Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  Oriel’s body flamed once more and wet heat pooled between her legs at his blatant crudeness. There was no escape. Yet having his broad shoulders looming over her, his desire so brazenly evident, was dangerously thrilling. Instinctively she put her hand to his chest, not knowing if she meant to push him away or draw him closer, and felt the pounding of his heart.

  His gaze was penetrating as he leaned his head closer. ‘I can play your body like a harp, agápi mou.’

  She stared helplessly at him, the breath catching in her throat, trying to find a reason to refute his arousing words.

  ‘You know I’m right,’ he murmured again, bending a little further towards her as he spoke. ‘We just have to brush against each other for our bodies to come alive. Can you deny what we felt on the dancefloor at Santorini?’

  Oriel swallowed. Her pulses hammered alarmingly; she was mesmerized by his voice and the feel of his hard body; his persona was like a drug submerging her, stimulating those helpless feelings of desire and hunger that had been suppressed deep inside her, until Damian had triggered them once more. There was a dull ache in her solar plexus burgeoning and building up, and she felt that it would soon burst with the pain of her bottled-up emotions.

  One of his hands lifted, brushing against her breast, discovering the fullness of it beneath her blouse and sending heat shooting down between her thighs. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, she told herself, but Oriel’s head dropped back in a position of surrender as his thumb passed over her nipple, making it bud and tighten with exquisite torture.

  She let out a breathy sigh. His touch made her burn with longing, starting an empty ache pulsating in her core that cried out to be filled. He was holding her waist against him, his arousal hard, and she almost wished that he would force himself on her. Oriel gazed up at Damian and saw a nerve beating hard beside his lips so near to hers, his look smouldering beneath the line of his brows.

  As if reading her mind, his hand slid down between her legs, touching her mound over the denim of her shorts. His hand moved backwards and forwards, tormenting her in ways she had never imagined possible.

  ‘You see, Calypso?’ he murmured hotly in her ear. ‘It would be so easy for me to have you here, right now … to make you mine again.’

  She could barely think, as another turbulent wave of heat coursed down between her thighs as if some white-hot catalyst had been ignited inside her, transferring the fire of his lust to her most sensitive core.

  He pulled back to look at her face. Their gazes held and deepened as, with one hand, he deftly unzipped the front of her denim shorts. Oriel knew she could have stopped him but she was entranced by his molten, silver stare.

  A sharp gasp of pleasure escaped her parted lips as his hand found where she was naked and wet with longing.

  ‘You’re mine, no other man’s,’ he growled.

  Compelled by her own powerful yearning, she moved one knee aside with an instinctive invitation as old as Eve, opening her legs to give him full access. Sensuously, his fingers began to stroke the insides of her thighs. She trembled as they inched their way towards that part of her that was begging for release. His hand now had free rein between her thighs, which became ever more slick with the wetness of her desire, embarrassing her with the wantonness of her response. Yet she saw only raw hunger in his eyes as their gazes remained locked together.

  ‘Yes, méli mou, let yourself go.’

  His stroking hand parted her tender female flesh, the ridge of his fingers moving against her hot, wet core. A moment later, he slid two fingers inside her and she let out a groan, her hands clutching at his shoulders. Her eyes finally fluttered shut, enraptured by the feel of him relentlessly moving within her. He had complete domination over her body, playing it with expert finesse, like a magician conjuring up wondrous sensations that made every part of her reel with pleasure.

  ‘You want this, don’t you, matia mou? Just like I burn for you. This is what you can’t deny.’

  ‘Damian.’ His name hissed through her teeth.

  ‘Feel it, Calypso. Give in to me.’

