courtship where she’d known he wasn’t human but never learned enough about what he truly was. Until he’d landed on her balcony the night when they had planned to give themselves to each other. She’d known nothing yet understood everything about him in a moment.
He was far more glorious than she’d even imagined. With that, another voice ripped into her memories, one that didn’t belong to Aristos, but she could not hear it clearly enough to identify the speaker. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to recall what had happened next. She could see Aristos, there on her balcony, waiting, and then . . . Someone had blocked her from him; someone had pulled her back as she’d gone to open the French doors.
Ari! Ari, help me.
She’d cried out to him, but he’d already been turning away, believing her terrified of him . Yes, that was it! But who had been in her room that night, and what had that person done or said to keep her from Ari, filling her with such terror that he would forever believe she’d rejected him?
Oh, why could she not remember? She worked at the memories, trying to unravel them as she twined her insubstantial fingers through the branches. But no matter how hard she puzzled over them, the memories remained as vague as a river mist.
Chapter 6
E ros dipped his red- feathered quill into the inkpot; smiling in anticipation, he began scrawling conjured words of romance upon the parchment. His pen moved quickly, yet even so, he could not keep pace with the agile movements of his sensual imagination.
Dominick slid a palm against Adrianne’s ripe, swelling flesh, his fingertips alive with need , he wrote with a flourish . Moving his mouth lower, dangerously so, Dominick brushed a kiss upon his beloved’s mound, urging her aggressively, tantalizingly, hungrily . . .
He hesitated, frustrated by his inability to convey the eager passion he felt thrumming in his god’s veins. Too many adverbs; not precise enough.
He tossed down the quill in disgust; he, lord of all love, reduced to this! Penning a dull, lifeless imitation of what he could easily create with one strategic aim of his bow, all because of a dare his father had issued. No, not a dare , he thought, a test of strength. His father had wagered that Eros could not go a month, much less six, without creating passion between mortals.
Dominick and Adrianne weren’t even well written, much less a reflection of his true skill. He’d only begun scribing their imaginary courtship as an outlet of sorts, a salve to the heat of his unanswered addiction. As proof to Ares that he lived off more than love and lust and tupping.
His father had sworn such discipline impossible. “You are obsessed,” he’d scoffed. “You have no other outlet for slaking your need than to meddle in the affairs of mortal hearts.”
Ares despised what he, his own son, treasured. Love, in all its giddy, charming sensation. Although Eros did not limit his craft to sensual love. He dispensed doses of brotherly affection; enjoyed occasionally besotting wayward fathers with their deserving offspring; adored creating bonds between fellow soldiers. One particular favorite was sorority rush season, weaving those bonds of deep sisterhood between young women, the kind that lasted lifetimes.
Yet courtly love, in all its forms and enthrallments, remained Eros’s true intoxication.
His father could never appreciate such rarefied gifts.
Eros had been born of the war god’s loins, his mere existence a cruel twist of Olympian fate. A fate he could never change because his bow had no impact upon any deity. Otherwise, he would have sighted his most powerful arrow upon his own father, seizing his greedy affection. Alas, his mighty aim was impotent within his own family.
So here he was, climbing the walls of his palace, waiting for some sign of his father’s approval. It was enough to bring on madness, Eros thought, despising the quiet that filled his normally lively home. A dulling
He was far more glorious than she’d even imagined. With that, another voice ripped into her memories, one that didn’t belong to Aristos, but she could not hear it clearly enough to identify the speaker. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to recall what had happened next. She could see Aristos, there on her balcony, waiting, and then . . . Someone had blocked her from him; someone had pulled her back as she’d gone to open the French doors.
Ari! Ari, help me.
She’d cried out to him, but he’d already been turning away, believing her terrified of him . Yes, that was it! But who had been in her room that night, and what had that person done or said to keep her from Ari, filling her with such terror that he would forever believe she’d rejected him?
Oh, why could she not remember? She worked at the memories, trying to unravel them as she twined her insubstantial fingers through the branches. But no matter how hard she puzzled over them, the memories remained as vague as a river mist.
Chapter 6
E ros dipped his red- feathered quill into the inkpot; smiling in anticipation, he began scrawling conjured words of romance upon the parchment. His pen moved quickly, yet even so, he could not keep pace with the agile movements of his sensual imagination.
Dominick slid a palm against Adrianne’s ripe, swelling flesh, his fingertips alive with need , he wrote with a flourish . Moving his mouth lower, dangerously so, Dominick brushed a kiss upon his beloved’s mound, urging her aggressively, tantalizingly, hungrily . . .
He hesitated, frustrated by his inability to convey the eager passion he felt thrumming in his god’s veins. Too many adverbs; not precise enough.
He tossed down the quill in disgust; he, lord of all love, reduced to this! Penning a dull, lifeless imitation of what he could easily create with one strategic aim of his bow, all because of a dare his father had issued. No, not a dare , he thought, a test of strength. His father had wagered that Eros could not go a month, much less six, without creating passion between mortals.
Dominick and Adrianne weren’t even well written, much less a reflection of his true skill. He’d only begun scribing their imaginary courtship as an outlet of sorts, a salve to the heat of his unanswered addiction. As proof to Ares that he lived off more than love and lust and tupping.
His father had sworn such discipline impossible. “You are obsessed,” he’d scoffed. “You have no other outlet for slaking your need than to meddle in the affairs of mortal hearts.”
Ares despised what he, his own son, treasured. Love, in all its giddy, charming sensation. Although Eros did not limit his craft to sensual love. He dispensed doses of brotherly affection; enjoyed occasionally besotting wayward fathers with their deserving offspring; adored creating bonds between fellow soldiers. One particular favorite was sorority rush season, weaving those bonds of deep sisterhood between young women, the kind that lasted lifetimes.
Yet courtly love, in all its forms and enthrallments, remained Eros’s true intoxication.
His father could never appreciate such rarefied gifts.
Eros had been born of the war god’s loins, his mere existence a cruel twist of Olympian fate. A fate he could never change because his bow had no impact upon any deity. Otherwise, he would have sighted his most powerful arrow upon his own father, seizing his greedy affection. Alas, his mighty aim was impotent within his own family.
So here he was, climbing the walls of his palace, waiting for some sign of his father’s approval. It was enough to bring on madness, Eros thought, despising the quiet that filled his normally lively home. A dulling
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