Page 26 of Desperate Measures
He nods as if I’ve revealed more than I meant to. “I don’t want you drunk, Yasmina. That was enough to take the edge off.”
“But—”
He pushes my glass out of reach. “You can have more later—after you eat something.”
I narrow my eyes, but it’s difficult to be furious with him when the bourbon has already fuzzed the edges. I’m not drunk. Nowhere near drunk. But I don’t feel in danger of fleeing any more.
“Jafar.”
His hand on my neck keeps me from turning on my own, but he rotates me to face the woman behind us. I get a glimpse of purple and bare feet out of the corner of my eye, but nothing else. When he answers her, he’s the coldly polite man I first met five years ago. “Megaera.”
“Hades wants a look at your spoils of war.” Amusement filters into her dry tone. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
“Pretty doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s exquisite.”
They’re talking about me as if I’m not here or as if I have no more agency than the chair I’m perched on. I want to snap back, to snarl that I’m a person with my own thoughts on things and not a pretty little thing.
Except I promised to obey. I take a slow, silent breath. I can do this.
“May I?”
Jafar uses his hold on me to nudge me to stand. “By all means.” He gives me a small squeeze and drops his hand, though he remains close enough to imagine I can feel the heat coming from his body. A small anchor I cling to as I try not to shake.
A single soft finger presses against my chin, lifting my face. I look at her. I can’t help it. They call me exquisite, but this woman is something else entirely. She wears a purple dress that’s almost Grecian, but I suppose that’s to be expected with the theme of this place and the man who rules it. She’s all pale skin, dark hair, and sharp features that aren’t in the realm of traditionally pretty, but there’s something about the way she holds herself that leaves flutters in my stomach. Lower.
Blue eyes study my face in pieces. Eyebrows, eyes, nose, lips. She strokes my chin almost absently, and I can’t stop my shiver.
The woman—Megaera—laughs. “You’re right, Jafar. She’s exquisite. Are you going to share?”
I can’t move, held captive by her touch, her gaze. But I hear Jafar’s amusement rise to match hers. “It appears my baby girl’s not averse to the idea.”
“Baby girl.” Meg smiles, the expression just as sharp as the woman herself. “I look forward to playing with you when your Daddy gives permission.”
Playing with you.
I can’t stop shivering. I shouldn’t want that, to be shared, should I? I have no idea. My fantasies are only in theory at this point, except for the ones Jafar and I have played out together. Have I touched myself to the fantasy of more than one pair of hands on my body? Yes. Oh yes.
But the thought of doing it now? Tonight?
“That’s enough.”
Megaera drops her hand and steps back. If anything, the interest in her eyes has increased from this little exchange. “Don’t keep him waiting long.” She turns. I can’t help watching her walk away, can’t quite seem to pull my gaze away.
“She has that effect on people.”
I twist to look at Jafar, my emotions ranging from desire to disbelief. “You’ll share me.”
He shrugs a single shoulder. “It’s open for negotiation.”
“You told her that you’d share me.”
“Come here.” He waits for me to obey, to step between his thighs, to set his hands on my hips. “You want her.”
“I—”
“The truth, baby girl.”
I almost look back in the direction Megaera walked before I catch myself. “She’s beautiful.”