  His mouth took hers suddenly in a carnal sensuality, his tongue invading her with savage purpose, as though meting out some punishment. He plundered her in a torrent of erotic demand, in a way that insisted on her total surrender, which she willingly gave, luxuriating in the skill of his touch, wanting the delicious, intimate invasion never to stop …

  Melting in a warm, honeyed tide of response, her mouth responded to his ardour with sensual heat, drinking in his urge to possess her just as every part of her cried out to be possessed by him, the hunger he was arousing making her a stranger to herself. Her body was so awash with all-consuming need that her breathing became faster; her stomach muscles tightened as an exquisite torturing ache pulsed between her legs and she whimpered and trembled with anticipation.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, Damian’s fingers began to stroke her faster and faster. ‘You feel so warm and wet, so deliciously silky and soft,’ he whispered huskily in her ear, pinching the excited bud between his finger and thumb and making her moan loudly. ‘Do you want more, méli mou?’

  ‘Yes, yes, don’t stop! Damian, please …’

  Oriel gripped his shoulders hard.

  He couldn’t stop now. She had years to make up for. He’d brought it all to the surface and now he was taking her to the brink of surrender.

  ‘You want me inside you, don’t you? I want to feel you tight and clasping me, calling out my name,’ he continued to whisper, his voice soft and seductive as his skilful fingers went on teasing, stroking, pinching, rubbing.

  Oh, that voice … those words … that touch … how she had missed them …

  Her back arched and she moved now in cadence with his caresses as that sweet and terrible rhythm flowed like hot quicksilver between her thighs. Her inner muscles contracted, her release coming with a shattering climax around his fingers and she gave a strangled cry of relief, leaving her weak and shuddering.

  Reeling, Oriel clung to him for a few moments, both of them breathing hard. The wave of bliss washed over her …

  … which was then replaced by self-awareness.

  What had she just done?

  When Oriel lifted her eyes to his face, Damian seemed almost as shocked and disorientated as she herself felt. The colour was high in his cheeks and his grey eyes were smoky and almost stormy, searching her features as though looking for answers to a question he hadn’t yet formulated.

  Oriel was too overwhelmed to speak. The passion he had released in her brought back too many memories, and now she stood before him, more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life. She stared at him; then, with trembling fingers, fastened her shorts and stepped slowly away without a word.

  ‘Agápi mou, talk to me.’

  She numbly shook her head. They had agreed to keep their distance from one another and now they had stepped over a line. This was too much.

  He wasn’t hers.

  He ran a trembling hand through his hair. ‘I lost control, I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I.’ It was all she could manage before she turned and ran down the steps of the terrace. Her breath came quick and uneven as she half stumbled round to the front of the house and into the hall, her knees still weak, her mind echoing with Damian’s hypnotic voice, so low and urgent in her ear, and the heat of his touch.

  Self-recriminations spun and swooped in her mind like dark, angry crows. Why had she let him touch her when it was just a cruel reminder that he was wrong for her in so many ways? And they had done this out in the open, like two ravenous beasts, where anyone could see.

  Oriel had not yet reached the top of the staircase when she looked up and the chaos of her thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Helena was sitting in her wheelchair behind the banister. This time, she was not alone. There was an older woman standing by her side and Beshir, the eunuch. The woman was tall and thin, with an untidy halo of crinkly grey hair. She had a large
, sallow face with sullen features and small soot-black eyes that glittered like those of a raptor as they surveyed Oriel with a hard, unsmiling stare. That was not the only feature that reminded Oriel of an eagle; she had a prominent hooked nose and her mouth, with projecting front teeth, was thin and lightly twisted, giving her a sinister aspect.

  Helena gave a spiteful laugh. ‘Well, well, well, see what the cat’s dragged in! Good evening, Despinis Anderson. Still flaunting your pound of flesh, I see. Has it worked with my cousin?’ Her tone was mocking and Oriel looked at her sharply, wondering with shame and horror if what had gone on between her and Damian had indeed been witnessed just now. Helena’s head inclined towards the woman standing behind her. ‘Marika, just look at those bare legs!’ Her eyes darting back to Oriel, she sneered, ‘These foreigners have no shame.’

  Oriel walked up the last three steps, biting back the retort that quivered on the edge of her tongue; she didn’t want to be openly rude to Damian’s cousin, no matter how much she was baited. Even in her flustered state she caught the strange gleam in Helena’s gaze as she walked past – was it jealousy? And yet was that now a faint smile playing on those beautiful lips? She reminded herself that the woman was unstable, to be pitied. Staring straight ahead, she went directly to her apartment.

