by Lena Loneson
God of Ecstasy
Lena Loneson
Jaime Leighton has had some pretty unremarkable sex in her lifetime. So when she rubs a bottle of wine and a hot, half-naked tattooed man appears in her bathtub, offering three fantasies, he’s pretty hard to resist. Dionysus claims to be the Greek god of ecstasy, wine and madness—and he can breathe underwater. Thus begins the best three nights of Jaime’s life.
They also turn out to be the most dangerous, when the evil djinn who cursed her new sex partner attacks. Now Jaime must come to terms with her growing feelings for the god and break the magic spell inked into his arms before the djinn snatches away both her love and her life.
God of Ecstasy
Lena Loneson
Chapter One
The man appeared out of nowhere in a cloud of white mist, smack in the middle of Jaime Leighton’s giant claw-foot tub. Jaime herself hadn’t entered the tub yet and, standing beside it, she jumped backward, stumbling and off-balance, barely hanging on to the wine bottle she’d been holding. In her shock, all she could think to do was place the bottle on the edge of the tub.
His wasn’t a quiet arrival. A loud thump-splash had startled her as he struck the water and the bottom of the tub, legs giving way under him. Bubbles from the bath went flying, the plum-scented water hitting Jaime in the face and covering the utilitarian white walls. She knew it was actually happening and not a dream when the soap stung her eyes.
She wiped bathwater away from her face, blinking, and when her vision cleared he was still there, disoriented, reaching out blindly for the wall, his back facing her. Only candles illuminated the room, flickers of light throwing shadows on the man’s body. She caught a glimpse of tan skin, swirls of mottled purple down his arms (Bruises? Tattoos?), dark curly hair, now damp, that reached his shoulders, and brown pants beneath the water—he was on his knees, now.
Jaime dove for cover, throwing herself toward the bathroom door. She missed and fell, hitting the floor hard.
There was a strange man in her bathtub. How often had Jaime imagined that scenario over the past year during the lonely nights as she waited for her divorce to finalize? Dozens if she also counted her fantasies of doing it on the cold gray tiles of the bathroom floor. She slipped on them now, reaching out to pull herself back up on the counter.
Her heart thudded desperately in her chest, pounding out a warning—red alert, James, get moving, she thought. This isn’t one of your silly fantasies.
Jaime scanned the bathroom for a weapon. Four lit candles by the tub. She could set his hair on fire? No, dunderhead, he’s soaking wet. Blind him with the hot wax, maybe. Okay. That was now Plan A. Plan B? Pink toothbrush on the marble counter by the sink. Poke him in the eyes or the neck. Yes. The mirror above the sink, sparkling with a bit of bubble bath on it—she could smash it, wrap a shard in a towel, slice him in the femoral. No, the jugular, right? Both. Either. His back was still to her. She could sneak up, cut him before he even made a move. She smashed an elbow into the mirror. It didn’t break.
The man in the tub was starting to move.
Jaime glanced down at the bottle of wine.
The bottle of rosé was full and corkless. It would suck to lose that much good wine. And old wine—the bottle had been dusty, and Jaime’s last memory before the intruder appeared was wiping it with the sleeve of her robe. All right, James. Step one: Whack him over the head, stunning him. Two: Smash the edge of the bottle on the tub, breaking it. Three: Slice him to tiny pieces. Aaaaaand, go!
She moved forward, bare feet sliding a little on the wet tile, and raised the bottle high.
Before she could get a good swing going with her arms, the man spun around. She caught a glimpse of panic on his face and full lips opening. “No!”
He rose to his feet in the tub, slipping worse than she had. She swung the bottle at him and his strong hand gripped her around the wrist. Shocked, she dropped the bottle. He caught it with his other hand, throwing himself off-balance, lurching over the edge of the tub, and the two of them went tumbling in a sudsy mess to the bathroom floor, the man holding the bottle high as if it were his most precious possession. Jaime landed sprawled over his stomach, an elbow smashing into his chest, her robe falling open just enough for her bare skin to touch his. She was grateful he at least had pants on. With both their bodies damp and sprawled on the floor, this was getting a little too close to some of her favorite fantasies.
