First Quiver

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “Uh-oh.” Jonah had dug through the basket once again, pulled out the two remaining sandwiches, and worked out the math.

  “It’s okay, bug. You take one and give the other to Q. I’ll just have some grapes when I’m done feeding Lucas.”

  Cupid took the sandwich and thanked Jonah. “We’re splitting, remember? We both need our energy for your next class.” Pinching the soft bread in the middle, Cupid tore the sandwich in half and stretched his tongue to catch the filling before it oozed out onto the blanket. “Mmm, sweet and salty. I’ll have to tell Pan about this.”

  Mia’s gaze flitted over to Cupid. “We both need our energy?”

  “Yes,” he answered, trying but failing to keep the smug grin off his face, “you’re not getting rid of me so easily this time.”

  No, the gods will take care of that when the time comes.

  Mia went on about the business of feeding the baby, but Cupid saw a smile creep into the corners of her mouth and knew he had pleased her. He scooted around Mia’s outstretched legs, inching close enough to extend the sandwich to her lips. Mia bit off a small piece, turning a lust-filled gaze on Cupid as she licked the dollop of peanut butter off the side of her smile.

  Cupid nearly forgot himself and the gods surely watching from above, nearly forgot Jonah and Eli and Lucas, not to mention all the passersby on their way in and out of the gym. He wanted so desperately to kiss her, to taste the nut-and-fruit mixture on her tongue, to trace a trail down her throat with his lips, to fill his hands with her flesh, and to use this awful curse set upon his manhood to bring Mia pleasure.

  If only his longing ended right there, but it didn’t. Cupid couldn’t escape the thick, woody vines of a new, even more impossible desire wrapping its tendrils around his beleaguered heart: the yearning to be a part of this perfect scene of domestic bliss with Mia and her little family. How quickly his love for Mia had spread to encompass all four of them. Worse, he had every indication she was feeling exactly the same, minus the all-important beat.

  A cool, wet sensation met Cupid’s thigh and seeped inside his shorts.

  “Eli, naughty! Mommy, Eli spilled.”

  Their two heads swiveled around to find Eli unapologetically squeezing out the contents of his juice box all over Cupid’s lap. In the chaos that followed—the mad rush for napkins, the extraction of the juice box from Eli’s grasp, the cries of the hungry baby demanding the rest of his lunch, the scolding, and the tears—Cupid could only imagine how bereft he would be when Mia’s Right Love stole his spot in the family circle.

  26

  Wild Thing

  Though experience had taught Pan that the gods’ little surprises were rarely pleasant, he did enjoy the occasional windfall as a reward for extraordinary services rendered: VIP tickets to Springsteen, a well-timed tip on Apple stock, a bottle of wine from Dionysus’s cellar. No bonus he’d earned in the past, however, could compare to the embarrassment of riches Pan was enjoying since Cupid’s fall. By far the best of these gifts was the transfer of Cupid’s supernatural sex appeal. Smart enough to recognize a sweet deal when it kissed him in the groin, Pan intended to do everything in his power to stay in the Divine Council’s favor.

  Job number one: concierging.

  With only one fallen to keep track of at the moment and Cupid presumably where he was supposed to be, there wasn’t anything for Pan to do but keep himself entertained until needed again, not even a mild challenge for an irresistible demigod with a boundless sex drive.

  Job number two: flying under the radar. Unflaunted benevolence had a better chance of lingering.

  The gods who’d raised Pan were hardly paradigms of discretion. True to his heritage, in his earliest years on earth, Pan had eagerly hopped from bed to bed—with many a floor and back alley in between—enjoying every possible permutation of pleasure afforded by his human form. He hadn’t bothered discriminating between genders or even the shades of gray coloring the range from male to female. If he felt an urge, he went after it, and with his confidence and otherworldly gifts, he usually enjoyed success.

  Generally speaking, humans practiced a bit more restraint. Yes, pregnancy and diseases were powerful deterrents, but Pan had come to believe that the bigger motivator was morality, an inner voice either absent or ignored by the gods. Olympian family trees were messy organisms with branches extending every possible direction. Like a jagged stone tossed into a mighty ocean, Pan had softened around the edges, gradually taking on the luster of the other stones around him. His frantic pace eased. He applied a more discriminating, more human standard to choosing his partners. The gods watching from above lost interest, and that suited Pan just fine.