  Once in her room, Oriel closed the door behind her and leaned back against it. Her heart was pounding. She tried to steady her breathing but Damian’s effect on her made it impossible to easily calm herself. Not only that, she could still see Marika’s malevolent coal-black eyes imprinted in her mind’s eye. It was as if they were searing her back, even now. She gave a shiver. Was she there, she wondered, just the other side of the door? Another of Helena’s lackeys, doing her mistress’s bidding like some witch’s familiar? She held her breath a moment to listen, but all she could hear was the uneven patter of her own heart.

  Oriel felt fractured and confused. Every nerve-end in her body was still quivering with the passion she had felt for Damian, a passion that drew her so forcefully to him, almost in spite of herself. She was like a tumultuous spring tide after a full moon, pulled by his magnetic influence, and waves of longing were still shuddering through her, even now.

  Was this what people called love? No, she was sure that something so barbarically sensual bore no relation to it. Love was surely a sentiment born out of tenderness, companionship, respect and admiration for the person desired. What did she know about Damian to label these basic untamed emotions with a feeling so much more superior? No, this abject ravishment of the senses could only be called lust, as Helena had so crudely put it.

  It must have been so obvious, she thought with a pang of humiliation. Damian’s cousin could easily have intuited, by Oriel’s dishevelled appearance and heightened colour, what had been going on out on the terrace. The woman had been her usual vituperative self and, as she thought of Helena and her strangely smiling countenance, she started to feel even more unnerved. What’s she up to? she wondered uneasily. Is she plotting something vile? Incarcerated all day in her room, Helena most likely had nothing better to do than fuel her obsessions.

  Oriel gave a sigh and opened her eyes. Now look who was being the obsessive one! Anyway, it was absolutely none of Helena’s business and she wasn’t about to be intimidated by her – or Damian, for that matter.

  Everything was so intense here – feelings resembled hot molten lava gently simmering at the heart of a volcano and waiting to erupt. Damian, the tragic scarface; his cousin Helena, the beautiful invalid; the scary-looking Marika; Hassan, the mute servant; Beshir, the eunuch; the old fisherman, Mattias, who had almost been killed by a shark; Yolanda, the bewitching diva pining for her lover … they all seemed to be characters taking part in a Greek tragedy. She shivered.

  Oriel placed her canvas bag on the table and was about to head to the bathroom when something caught her eye: a wavering white line on the terracotta floor tiles snaked its way along the side of her bed. At first she thought it was white sand and she bent to touch the fine grains. Salt, she realized, and her forehead creased for a moment in puzzlement.

  It was only when she followed the trail around the side of her bed that she took in its significance. There, the white line became a series of whorls, almost like the rings of a dartboard. She stood there a moment, hypnotized by the pattern on the floor. Then she realized with a sickening lurch what it was: the evil eye. She had seen mati often enough, the Greek blue-eyed charms – the Greeks, it seemed, couldn’t get enough of the bright-blue glass talismans that originated in Ancient Egypt. They hung them over their thresholds and wore them as jewellery, using them to ward off any malign matiasma: the curse of the evil eye laid on a person by jealous enemies.

  Oriel slumped on the end of her bed, shock and dread coursing through her veins. Now she was a matiasmenos in their eyes, she supposed – one who has had the evil eye cast upon them – and although she didn’t believe in the power of the curse, she was still shaken by the fact that someone bore her such ill-will that they wanted to hurt her, even destroy her. Added to that, she knew enough about Greek traditions to realize that salt was used to rudely send away an unwelcome guest. So this person, whoever they were, had doubly cursed her. But I didn’t even want to stay in this godforsaken house, she thought bitterly.

  Oriel guessed who it was, of course. Helena had shown her hand, that much was plain. Most probably she would have used Beshir to do her dirty work. Oriel covered her face with shaking hands. Suddenly she felt more alone than ever, which cut more deeply considering the intimate moment she had just shared with Damian. She couldn’t go to him now, not after the way they had parted.

