Page 14 of Perfectly Matching Again

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 entireconcept 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—withthisparticular 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 theair. 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,

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