James, you numbskull, first rule of self-defense: Don’t fantasize about men who appear in your bathtub and are likely here to murder you.
But yet she lay there, panting on his chest. When their eyes met a shiver of pleasure rushed down her body. A smile played at her lips and she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She felt suddenly wild, capable of anything. She wanted to run down the street singing, spinning, blonde hair flying out around her head in a halo, a mad lion’s mane; but mostly, she wanted to lie here, skin-to-skin with this stranger, and drink him in.
Find another weapon, you idiot. The candles.
She quickly sat up, pressing her back to the tub and pulling the robe tightly closed around her breasts. The robe was made of slinky purple silk, and she hadn’t worn it in years, only donning it tonight as a post-divorce treat. Now, she was happy about the decision. Funny how she’d stopped caring if Keith saw her as sexy, but suddenly the opinion of a potentially criminal stranger mattered.
He held her stare as he placed the bottle of rosé delicately on the floor beside them. “Please don’t hurt the bottle.”
“What the fuck are you—were you—doing in my bathtub?” She reached behind her for a candle. Instead, she knocked it into the bath with a splash.
“I’m here to fulfill your fantasies. Three of them, specifically.” His smile was hopeful and a bit hesitant.
Oh god, this can’t be good, Jaime’s brain told her. Her body was saying something else entirely. It was like something had overtaken her—something hot and heavy and very unlike her. Shouldn’t she be trying to kill him?
She slipped on the floor again, trying to rise.
“Please don’t—you’ll hurt yourself.” He reached out with a hand to steady her, and pulled himself up by the towel rack. His smile was kind. Too kind for a murderer—right?
“I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you want me to, but I don’t think that’s your thing, is it? And no, I’m not reading your mind, just the panic in your beautiful periwinkle eyes.”
Huh. It had to be a line, but it had been a long time since a man had said anything about Jaime was beautiful. And periwinkle. So much more exotic-sounding than blue. It appealed to the artist in her. She couldn’t help but blush a little at the compliment. She felt her body relax, the fight-or-flight instinct leaving it. What was happening? Some sort of mind control?
“Three fantasies,” she thought out loud. Why did that sound so familiar? What had she been doing before he appeared? Keith had signed the divorce papers today, and this was supposed to be her big celebration. Bubble bath, candles, a little music, and that bottle of rosé Liv had given them at the wedding. It had been collecting dust in the pantry this whole time. She’d rubbed at the dust, and—suddenly the pieces came together. Magic appearance, rubbing a bottle, three wishes. “You’re a genie?”
“No,” he said with a sigh. “I’m no djinn. My name is Dionysus. Ancient Greek god of wine, ecstasy, theater and madness. Also known as Bacchus, Trietês, Bromios, and a hundred thousand other names you likely can’t pronounce.”
Right. She was standing on the sopping wet bathroom floor with a Greek god. This had to be a dream, didn’t it? Jaime thought of how she’d felt the sting of the soapy water, and of how her knees throbbed from her landing. It seemed real enough, crazy as the story might sound. Ever since she’d lo
cked eyes with him, she’d felt that maybe, just maybe, this was right.
For the first time she paused to fully take in his appearance. He didn’t look like a god. Not that she’d met many gods before, but she’d always seen depictions of overly muscled men holding weapons—Zeus or Thor, she supposed. Dionysus was built more like a swimmer or a gymnast—his tan chest was lightly muscled with a scattering of dark hair. The markings on his arms were indeed tattoos, and absolutely gorgeous ones. Jaime didn’t think she’d ever seen ink that clear. Vines of wine colors—deep purple in the shadows, light rose in the highlights—intertwined starting at his collarbone, running over his shoulders, weaving their way down his arms, spiraling to end in a circle around his wrists. For all their beauty, they made her think of handcuffs. Chains.
Brown bellbottoms clung to his legs above bare feet. The pants seemed transported directly from the seventies, not the twenty-first century. His whole appearance was anachronistic, really. The length and cut of his hair, falling just past his shoulders in wild, wet tangles of darkness.