  Anger took over, like a clean, bright flame. Oriel sat up and squared her shoulders. When she brushed the salt under her bed her hands were still trembling, but now it was with righteous indignation, not fear. She stood up and walked towards the bathroom and, as she did so, she noticed a blue envelope on her chest of drawers. Oriel frowned. It had obviously been hand-delivered as it had no postage stamps attached to it. She tore it open and her eyes went immediately to the signature that was at the bottom of the neat handwritten note. It was an invitation from Vassilis to dine at the Limenarkhees Taverna, the little restaurant where she’d had lunch that afternoon. It should be fun, he wrote, with live music and dancing. He would call for her at nine.

  Oriel instantly felt a lot better. It sounded fun. Maybe she wasn’t quite so alone after all. Vassilis was an attractive man, with the natural charm of a womanizer. He posed no threat to Oriel and was harmless enough – she’d met plenty of charming men of his ilk before – and he had been quite entertaining at Manoli’s. It wasn’t his fault if she had been preoccupied by Damian’s dark mood and the presence of the beautiful diva, Yolanda. Perhaps dinner with him would be a good diversion from the undesirable attraction she felt for Damian.

  Tomorrow, she would see Damian again at the Epiklisi festival and, although the prospect filled her with trepidation, Oriel was glad that she would see Mattias again. One thing was for certain: she could do with a friend right now.

  * * *

  The sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, bathing the island of Helios in all its splendour, when Oriel started off that morning for the agora, the public square, where she had arranged to meet Mattias to watch the Epiklisi procession. Her mood had been lifted by the glowing Greek light but, deep down, her emotions were still in a state of flux and the disturbing thought of whether or not she would speak to Damian at the festival picked at the frayed edge of her mind.

  After Irini had brought in her breakfast tray earlier that morning, the maid had returned a few moments later, bearing a dress wrapped in tissue. Oriel had been a little reticent with her, convinced that Irini might somehow have known what had happened between her and Damian last night. Wasn’t it true that the servants seemed to know everything that went on in the house? Don’t be so absurd, she chided, watching the kamariera cross the room. Then, seeing that there was nothing different in her demea
nour, she relaxed.

  ‘The Master asked the Kyria’s dressmaker to make a chitón for you,’ Irini said, laying out the ancient-styled Greek dress on the bed. It was a long, wide rectangle of linen, sewn up at the sides, designed to be girdled by a golden belt. Irini explained that the chitón should be pinned at the shoulders, and she handed Oriel a heavy gold brooch for the purpose. ‘It belonged to the Master’s mother. It is Helios, see?’

  Oriel held the brooch in the palm of her hand and realized that, indeed, its delicate knotwork formed the shape of the island. She was honoured, as well as a little unnerved, that Damian should have entrusted her with a family heirloom that must clearly be precious to him.

  Later, as Oriel put on the dress, she marvelled at how beautifully the warm sunshine yellow of the fabric suited her complexion and brought out the deep tan she had acquired during the past few days. She wondered whether Damian had any part in choosing the colour and the intimacy of that idea made her blush. He had even ensured she was supplied with a pair of flat leather sandals in a light-sand hue, with laces that crossed over her slim ankles. They fitted perfectly and added the final touch to her ancient Grecian outfit.

  As Oriel walked through the town she could sense an air of celebration and festivity permeating the island. Doorsteps had been swept spotless and the glass in the windows shone like mirrors. There were flowers on balustrades, and garlands were hung upon the columns and pillars of some of the grander houses, as well as on gates and balconies. Even the trunks of trees had been embellished with colourful ribbons, and everything seemed to shine under the morning sun.

  The streets were already lively and bustling with people, rich and poor rubbing shoulders. They moved like a shoal of fish, inexorably making for the same destination. Oriel was glad that Damian had thought to make sure she had an outfit for the occasion, as everyone, it seemed, was clothed in fancy dress. Some of the islanders wore the brown raggedy tunics of the slaves of ancient times; others were disguised as wealthy aristocrats, wearing robes, undergarments and shawls in bright colours of indigo, red, green and purple.