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Which might explain the hands on my ass.
Pritkin said something while I stood there and gaped at him, but it was just gibberish to me. After a moment, he changed cadence and tried again, and I guess it was a different language because he looked expectant. Only to purse his lips in thought when I shook my head.
And then to glance to his left and narrow his eyes. I followed his gaze but didn’t see anything particularly interesting. Just weeds and rocks and the gently turning water wheel.
And a very naked me on top of a very naked Pritkin.
I did a double take, and then one more for good measure, but the view didn’t change. That was definitely a Pritkin clone who had just popped into being on the riverbank. And that was definitely me on top, back arching, thighs flexing, while we did some, uh, very naked things. . . .
And before I had a chance to assimilate that, another me and another him appeared a few yards off, only he was on top this time, and sliding steadily down to—
I abruptly looked away, but another couple blinked into existence on our right. And then more and more, on both sides of the river, each one with a slightly different specialty. Like some kind of crazy menu . . .
And that’s exactly what it was, I realized. An incredible display of magic for no other reason than to bypass the pesky language barrier. And maybe to show off a little. Because this Pritkin had his full incubus abilities and power to burn, and none of the hang-ups of the man I knew.
Or, you know, any.
Because he wasn’t the man I knew. He was a young incubus princeling who was injured and in pain, and had just spied a naked chick perving on him from the weeds. And who probably thought he’d found an easy way to heal. And who . . . and who . . .
And who was being pretty damned optimistic, I thought, staring at the closest couple. And yes, I knew it was an illusion, I knew that. But for some reason, it was still a shock to see the look on my—on her—on the woman’s face as she—
And I guess maybe I’d stared a little too long. Because Pritkin—the real one—said something. And I looked up to find him smiling and nodding and appearing enthusiastic about my choice.
“No,” I told him forcefully. “No, that was surprise. That was not a selection.”
An eyebrow raised, but he didn’t appear too put out. Maybe, I realized a second later, because I’d just taken the vanilla stuff off the table. I blinked as more couples popped into being, peppering both sides of the bank with carnal delights.
And damn, I thought, staring at a threesome just down a bit on this side of the river. And then tilting my head to the side, because I couldn’t quite figure out what . . . Oh. Oh yes. Well, that wasn’t happening—
Only, suddenly, it was.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered as two more warm arms encircled me from behind.
And that was what I’d been looking at, wasn’t it, I thought, as hard hands splayed on my lower belly, pulling me back against an equally hard torso. While Pritkin number one’s hands framed my face, pulling it up as his head came down. For a moment, there was just warm breath against my lips, fingers caressing my cheekbones and hip bones simultaneously, and identical lines of thick, needy hardness pressing against me on both sides, silken soft and rigid strength and aching, seeking heat.
“Uh, look, I, see, uh,” I said intelligently.
And then he kissed me. And it was nothing like Pritkin’s kisses, and everything like them. It was less desperate, starving man at a banquet than I was used to, but just as demanding, just as possessive, just as borderline arrogant. With an added enthusiasm-makes-up-for-lack-of-technique technique that just really, really worked on some level I wasn’t in a headspace to define just then.
He pulled back after a moment, although it didn’t feel that way since the fake him was still plastered to my back, and his lips had started roaming around my neck. Like his hands around my torso. I was about to make a fuss, but real Pritkin took that moment to step back and execute a very formal and completely surreal bow, considering that his doppelganger currently had my tits in his hands.
“Myrddin,” he told me, putting a hand on his chest, his laughing face looking up into mine.
“Um—I—what?”
“Myrd-din,” he enunciated more slowly, straightening up and tapping his chest again. Because I guess even in medieval Wales it was considered polite to introduce yourself before—before—
“Oh, shit!” I squeaked, and began desperately scanning the riverbank. And the hill, and the area around the mill, and the opposite freaking bank—anything for Rosier. Because this would be a really good time for him to show back up.
“Ohshit,” Pritkin repeated, rolling it around on his tongue thoughtfully.
“No,” I told him distractedly, trying to see what was moving behind the trees. “No, that’s not my—I didn’t mean—I—oh, shit.”
The latter was because someone had just broken through the tree line, all right, but it wasn’t Rosier. It also wasn’t the Pythian posse, which should have made me happy considering how much magic we were splashing around. But for some reason, I wasn’t getting that vibe.
For a second, I just stood there, taking in the sight of three too-lithe bodies coming down the bank. They had weird black armor, long silver hair, and a fluid, alien way of moving that was less Lord of the Rings sexy than intensely creepy.
Fey, I thought blankly.
