My Spartan Hellion (17 page)

She wrapped her legs around his hips, dragging him deeper into her embrace. She kissed him hungrily, devouring him, her tongue duelling with his as she explored the hot, wet cave of his mouth.

She gasped when his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, pinning her against the hard stone. Her back scraped the rock, but she ignored the slight twinge of pain. Thanos must have caught her brief wince because he pulled her away from the wall, and with her body still coiled around his, he marched into the courtyard and straddled the marble bench, so their legs were draped across the sides.

“I want you to ride me.”

Lamia did not hesitate as she shifted up his body to settle on the tip of his shaft. A carnal storm erupted in her belly, her swollen folds moistening with need at the first brush of his hardened flesh against her.

Thanos clenched her hips and, before she could inhale her next breath, he jerked her down at the same time that he surged up into her clenching body.

The waiting breath exploded from her chest as he invaded her body, stretching her. She clung to him, clawing at his hair as she rode his cock wildly, taking his length inside her. Her arousal had been ignited at the coronation ceremony by Thanos and his searching fingers, so she was already close…so close. She clenched her eyes shut, parting her lips when warmth gathered at the centre of her core. Her entire body began to shudder, but just as the wave inside her was about to crest, Thanos lifted her off him.

“Thanos!”
Her scream was so primal, so needy, she flushed hot with embarrassment that such a sound had erupted from her
.
“Thanos. Don’t stop. I need to find release,” she rasped.

His cobalt eyes darkened and beneath his fan of lashes she glimpsed a look within them, one she’d been treated to before.

“Beg me. Beg me, Lamia, to give you the release that only
I
can.”

His words were husky, hoarse and they were a command, full of the arrogance she’d come to recognise was as natural to him as taking a breath. He trembled against her, his own control threading thin, and yet he held back, watching, waiting for her to
beg
.

Dominance clung to him, dripping from his every word, and she shivered, understanding dawning upon her.

When he’d spanked her…

When he’d told her pleasure could be found in punishment…

I desire a woman who is my equal in every way…except in our bedchamber.

The words he’d spoken as she’d knelt before him, primed for his lust.

“Beg me,” he whispered again.

She understood now, as she’d never understood before.

Her surrender was not enough—Thanos demanded her complete and absolute submission.

“Please, Thanos.” She lowered her gaze, and her body shook. “Please, Thanos,
fuck me
.”

A deep growl rumbled from his chest, her lewd words, her complete submission, shattering the last of his control. He seized her hips and, yanking her down, he pushed into her clasping channel.

She cried out, the raw sound mingling with his harsh groan as her sheath pulsed with seemingly endless nerve endings. Cupping his shoulders, she clung to him while he drove into her, his pounding thrusts unrelenting as he took her, as he claimed her.

“Thanos…” she pleaded, because she was close, and she knew what would bring her the culminating bliss of release, just as she knew Thanos wanted to be the one in control—the only one responsible for her pleasure.

Whether driven by instinct or understanding, Thanos slid a hand between her thighs, teasing the hardened nub with his fingers until the storm tossing violently within her broke free, hurling Lamia over the edge into ecstasy.

She dug her nails into his flesh and stiffened, her head thrown back as she arched into him. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe, but in the deep haze of her release she felt him spurt inside her as he belted out a harsh grunt of completion.

 Coming on soft whooshes, her breath clawed through her chest, interrupted only by stilted moans until she slumped against him. Closing her eyes, Lamia settled into the warmth of Thanos’ arms, satiated and content.

She would never know how long they remained in the courtyard locked together, or how she ended up in their chambers nestled in Thanos’ embrace.

The next time she awoke, the sun was streaming through the window, bathing them in its shimmering, amber glow.

Chapter Thirteen

Lamia had been in Sparta for over a fortnight now, and when she awoke that dawn, bright-eyed and restless, she decided she’d had enough of lazing about in Thanos’ bed all dawn. But it was no wonder she’d been doing nothing since she’d come to Sparta. Thanos had encouraged it. Even he’d brushed off his duties to indulge in the pleasures of their bed, until he could no longer avoid the demands of his station.

