Chapter 15: Chain Reaction
Zack gasped, his head thumping back against the pillow. Ginny’s mouth was a hot, wet slide of pure sensation, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock before she took him deep, her throat working around him in a practiced, dizzying rhythm. On his other side, Molly guided his hand between her own thighs, her breath hitching as his fingers found her soaked folds.
“Yeah, right there,” Molly moaned, her eyes fluttering closed behind her glasses. She rocked against his hand, coating his fingers with her slickness, her own hand busy twisting and pinching her nipple through the thin fabric of her camisole. The room was a haze of sweat and sex and gin, a tangle of limbs and hungry noises.
Ginny pulled off with a lewd, wet pop, looking up at him, her lips slick and swollen. “You taste so good,” she purred, before diving down again, taking him all the way until her nose pressed into his pubic hair.
Zack’s vision blurred at the edges. He was a puppet, his strings pulled by two expert sets of hands and mouths. His free hand clutched at the rumpled sheets, his hips giving an involuntary, shallow thrust upwards into Ginny’s welcoming throat. A high, helpless whine escaped him.
Then, it hit.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a sensation. A sudden, violent surge of energy that had nothing to do with the alcohol or the sex. It felt like a live wire had been jammed into the base of his spine, branching out through every nerve ending. He arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.
Ginny yelped, pulling off him, choking. Molly froze, her hand still between her legs, her eyes flying open wide.
Across the room, sprawled on the carpet, Mike grunted, his body tensing. Casey, lying beside him, let out a sharp gasp, her back bowing. Her hand, which had been idly stroking Mike’s chest, spasmed, her fingernails digging in.
Every woman on the ship, in that exact, synchronized instant, felt it. A jolt of pure, uncut desire, a lightning bolt of need that bypassed thought and went straight to the body.
Casey moaned, low and guttural, her free hand flying between her own legs. Her dark eyes were wide, unfocused. Molly’s breath came in ragged pants, a fresh gush of wetness soaking Zack’s trapped fingers. Ginny shuddered, a full-body convulsion, her own thighs clamping together as a wave of heat flooded her core.
Zack could only stare, his arousal momentarily forgotten under a wave of bewildered dread. He’d felt magic before—the soft, warm glow of Jan’s influence at a party, the tingle of something in the air. This was different. This was raw power, unleashed and furious, a scream of defiance after being bottled up for too long.
“Jan,” Mike rasped, his voice thick with something that wasn’t just arousal. He looked at Casey, a silent understanding passing between them. They knew that signature. It was Jan, but amplified, a dam breaking.
In Mara’s stateroom, the world had turned inside out.
The lead Consortium agent had just raised his null-field emitter, the whine reaching a teeth-shattering crescendo aimed at Jan’s skull. The device was a feat of anti-magical engineering, designed to scramble synaptic patterns associated with arcane focus. It had worked perfectly on Hornpipe’s more delicate machinery.
It did nothing against the sheer, brute-force tsunami of Green Moon magic that erupted from Jan O’Connor at that moment.
It wasn’t a spell. It was a reflex. A psychic recoil from having her connection to the universe’s joy—its lust, its passion, its fun—strangled. The damning field didn’t suppress her power; it compressed it, packed it down into a denser, more volatile form.
And then Jan broke.
Her eyes, wide with pain and disorientation, snapped open. They weren’t their usual mischievous green. They glowed with an inner, ultraviolet light. A soundless pulse of energy exploded from her, a wave of pure, unrestrained want.
The null-field emitter in the agent’s hand didn’t malfunction. It vaporized. One second it was a chrome construct, the next it was a shower of molten slag and sparks that seared his glove. He screamed, clutching his hand.
But that was the least of it.
The wave hit him, and the two agents flanking him, in the gut. It was a physical blow, a heat that had nothing to do with temperature. It was the sudden, agonizing strain of an erection rocketing to full, painful hardness against the confines of his utility trousers. He groaned, doubling over. His compatriots wheezed, one dropping to his knees, hands going to his groin.
Jan stood up. She wasn’t thinking. She was pure id, a conduit for every repressed desire on the ship, every secret fantasy, every hungry look shared between lovers. It all funneled back through her, amplified, and radiated outwards.
She took a step towards the lead agent. He looked up, his face a mask of agony and shame. The opaque data-glasses hid his eyes, but his mouth was slack, drooling.
