Lucinda Betts

Risham took Sureya’s small hand in his big one and brought it slowly to his lips, his eyes locked on hers. “Sureya May, I would be greatly honored if you would marry me.”

Sureya felt a spurt of flame ignite at her knuckles and spread up her arm, across her chest, into her neck and cheeks. She could not speak. For a long moment, she could not think or move. How they honored one as lowly as she!

But then sense struck. Ignoring the delightful surge of desire throbbing between her thighs, she looked at Fajal. How did the woman feel about a second wife, a second wife with the palest skin?

Next to her, Risham’s wife—Risham’s first wife—closed her eyes and nodded at Sureya. The younger woman suddenly understood the measures of satra Fajal had been drinking. Sureya finally emptied her own tumbler.

And then another thought occurred to Sureya. If she married Risham, would her sin be absolved? Could she forgive herself for taking the luscious fruit from Risham’s hand? If Fajal knew, would she forgive her?

“I can officiate the ceremony,” Fajal said, and her voice cracked. “And I suggest that we do it now, if you’re at all interested. The priests may be here soon. They’re looking for virgins, which you undoubtedly are.”

Sureya found it hard to think, even to answer. Risham hadn’t released her hand, and he was running his fingertips over her palm.

The sensation he caused overrode the throbbing and pulsating that had attacked her upon the arrival of the new sun.

Risham turned her hand over, slowly brought her vulnerable palm to his lips and kissed the center of it. His warm lips kissed a line to her inner wrists, and Sureya felt the satra go right to her head. No, it was his kisses turning her inside how. How she’d dreamed of them.

Risham’s warm eyes were locked on hers, his intention clear. He wanted her. Sureya swallowed. She’d been imagining his arms around her for so long. She could have him! She could be loved! She could belong.

His lips felt hotter as they traveled up the vulnerable length of her inner arm. Sureya felt her eyes roll back in pleasure. She almost breathed her acquiescence. The word, ‘yes,’ nearly escaped her lips.

But as her mouth moved to shape the word, Fajal slid graceful fingertips along the length of Sureya’s collarbone. With a sensual slither, the woman pushed the full length of Sureya’s hair out of the way, baring her shoulder. When Fajal ran her soft lips over Sureya’s collarbone and neck, a shiver ran through her. Delicious.

Fajal lean forward and kissed the nape of Sureya’s neck while Risham’s lips slowly kissed her soft inner elbow.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, coming to her wits.

“Saving you,” whispered Fajal, wrapping her tongue around Sureya’s clavicle. “We love you.”

“Even before the priests went on their Supplicant hunt,” Risham added, “I was going to propose on your twenty-fourth birthday.”

“In two weeks,” added Fajal, moving her tongue and lips closer to the edge of Sureya’s bodice.

“Fajal and I both agreed you’d be old enough then to know your own mind–to know whether you truly wanted to be a second wife.”

“Of course I want!” Sureya hadn’t realized. Risham loved her! Despite her skin, so did Fajal. She could share Risham’s bed, feel his arms around her as she’d dreamed.

“Say yes,” Fajal said, lightly tracing a fingertip over the lace bodice above Sureya’s breasts. Her nipples hardened. Her thighs ached.

“Please, say yes,” added Risham, nibbling now on the softest flesh inside Sureya’s arm.

“But—” Before today—before this strange new sun rose in the summer sky—she’d never imagined marrying anyone. Certainly not a woman, not even Fajal, with her almond-shaped eyes and long, thick eyelashes. Certainly not anyone of the noble class, not even Risham, who she had admired since coming of age. Sureya never realized her fantasies about Risham would include Fajal, if they were to be realized.

“But what?” asked Risham as Fajal ran her fingers through Sureya’s long hair.

“You never imagined that women could lie together?” Fajal asked. “You never imagined we loved you?”

Sureya felt her face flush. She hadn’t, and the idea was shocking.

“Drink this,” said her mistress, handing her the crystal tumbler, newly refilled. The strong liquor burned her throat, her eyes. The satra immediately raced to her head.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Risham

It was. It was nearly as good as Risham’s full brown lips caressing her inner arm.

Fajal’s fingertips, Risham’s lips, and the satra begged her to succumb to the pleasure. Risham removed Sureya’s shoes as if she were a queen of the stars, slowly pulling each lace, letting his fingertips slide over the curve of her foot.

Fajal let her fingers glide over the lace of Sureya’s bodice, stopping only when she reached the row of tiny, padded buttons. As each button cleared its hole, Fajal placed a kiss on that spot until Sureya’s head spun with pleasure. Then Fajal put more satra to Sureya’s lips.