Thanos would be gone for several hours, his duties taking him to the barracks to train the newest
hoplites
. So, with Thanos away for most of the morn, Lamia had decided to visit Sparta’s
agora.
While there, she was hoping to look for meaningful work, too.

Thanos had protested, of course, saying Sparta’s queen did not need to find work, but she’d insisted—if he wanted her to be happy while she was there then running his household was not enough. She was used to long dawns and gruelling labour—the thought of idling about at his estate made her want to yawn. Outside of instructing Armine and running a household that could run itself, she had little to do.

Making her way into the outer courtyard of Thanos’ home, she greeted Panos as he turned over the reins to her mount. The sun beamed brightly this morn, encouraging her high spirits as she lifted herself on to the chestnut mare and headed off towards Pylos
,
the main square in Sparta.

Her coronation ceremony had been attended by only the nobility of Sparta, so the common citizens were still curious about their new queen, having caught only a few glimpses of her. Lamia was not surprised that when she rode through the streets many of the city-state’s dwellers stopped to stare. Their expressions were open and friendly and she greeted them all as she passed by.

She rode along, stopping occasionally to assess her surroundings. She’d only been in Sparta for less than a single moon, and, while she was becoming familiar with the city with each passing dawn, she still ended up getting turned around every now and then. Most of it was owing to the architectural design and layout of the city-state. Many Spartan homes and shops were built in the same nondescript fashion, so they easily blended into one another if one wasn’t paying attention.

Well, she
had
been paying attention, but somehow she’d managed to get turned around again. With a small sigh, Lamia slid from her horse and tethered the reins to a nearby post. It would be easier if she walked the rest of the journey, affording her a closer look at each of the buildings so she would not get lost this time.

Deciding to continue north towards the main square, she spun away from the post, her steps faltering as she barely avoided colliding into a small woman.

“Sorry,” the woman said with a sheepish smile. “I should have warned you I was here. You appeared lost, so I thought maybe you needed directions.”

“My apologies. I should have heard you coming, but I was too preoccupied with finding my way,” Lamia reassured her, surprised that the woman had crept so close without her hearing. Only Thanos had ever been able to catch her unawares. “But as you’ve now guessed, I am certainly lost and would welcome any assistance.” Giving the young woman a grateful smile, she thought to introduce herself. “My name is Lamia—”

“Yes, the new queen.” The woman grinned good-naturedly. “Welcome to Sparta. My name is Callisto.”

Lamia stifled a grimace at Callisto’s words. It was strange to have everyone know her.

“Where are you off to?” Callisto asked, her golden curls bobbing in the wind as her almond-shaped eyes sparkled a rare aquamarine.

Callisto was a pretty woman—not classically so, but there was something very interesting, very intriguing about the fullness of her lips, her pert nose and high cheekbones, not to mention those almost bewitching eyes of hers.

She was short in height, barely making it to Lamia’s chin, but what she lacked in height she made up for with her generous curves. Some might have described Callisto as plump, but Lamia decided her figure was beautifully feminine, perfectly rounded in those places that would easily tempt a man.

“I am actually off to Pylos
.
I plan to visit with Diomedes.”

Callisto’s eyes brightened. “Ahh, the swordsmith. We are not far from there.” She scrunched her lovely face into a frown. “He’s an ornery old man, though. Are you sure you wish to seek out his company?”

She laughed at Callisto’s expression. When she’d asked Thanos about him, he’d also said as much. “I have already heard, but I shall take my chances. Will you lead me to him?”

“Of course. It would be an honour. This way,” she offered, and tipped her head in the direction of the main square.

They strolled the short distance, making small talk, and she soon discovered that Callisto was a very bubbly and chatty woman, so she found herself listening most of the way. Callisto was a young seamstress of twenty-three
annos
and—much to her father’s displeasure—was not yet wed. She, on the other hand, did not seem the least bit upset by her status.