“You wanted to take my magic?” Jan’s voice was a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the bones. “This is my magic. This is what I am.”
She didn’t touch him. She didn’t need to. His body betrayed him utterly. A dark, wet patch bloomed at the crotch of his trousers. He wasn’t just hard; he was in the throes of a forced, relentless orgasm, his body convulsing as he spilled into his pants, sobbing with the humiliation of it.
“The… contingency…” he gasped between ragged moans. “Redmond… Deck B… service nexus… Ava…”
The words were torn from him, each confession punctuated by another helpless thrust of his hips against empty air. The other two agents were similarly afflicted, one openly weeping as he stroked himself through his clothes, the other slamming his head against the doorframe in a futile attempt to counteract the agony of pleasure.
Mara watched, her legal mind categorizing the horror and the victory in equal measure. The power wasn’t directed at her, but she felt the periphery of it, a feverish warmth in her own belly, a tightening of her nipples. She pushed it down, focusing on the tactical advantage.
Stacy rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor, her gun up, her face a mask of lethal focus. She saw the scene: Jan, glowing faintly, standing over three incapacitated men who were either coming in their pants or trying to. She lowered her weapon, an eyebrow arched.
Bethany and Liam skidded to a halt behind her. Bethany took one look, flipped open her vintage handbag, and pulled out what looked like a bulky, brass telescope. She peered through it at Jan.
“Energy signature is off the charts,” Bethany muttered. “It’s… chaotic. Not a focused spell. It’s a release. A backlash.”
“Can ye stop it?” Liam asked, his voice tight with concern.
“I could try to dampen it with a counter-resonance,” Bethany said, fiddling with a dial on the device. “But it might be like trying to stop a flood with a teacup. And it’s not hurting anyone. Physically.”
As if on cue, the lead agent let out another shuddering cry, his body going rigid before slumping to the floor in a boneless heap, unconscious from sensory overload.
Jan blinked. The glow in her eyes faded, leaving them bloodshot and exhausted. The oppressive wave of directed desire receded, pulling back into her like a tide. She swayed on her feet.
Mara was there in an instant, catching her before she could fall. “Jan? Talk to me.”
“Tired,” Jan slurred, her head lolling against Mara’s shoulder. “Used… everything. All at once.”
Bethany approached cautiously, her brass device now aimed at the unconscious agents. “The dampening field is gone. Completely burned out. Their tech is fried.” She nudged one agent with her boot. He didn’t stir. “They’ll be out for hours. Possibly need therapy.”
Stacy holstered her gun, her demeanor shifting from warrior to protector. She looked at Jan, a flicker of old, deep friendship in her eyes. “You okay, Red?”
“Mmhmm,” Jan mumbled. “Just need a nap. And maybe a cheeseburger.”
Down in Molly and Ginny’s room, the aftershocks lingered. The unbearable, shared peak had passed, leaving behind a tingling sensitivity and a profound sense of disconnection.
Zack slowly pulled his hand from between Molly’s legs, his fingers glistening. Ginny sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her expression dazed.
“What the hell was that?” Molly breathed, her chest heaving.
“Jan,” Casey said from the floor, her voice raw. She was still on her back, one arm thrown over her eyes. “That was Jan having a really, really bad day.”
Mike sat up, rubbing his temples. “And a really, really powerful orgasm.”
“For everyone,” Ginny added, with a shaky laugh. She looked at Zack, then at the confused, soft state of his cock. “Well. That’s one way to kill the mood.”
Zack managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Molly sighed, collapsing beside him. “I think my soul left my body for a second there. I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke.”
The door to the corridor burst open. Liam stood there, breathing heavily, with Bethany right behind him. They took in the scene: the naked, sprawled bodies, the empty gin bottle, the general atmosphere of decadent exhaustion.
“Everyone decent?” Liam asked, his Scottish brogue thick.
“Define decent,” Mike said.
“Alive and not under magical coercion,” Bethany clarified, not bothering to hide her exasperation.
“We’re good,” Casey said, sitting up. “Just got hit by the Jan-wave. What’s happening?”
“Consortium attack. Neutralized,” Bethany said briskly. “Jan overloaded their systems. But their leader, a man named Redmond, is still operational. Deck B, service nexus. We need to move.”