Oh, how she’d love to paint him. Jaime imagined mixing the oils on her palette, deep shades of maroon for the tattoos and his mouth, dark swirls of umber for the curls in his hair, long lashes, and the scruff on his cheeks. She’d use shadows of black for his eyes, with a light burnt sienna to capture the permanent twinkle.
That twinkle watched her now, and he wasn’t bothering to hide the smile on those lips. How long had she been staring? She blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Dionysus, hi. I’m Jaime, by the way. With an A-I, not I-E.” She wrinkled her nose at her own words. Babbling like an idiot of course. Fantastic.
“Yes,” he said. “Jaime, from the French J’aime, or, I love.” He reached out and touched her hand. She let him take it in his own, surprised at the lack of callus as he ran a finger down her palm. “You have a strong love line. I can see why your parents chose it.”
“So you’re a genie and a psychic.”
“Neither. Just a god.”
His touch was hypnotizing. She tried to break the spell with questions. “Why can’t I break the bottle? And why are you acting like a genie if you’re not one?”
“Over two thousand years ago a djinn placed a curse on me. I was a bit naughty, got his mistress to fall in love with me and leave him behind. Now I’ve taken his place, and the bottle is my home, until a beautiful woman such as you frees me temporarily.”
She bent over and picked up the bottle, handling it gently to avoid alarming him. She let him keep her other hand, holding it above her head as she moved, pretending not to notice the way his fingers rubbed her palms, sending warm blood rushing to her cheeks. It felt too good to ask him to stop. “There’s no way this bottle is thousands of years old. The font right here is clearly computer generated. Lucida sans, I’d say, invented in the eighties. Not to mention it’s in French, not Ancient Greek.”
“The bottle morphs with each generation. As do I. Otherwise I’d have to spend half my time learning contemporary dialects. It would be a bit of a pain, and I’d rather use the time on pleasure.”
“Huh. Neat.” She forgot about the bottle, and let him take it from her hand. He placed it on the counter. The story was ridiculous, but how else could she explain a man appearing from thin air? A genie-cursed god was as plausible as anything. His thumb was drawing tiny circles over the veins in her wrist. His hands were still damp and warm from the bath. When he let her hand go, it felt chilled in the air, missing his touch.
“Now,” he said, “I’ve promised you three fantasies. As the god of ecstasy, I think that’s a little more appropriate than three wishes. And I assure you, I’m well-equipped to fulfill them.”
“Wait a minute here. You mean—sexual fantasies?”
“Of course.”
“Oh. I, uh—well—”
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?” She asked the question only because her brain told her to feel suspicion. What she actually felt was surprise, temptation and desire. She wanted to run her own fingers up the ink on his arms and find out if his lips were as soft as his hands.
“My gaze has a certain influence, if you will, over women. Not mind control, nothing so distasteful, but a lowering of inhibitions. Like a good bottle of wine. If you close your eyes, any thoughts and decisions will be yours.”
“Says you.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.
He smiled as if she’d said the right thing. As if she’d made him proud. His lips held a touch of mischief in them, echoed in the dimples in his cheeks. She thought, He’s a charmer, all right. If I met him in a bar, I’d go home with him. If I were the sort to go home with guys I met in bars. And really, didn’t she already know more about him that she would a random hookup?
“Yes,” he said. “There’s a certain amount of trust involved. It’s your choice, of course. Always and entirely your choice.”
She believed him. And when she dropped her eyelids, holding them tightly closed so she wouldn’t be tempted to peek, she still believed him. She wanted him. It had been so long since she’d tasted a man, or had one inside her. And it wasn’t as if Keith’s lovemaking was anything to write home about, if she could even use the term “lovemaking” to describe her ex-husband thrusting to completion, rolling over, and ignoring her own needs. She was ready for a change. She was ready for an adventure. James, this might be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.
Perhaps.
But so what?
Could it really be dumber than marrying Keith? Than giving up her painting, the one talent that had brought her more pleasure than anything else in her life so far?
