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I'll have to chide Kassam for that later. Better yet, punish. I picture smacking his ass with a paddle, and instead of making me laugh, I whimper with another surge of arousal. "Can you feel that, my little light?" Kassam asks, his voice casual, even as his hand strokes between my thighs, pressing against the seam of my jeans.
"Oh fuck yes," I breathe. "Feels so good."
He spanks me in the next moment, and I yelp—and then moan again, because I liked that far too much. "You're not paying attention, are you?"
"To what?" I pant.
Kassam chuckles, setting me down on the ground. Dizzy, I cling to his arms as the blood rushes to my head, and he pulls me against him, stroking my back and then squeezing my ass again. "Go change into something pretty," he murmurs. "And skip the panties."
I glance around, but my apartment seems to be empty of both gods and cats. That's a relief. Maybe the feeling here is a leftover from whoever was here before. Doesn't matter—they're gone now. With a little shiver of excitement, I race toward my bedroom, eager to please him. Later on, I dimly realize, I'm going to be so mad at myself, but that's for future me to be pissed about. Right now, just the thought of putting on a cute dress and seeing Kassam smile at the sight of me makes me tremble with anticipation. I throw open my closet, gazing at the stuff there. Lots of jeans and T-shirts. Something pretty, I consider. Something pretty. When has Kassam ever cared what I wore? I don't think he's paid a lick of attention at all. I pull a breezy, pale yellow sundress out of the back of my closet and start to change.
"Show yourself," Kassam says in the living room.
I pause, because it doesn't sound like he's talking to me.
There's a sly, mocking laugh, and then that deep, intense sensation rolls through the air. The atmosphere gets so heavy it feels like a blanket. "I thought you two would never return," comments an unfamiliar voice. "It isn't polite to make company wait."
Terror shoots through me, and I shove my dress over my head, my hands tangling briefly in the spaghetti straps. I look around my room and the attached bathroom for a weapon, but all I've got is a tiny pair of hair-cutting scissors I use on my bangs when they get too shaggy. I snatch them anyhow, padding back toward the living room because a desperate need to protect Kassam floods my senses.
The moment I step through the bedroom door and into the living room, a headache blooms. I sway, distracted by the heavy feel of two gods in my apartment. It feels crushing, as if I'm a bug that shouldn't dare to be anywhere near here. My eyes can't seem to focus, and I stumble forward one step, and then the other. "Kassam…"
"Right here, little light," a familiar voice murmurs, and then warm hands are caressing my bare shoulders. "Is this what you picked to wear for me? I am pleased."
I tremble with pleasure at that, my senses filling with the sight of him again. I drink down his gorgeous face, the thick, tumbling brown hair that frames those tanned angles so perfectly, the silver eyes that glint with amusement as I devour the sight of him. He pulls me discreetly behind him and turns to face the far side of my room. "What do you want?"
The far corner of my living room pulses with formless shadow. The air ripples like a pond, but I can't see anyone. I can feel someone, but when my eyes try to focus, I see no face, no form, no nothing.
Just…power.
I clutch at the back of Kassam's shirt, my fright temporarily overriding my lust for him.
He must sense my unease, because Kassam lifts his chin, facing that strange entity. "Pick a mortal form. You're scaring my anchor and I don't want her distracted with fear when I'd rather have her squirming in my lap."
"Apologies. Flesh is so inconvenient, but if I must." The air shimmers, and that mocking voice suddenly has a face. It's a man, with a long, lean-boned face. He's got brown skin and somewhat short, dark hair with a floppy lock hanging over his brow to give himself a rakish air. His brows are thick, his nose aquiline, his race and age indeterminate. His mouth is full and almost feminine, but the cruelty in his eyes erases that softness. His clothes are as ageless as he is—he wears a long-sleeved white shirt and simple, dark pants, much like a pirate would. The stranger scans a quick glance over my form and then just as quickly dismisses me. "Better now?"
He lounges back in my computer chair, hands behind his head as if he owns the place.