“Unlike the other city-states, it is not uncommon for a Spartan woman to marry at an older age, own property or even live alone. Nor it is unusual for her to work outside the home. Father knows this. I think he just wants grandchildren. My brothers still have some time left in the
agoge
and father keeps complaining that he is an old man and needs grandchildren.” Callisto giggled. “He is just being dramatic. Father is far from old.”

Lamia smiled down at Callisto, whose laughter was infectious. She had taken to her almost immediately. The Spartan woman had a natural way about her that made Lamia feel as if she was speaking with an old friend.

“Well, we are here, my queen—”

“Lamia. Please call me Lamia.”

“Well, Lamia, then.” She smiled. “We are here. It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“As it was a pleasure to have your company, and your guidance. I don’t know many people yet so it was refreshing to have someone to talk to. I hope to visit with you again soon.”

“I would like that. Farewell, Lamia, and good luck with old Diomedes.”

She chuckled as she watched Callisto walk off, her curls flapping behind her in the wind. Lamia was certain she was going to need all the luck she could get if Diomedes’ reputation was at all true.

Giving the weathered, wooden door of his shop a fleeting look, Lamia sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. She then pushed opened the door and stepped inside.

* * * *

Carthage, 183
BC

“Again, Lamia.”

She scowled at Darius’ back as he walked in the direction of the target that was several yards across the courtyard.

Sweat trickled down her brow, and her garments clung to her small body, soaked from her perspiration. When she was seven annos, he’d rescued her from the streets, given her food and shelter, taught her to read and write the languages of the Greeks, the Egyptians, the Persians. Three annos later, she was on Latin, the language of the Romans.

His first instructions in the art of battle had been to wield a dagger, and she’d mastered that quickly. She was eager to learn how to wield a sword, but, before he would teach her that, she would first need to learn how to master her lessons in archery, which was proving far more challenging than she’d expected.

“I don’t see why I have to learn archery. No one even uses the bow and arrow anymore. It’s so ancient,” she muttered under her breath, blowing a tendril of hair from her face.

“I heard that,” Darius boomed from across the room.

She gulped, quickly wiping the scowl from her face. How he could hear her whispering from several yards away she would never know, but her hushed comments had landed her in more trouble than she wanted to remember.

And with every muscle in her body sore, and considering she was already dripping in a pool of sweat, she had no desire to find herself in an even worse state, so she kept her mouth shut.

“You’re not focusing, Lamia.”

She wanted to protest that she was—she was focused so intently on the target before her that all she saw were big red dots—but somehow she knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“Your mind is scattered, and your thoughts are all over the place, but, to be a skilled archer, you must see nothing but your target. You must envision what it is you want to hit and then focus only on that.”

“But if I focus only on that, won’t I leave myself open to attack since I won’t see anything else coming?”

“That is why you must learn to use your other senses as I’ve taught you. You must learn to hear someone approaching, to sense the presence of someone who means to do you harm. Even when you cannot see, your other senses are alive, and you must focus them, even as you focus your sense of sight on your target.”

She raised her bow again, but hesitated when Darius came to a stop just to the right of the target.

“Father, you are too close. I may hit you.” She glanced at the pile of arrows littering the ground by his feet. For some reason she kept wanting to shoot to the right of her, no matter how hard she focused on centring her shot.

“I am right where I wish to be. Now arm your bow, aim and shoot.”

Her eyes widened and sweat gathered on her top lip, but this time it wasn’t from the sweltering heat.

She opened her mouth but snapped it shut at the stern look on Darius’ face. This was another one of his unorthodox lessons. He had many of them, each seemingly more dangerous than the last. She wondered how many times he would need to put himself in peril before she actually ended up hurting him. He claimed that she thrived under pressure, that she rose to the occasion when the risk was great, but, at that moment, she wasn’t quite so certain.