  Surely, he was under close scrutiny now. This was no time for pushing boundaries. Better to stick with a known quantity.

  He fired off a text to Cheri: Up for a walk on the wild side?

  Fairly confident of her response, Pan stepped into the shower and took extra care with the trimmer, anticipation for the night ahead blooming into a throbbing he had no reason to ignore. Pan closed his eyes and slid his palm down his chest. As he wrapped a slick hand around his erection, he grinned at the memory of the zucchini demo. Truth be told, Pan had been semihard ever since—not from the melon lady, but from the thought of his friend jerking off in the men’s room. Poor Cupid, Pan lamented, but his cock twitched without conscience.

  Refocus.

  Grocery store blondie. Thighs, tits. Cheri. Cupid. Blondie. Tits. Cheri. Cupid. The merry-go-round of desire spun out of control, and Pan exploded with a bright burst that left him panting against the tile wall. Reaching for his towel, Pan shook his head and chuckled to himself. Yeah, I should probably sort that out at some point.

  Then again, Cupid would accomplish his task soon, return to Mount O, and put Pan out of his misery. Problem was, that eventuality grew more depressing as time passed. This unexpected reunion with his old bestie and the chance to clear his conscience of the ancient lie were the best gifts Pan had received in centuries. He couldn’t even think about losing Cupid a second time.

  Pan stepped in front of the sink and reached for his aftershave but thought better of it. The gods had blessed him with erotic omnipotence; who was he to tinker with body chemistry?

  Scrolling through his messages, Pan smiled at Cheri’s reply: Rawr! All yours after work. She’d have to finish her shift, but Pan’s work was done, and he wasn’t a devotee of delayed gratification. He hopped into his truck and headed to The Stagecoach.

  The air around him buzzed with erotic energy as the restaurant patrons took note of his entrance. Bodies moved closer; eyes locked on the target. Unspoken offers filled the air.

  Bless you for these gifts, gods of the Mount, however mysterious and fleeting they may be.

  From her post behind the bar, Cheri turned toward Pan’s approach. He advanced with the slow, confident swagger of a man who knew he could have any woman in the restaurant and most definitely the one he’d reserved in advance. The scent wafting up Pan’s nose told him many of the men were interested too, including several who were very likely mystified right now at their attraction.

  The memory of Pan’s last time with a man still resonated vividly, though his affair with Pablo had ended long before leaving New York—wow, was it twelve years ago? Ahhh, Pablo. An exotic delicacy, that one, with his chiseled cheekbones and eyes the color of a forest bed after a long rain. Graceful and intense, Pablo had moved like a panther on the prowl, and Pan had never quite known when he might leap. At first, the not-knowing was exhilarating, but eventually, Pan found it all exhausting. Pablo was a jealous lover, and Pan enjoyed a varied palate; the end wasn’t pretty. Pan hadn’t dwelled on it, but he hadn’t pursued an attraction to another man since. It’s not that men failed to whet Pan’s appetite; he simply limited his diet to what was easier for his system to digest.

  Hard and wanting from the desire flying at him from a
ll sides, Pan only had eyes for one girl. The god of the wild was by no means a slouch, especially now that the lumbersexual vibe was all the rage, but Pan knew his limitations. Sooner or later, when the gods were done toying with him, his newfound animal magnetism would be returned to Cupid or revoked altogether. When the dust cleared, Cheri would be the girl topping off his mug, and Pan was not about to mess that up.

  Pan settled onto a stool at the bar, and Cheri rushed over to take his order. A simple scotch, neat, would’ve satisfied him, but Pan ordered a sidecar for the sole pleasure of watching Cheri squeeze the lemon and strain the drink. She was agitated. Their careful equilibrium had tipped, and now Cheri was trying too hard, sticking too close to Pan’s little slice of the bar. Pan leaned forward, trapping her hands beneath his and murmuring toward her ear, “Relax, babe. I came for you, and I’m leaving with you.”