Before she could marshal any strength to object, her breasts were bared. She’d never been naked in front of anyone. Never had she felt so aware of how milky and pink she was, even as her nipples waited for Fajal’s hot tongue and Risham’s admiring gaze.

Through the haze of satra Sureya looked down, pebbled nipples erect. Modesty and embarrassment burned through her, like a fire though the grasslands.

Risham ran his hot lips over the curve of her calf. He worked his way slowly to her thigh. And the thought struck her—he wanted her. Could she bear to let him go farther? Could she bear to say no?

Sureya moaned, thrilled with the pleasure brought by these wild, new sensations.

With her eyes locked on Sureya’s erect nipples, Fajal said, voice husky, “You are so beautiful.”

Risham’s shoulder-length hair hung in thick straight sheaths that were nearly black next to Fajal’s kinky brown locks, and Risham’s skin seemed nearly honeyed next to Fajal’s darker hue.

“Your breasts, Sureya,” Risham said, in a smoky whisper. His pronunciation had a hint of the exotic, a carryover of his city upbringing “You’re so elegant.”

The satra coursing through her blood caught the word ‘elegant,’ and sent it to her head, to her nipples, to the apex of her thighs.

For the first time in her life, Sureya felt worthy of desire. Powerful with it. Beautiful enough to capture the attention of even the One God.

Sureya slid her hands across her breasts and stomach, over her waist. Fajal and Risham, watched, captivated, and their lambent eyes electrified her. Sureya basked in her newborn power.

What was she doing? Sureya came to her senses and grabbed for her dress.

“You don’t want to do that,” Risham breathed again, as his hands slid over her thighs. His wife gently took Sureya’s dress and tossed it out of reach.

“May I,” Fajal asked, “touch you?” She ran her fingers over her own nipples, showing Sureya exactly what she had in mind. “Or would you rather touch me?”

The satra mist shrouded her senses, but she could still see. She admired Fajal’s breast, high and small, even while Risham gently pushed Sureya back to the ancestral rug. Fajal followed her lead. “Relax, Sureya,” Fajal ordered her.

“I don’t want to relax. I want—”

“Shh,” Fajal said calmly. “We know what you want. We can help you. Shh.”

“But, I—”

Fajal’s lips descended on hers, silencing her words. The exhilarating sensation of Fajal’s lips against hers left her weak and quivering. And when Fajal’s tongue raced over hers, electrified nerves jumped to attention.

The heat between her legs, the silky river, wanted instant satisfaction, but Risham and Fajal together set a slower pace.

“Do you want this?” asked Fajal.

“Will you marry me—marry us?” asked Risham. His hot kisses swarmed over that tender spot behind her knee, teasing her inner thigh with the promise of unbelievable pleasure. “Please?”

She answered with one simple word. “Yes.”

“We’ll make you happy forever,” breathed Risham.

“Hold her wrists, Risham,” Fajal commanded, and her husband obeyed.

“But—” Sureya tried to ask, but Risham’s kisses were traveling up her inner thigh. “But why? Why hold my wrists?”

No answer. None with words. Risham poured oil into his palm and rubbed them together, his eyes locked on hers. The scent of warm cedar. The jagged pleasure of Fajal’s mouth over her nipples.

An animal noise escaped her throat.

Fajal pushed Sureya’s oiled breasts together, making Sureya arch her back, begging for more. With her head gently spinning, she welcomed Risham’s kiss while squirming under Fajal’s touch, seeking a satisfaction she couldn’t describe.

Risham’s dark head bobbed, and she again thrust her breasts up, welcoming her lover’s—her husband’s—hot kisses.

And she wanted more.

She shifted her legs apart. “Please,” she murmured. “Please.”

“These things mustn’t be rushed,” Risham said, his voice husky with desire.

“I know what you want,” Fajal replied with a need that shocked Sureya. “You want this.” With her words she slid a finger between Sureya’s thighs. Fajal’s finger—no, Risham’s—glided over her pearl, and Sureya writhed in pleasure.

Through the satra haze, Sureya heard a crashing from the entryway down the hall. She tried to sit, but Fajal sucked hard on her nipple, making her gasp with pleasure. Risham positioned himself above her, the length of him throbbing hugely. “Do you want to marry me, Sureya?” he asked, his eyes locked onto hers.

“I do, my love.”

While Fajal licked her nipple, Risham sheathed his tip gently inside Sureya. “It’ll hurt for just a second—”

Two priests burst through the door, shouting, “Cease! Heretics, you’ll burn! Stop this instant!”