruisingly against mine. Two halves yearning to be made whole. I can hear the sound of a buckle, a zipper, coming undone, and I cling to him, to the solid column of his torso, shuddering, waiting. He is a blade of Toledo in fine Maroquin leather, a lithe-footed dancer summoning the sirocco, a star-chilled night melting into a sun-scorched day, all of my tomorrows meeting my yesterdays in this eternal present. One strong thumb finds my clit, thrums once, twice, and I gasp into his mouth. One long finger slides through my folds, wet to the touch. This pleases him, and he grunts in satisfaction. One finger, two, testing, dipping, teasing, maddening me. I whimper against his chest and can feel him smile. Then the head of his cock is nudging at my entrance, and he is pushing slowly into me. But it’s not enough, not yet, and I’m feverish with want. “You’re so tight,” he groans, then thrusts to the hilt. I moan at the sudden breach, body stretching to accommodate him, and he goes motionless. One moment, two, and I undulate against him, greedy for sensation, careless of anything but my pleasure. I hear an oath, and my wrists are slammed against the wall and window-frame as he takes over, hips pistoning as he sets up a punishing rhythm. He knows what I want and he gives it to me, showing me with his body that I’ve driven him over the edge. I’m close, so close, and I writhe against him, desperate now. He changes his angle to slide more firmly, almost painfully, against my clit, again and again and again, and I explode, burying my face in his neck as I cry out. Jorge slows, breathing heavily, and nips at my ear, demanding my mouth. My head rolls, and he kisses me deeply, thoroughly, before thrusting again, faster now, even harder than before. I open my eyes and watch, staring at the corded muscles of his neck, the stubble on his jaw, the anguished ecstasy of his face as he fucks me against the window-seat. One hand comes to palm my breast, pinching the nipple sharply through my shirt, and I squeeze his cock with my inner walls, holding him impossibly tighter. He stiffens and throws his head back, as if in agony, and then he’s coming inside me, jerking almost helplessly as he fills me.

For a moment, we slump against each other, breathing raggedly. Then the door’s opening, and Seef’s voice calls out, half-slurring, “Alfaro! You find her?” Jorge whispers an imprecation and lets his forehead fall against the window-pane, gathering me close, before he turns his face towards the door. “Sí. Behind the curtains. Sure that no one could see her feet or hear her laughing.” His voice is slightly hoarse, but he’s doing a good job of appearing normal.

I look past his shoulder at the curtain, eyes glazed, and take a deep breath. “Uh, that’s not the point of the game.” I clear my throat. “Seef, uh, you’re supposed to find us, and then we hide, and then Kavi and Emlyn have to look, and the last one, uh, is the winner.” I’m trembling, and Jorge’s arms tighten around me.

“Sorry, Maela,” I can hear Seef shake his head. “Kavi is at one with his chair, and Emlyn has some aged Spanish brandy he wants us to taste.”

“O–OK. Could you tell Emlyn I bought some truffles and they’re in the fridge? I think they’ll… they’ll go well with the brandy.”

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