  Cheri nodded and took him at his word. After that, the evening went easier for both of them. Pan tucked into a veal chop and a few more drinks, absorbing the sexual energy like a giant, contented sponge, and Cheri served her customers with impressive accuracy. At the end of her shift, Cheri claimed her prize, strolling out of the restaurant under Pan’s arm to the audible disappointment of the envious crowd.

  They barely made it to the front seat of the truck before Cheri’s head landed in Pan’s lap. Running his fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair, he chuckled at her contented purr. “Gimme a second, tiger. Let me get you away from your place of employment.”

  Pan maneuvered out of the parking space and onto the main road with Cheri’s cheek bouncing on his thigh. The moment the truck shifted into cruising gear, he unbuttoned her shirt. Her flesh pebbled with goose bumps as he pushed his hand inside her bra, and she answered with a lusty moan. He shifted and squirmed and shoved the seat belt lower in his lap. If he got any harder, his dick would be steering the truck.

  Cheri rolled onto her belly, unzipped Pan’s jeans, and inched his boxers down. “I’ve been wanting to do this since you walked into the restaurant tonight,” she confessed. He liked her idea very much. In fact, Pan may have had the very same idea, but he’d learned when to keep his mouth shut.

  Pan tightened his grasp on the back of Cheri’s head. Keeping the truck between the lines offered enough of a challenge without his lover’s head banging against the wheel. His thigh quivered with the effort of keeping even pressure on the gas pedal. The tension in his groin consumed him, his whole world reduced to the dimensions of her mouth.

  He held his breath as the orgasm tore through his body like a tornado destroying everything in its path. Amid the mad swirl clouding his concentration, Pan made a note to himself: warn Q about hazards of road head.

  Grateful to have arrived home in one piece, Pan tugged open the passenger door and dragged Cheri out with a bit less elegance than he’d intended. She giggled as he swept her into his arms, rushed her through the house, and dumped her onto his bed.

  “Need anything?” he asked, kicking off his jeans and mounting the bed one knee at a time.

  Busy ripping her own clothes off, Cheri dropped her gaze between his legs and gave him a coy nod. “Mmhmm.”

  He covered her with his warm body and gave her exactly what she wanted, then flipped her onto her stomach and did it once more. Though he sported an erection again almost immediately, they both needed a break.

  Pan dozed briefly, his dreams dancing with juicy nymphs no longer out of his reach. His miraculous erection woke them both, pressing against Cheri’s thigh until it could not be ignored. Four in one night, a personal best. Good thing the lights were off, and Cheri couldn’t see his smug smile when he rolled on top of her.

  Cheri yawned and ran her hand up Pan’s arm. “Again?”

  “Can I help it if you’re irresistible?” He dipped his chin and tickled her ear with the tip of his nose.

  Sleepy but game, Cheri flopped onto her side and giggled. “Do what you want. I’m going back to sleep.” He disturbed her slumber only at the very end, with a long, shuddering orgasm that drew out every last molecule of want from Pan’s physical being and left him too exhausted to even care he was hard again not three minutes later.

  27

  War Room

  Hephaestus loved his lamb. Back in the good old ancient days, when mortals sacrificed the finest of their flock to the gods, the storerooms of the palace overflowed with tender meat. Now procurement involved wheedling with merchants in the city square, a crass task left to the servants who were clever enough to supply the god of the forge with his favorite delicacy without driving prices through the roof.

  It wasn’t so much the cost of her husband’s addiction that rankled Aphrodite; it was the way he attacked his dinner as though he were hunting down the poor animal all over again. She’d tried to instill manners, even commissioning Hephaestus himself to forge the sharpest set of knives with which to carve the meat, yet he’d laughed in her face when she suggested he make use of the utensil himself. “Lovely wife, what need have I for such tools when I can rip the bones apart barehanded?”

  A half century ago, perusing the holiday issue of her favorite cooking magazine, Aphrodite had spied a rack of lamb with each rib topped off by a frilly, pink paper crown. She’d sent trusty Mercury to purchase the crowns, then held her breath that night as the servant on dinner duty placed the adorned dish before Hephaestus.