Jaime opened her eyes, deliberately meeting his with her own. She felt a bit of madness work its way into her mind, filling up her chest, moving down her body like a warm massage. “How about a bath?”
After she said the words out loud, Jaime’s heart somersaulted into her stomach. Although she’d been convinced this wasn’t a dream, it also hadn’t felt quite like reality. Now, with that invitation, everything in the room solidified. The cold tile beneath her bare feet made her shiver. The flickering candlelight created ghostly shadows dancing on the walls and across the god’s chest. Her hands were shaking. Maybe this was all a joke, a gag Keith put together to humiliate her, and this man wasn’t a god at all, just an actor hired to play the part.
“I’d love to,” he said. “You’re shivering. Let me warm it up.” He moved to sit on the edge of the tub and leaned over, dipping a finger into the water. He reached up and turned on the hot water tap.
“I kinda thought you’d just zap it with your finger or something. A lightning bolt?”
“That would be my father, Zeus. Disappointed?” He was still fiddling with the tap, turned away from her.
Jaime realized she wasn’t the only one who felt nervous. “Of course not. Come on, wicked hot shirtless god appears out of nowhere offering me sex? When my first plan was a night alone with my right hand and a romance novel?” James, you idiot, way to make yourself sound desirable.
“Most pleased to hear it.” He turned back to her and his lips twitched in a smile. “Though I have no doubt you’re talented. Perhaps you’ll show me what you like before it’s my turn to please you?”
He nodded for her to sit beside him on the edge of the tub. Jaime wasn’t big on following instructions, especially while embarrassed. Obstinately, she moved closer but remained standing in front of him. Her cheeks were flushed—she didn’t normally have conversations with guys about her self-love proclivities. Her bare calves were close enough to his legs that she could feel the heat, even through the damp bellbottoms. He reached into the bathwater again, testing the temperature. The tub was filling with bubbles and his hand came back up covered in foam. He reached between her legs and trailed wet fingers down her thigh. She gasped. “It’s hot enough. Perfect.”
“Excellent.” He rose to his feet and pulled her close against his body, one ha
nd settling against her lower back, one clutching her ass, slipping against the thin silk of her robe. “Place your arms around my neck.”
“Wait, what—?” Before she could get any more out, he lifted her up in strong arms. Jaime hastily held on to his shoulders, digging her nails into his wet, tan skin, and wrapped bare legs around his waist. He stepped deftly, moving one leg into the tub, shifting her against his chest, and then followed with the other, crouching down into the water. Jaime remembered her first reaction to his body, thinking that gymnast comparison was about perfect. Muscles rippled up his arms, the purple vines of his tattoos shimmering in the faint light. As he lowered her into the bath, the hot water left her gasping at the twin sensations of pain and pleasure. It ran up her feet, calves, thighs, and he stopped there.
“How’s the temperature?” he asked. “Shall I keep going?”
Jaime nodded vigorously. “Please.” He laid them both down in the tub and the hot water rushed against her cunt, sending tiny flutters of pleasure-pain up her body. Her nearly waist-length blonde hair floated out around them both. Her robe had fallen open and the folds between her legs were completely exposed to the heat of the bath and rubbing up against his waist. She settled onto his lap as he leaned back against the tub. Damn, those pants are scratchy. Would it be too forward to ask him to take them off?
James, you’re mostly naked in a bath with a stranger. I think at this point you get to do whatever the fuck you want.
In that case, it was time to finally touch those tattoos.
She reached out tentatively at first, taking his left hand in her own. She marveled again at how soft his hands were, uncalloused and small. If they hadn’t been so firmly muscled she’d almost have called them dainty. She wanted to feel them cup her breasts, moving across her skin, but there was time for that. She trailed light fingers up his arm, exploring the highlights and shadows in the ink. The purple was so deep an indigo she could almost fall into it like the ocean, or a beguiling dream. It had a hypnotizing effect on her. Images flashed into her mind, so quickly, one after another—the wilderness outside the city, sunsets reaching on forever, shadows in dangerous alleyways, the swirls of color in her favorite Van Gogh paintings.