  His eyes had opened wide, and Aphrodite had dared hope for a sweet second he might adopt a more genteel approach. “Oh, look. My dinner is dressed in little festive hats tonight,” he’d said, shooting an amused smile in Aphrodite’s direction while flicking a forefinger at the first of the crowns.

  As casually as possible, she’d responded. “I thought they’d add an air of elegance to the room.”

  “Hmm,” he’d answered, nodding thoughtfully, “I see your point.” Before Aphrodite had had a chance to celebrate her victory, Hephaestus swiped his giant hand across the rack, captured all eight caps at once, and flung them across the room. In a voice booming with laughter, he’d said, “Yes, you’re right, sweetheart. Look how beautifully they adorn the floorboards.” The horrified servant had flown to the crumpled mess as Hephaestus lifted the entire rack to his face and twisted until the spine split in half, gushing lamb marrow into his waiting mouth.

  Since that night, Aphrodite hadn’t tried again to reform Hephaestus—not his eating habits anyway. Still, she’d never quite mastered the rise of bile brought on by the grease, first saturating the jungle of his beard, then overflowing onto his cheeks until his whole face glistened from ear to ear. When her delicate eyes needed reviving, she’d avert her gaze to the colorful frescos, cheery scenes from happier, god-fearing times. As for the loud slurping of marrow from the depths of the bones, that’s why lutes and lyres were invented. Aphrodite’s musicians were specifically chosen for their ability to pluck their instruments with enough force to drown out the grunting and sloshing at the other end of the table.

  So loudly were they plucking on this night, Mercury’s entrance went completely unnoticed until he skidded to a halt at his half brother’s side. “Greetings.”

  With the rib bone lodged between his teeth, Hephaestus bellowed, “What’cher bishnish here?”

  “Pardon the interruption; I bring an urgent message from Ares.”

  Hephaestus shot him a murderous glare, sending Mercury gliding on winged feet toward Aphrodite’s end of the table. The goddess dropped her fork into the salad bowl with a clatter. “It’s about Cupid, isn’t it?”

  “You are both summoned to the War Room.”

  Aphrodite leapt from her chair. Unmoved, her husband defiantly twisted off the next rib and opened his mouth wide to receive it.

  “Heph!”

  “I’m supping. The mighty Ares can wait.”

  “He said it was urgent.” Aphrodite punctuated her statement by tossing her linen napkin onto the rich walnut tabl
e. Her fingers curled into a fist by her side, but Hephaestus didn’t budge. Vibrating with fury, she played her trump card. “Shall I go without you?”

  Mercury drew in a sharp breath and held still enough to be confused with Giambologna’s bronze likeness. Hephaestus stopped mawing, the bone aloft in his fat hand. Aphrodite could have sworn she saw actual flames in her husband’s eyes as he debated whether to call her bluff. Family history being what it was, he didn’t deliberate long.

  Dropping the bone onto the massacred carcass, Hephaestus made a great show of meticulously wiping each finger with his napkin and running the cloth over his greasy face before rising. “I’m finished.”

  The horses were hitched to Hephaestus’s chariot and waiting when the couple arrived in the forecourt. They journeyed but a short distance, but Aphrodite’s nerves had bundled into a tight knot by the time they reached the God of War’s compound.

  With his attention focused at the gaiascopic wall Hephaestus had installed during the Peloponnesian War, Ares did not acknowledge their arrival. Where Hephaestus was broad but fleshy, Ares was a finely honed weapon whose self-discipline outstripped his desires, though his legendary craving for companionship was not an urge he felt the need to curtail. The god’s wavy locks offered the only hint of softness on an otherwise unyielding exterior. Aphrodite wondered if he recognized the father-son resemblance in Cupid’s Earthly form. The tense set of his shoulders, exaggerated by the crisp folds of his crimson himation, did nothing to ease Aphrodite’s anxiety. The God of War was not happy.

  “A-hem,” Hephaestus rumbled, earning an elbow in his side and an angry glare from his wife.

  “This is some punishment.” Ares sneered, his gaze not wavering from the giant floor-to-ceiling window. “I should think I’d like to earn a measure of this justice for myself.”