Mike got to his feet, offering a hand to pull Casey up. “Right. Pants.”
As the group scrambled—Molly and Ginny pulling on robes, Zack and Mike hastily dressing—Bethany’s anachronistic phone buzzed. She answered, listened for a moment, her face grim.
“That was Fatima,” she said, hanging up. “She felt the… event. She also confirmed Redmond’s location. And she said Rebecca and Charley are on their way. Apparently, they were… interrupted.”
“Aren’t we all,” Ginny muttered, tying her robe belt with a sharp yank.
“We’re going to Deck B,” Bethany announced. “Stacy’s guarding Jan and Mara. We need to contain Redmond and this ‘Ava’ person before they try another contingency.” She looked at the ragtag assembly. “Can you all fight?”
Mike and Casey exchanged a look. “We’re better at being annoying,” Casey said.
“That works too,” Bethany said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Let’s go be annoying.”
In the silent, antiseptic confines of the service nexus on Deck B, Dan Redmond stared at the bank of monitors. Every screen that had been monitoring the dampening field and the extraction team’s biometrics was now a fizzling mess of static. The feedback had blown the circuits.
Ava stood beside him, her usually impassive face tense. “Field collapse. Team Alpha non-responsive. Energy surge matched to O’Connor’s signature, but magnitude was… unprecedented.”
Redmond didn’t swear. He didn’t rage. He simply absorbed the failure, recalculating. The rational approach had encountered an irrational variable. O’Connor wasn’t just a witch; she was a catalyst. Containment had been the wrong tactic. You don’t contain a catalyst. You eliminate it.
He turned to a different console, inputting a new code. “Activate Omega Protocol. All assets. Prioritize termination of primary target, Jan O’Connor. Collateral damage is acceptable.”
Ava blinked. “Sir? That would mean engaging other passengers. Exposure risk is extreme.”
“The risk of her continued existence is greater,” Redmond said, his voice cold. “She is an anomaly. An error in the system. Errors must be corrected.” He tapped the final key.
Throughout the ship, in staff quarters, engine rooms, and guest service offices, a silent alarm activated. Men and women in various uniforms—stewards, engineers, massage therapists—stopped what they were doing. Their eyes, for a moment, went blank, then refocused with a shared, cold purpose.
The Consortium wasn’t just a few agents. It was a network. And the network had just been ordered to hunt.
Up on the sun deck, under a blanket of stars, Rebecca Franklin leaned into Charley’s side, a shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the night air. The sudden, violent surge of magic had felt like a thunderclap directly in her soul.
“Did you feel that?” she whispered.
Charley nodded, his arm tightening around her. His face, usually so soft when looking at her, was grave. “It was Jan. And she was… hurt. Or angry.” The former Auditor understood negative spaces, the shape of voids. What he’d felt was a void being violently filled.
“We should find the others,” Rebecca said, standing. The sense of urgency was a physical pull in her chest.
As they hurried towards the interior doors, they didn’t see the slender woman in a steward’s uniform step out from behind a decorative potted palm. She held a device that looked like a nasal spray. She raised it, aiming at the back of Rebecca’s neck.
A blur of orange, black, and white shot from the shadows with a yowl that was pure alley-cat fury. Pollux landed on the stewardess’s face, claws extended. The woman screamed, dropping the device and stumbling back.
Charley reacted on instinct born of love, not combat training. He shoved Rebecca behind him and kicked the strange device skittering across the deck. He then turned, his large hands closing around the stewardess’s wrists as she tried to dislodge the shrieking, scratching cat.
Rebecca stared, her heart hammering. The cat. Mike and Casey’s ugly, wonderful, not-a-fan-of-anybody cat, was saving them.
Polluck, having made his point, disengaged and dropped to the floor, licking a paw as if nothing had happened. The stewardess’s face was a mess of shallow scratches. Charley held her firmly.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
The woman just stared, her eyes glassy and defiant. Then her body went limp. A thin trickle of foam escaped her lips. Her head lolled to the side.
“Poison capsule,” Rebecca said, the lawyer’s daughter in her recognizing the tactic. “She’s dead.”
Charley let the body slump to the deck. He looked from the dead woman to the indifferent cat to Rebecca’s pale, shocked face.
“The cat goes with us,” Charley said simply.
Pollux looked up, gave a slow, disdainful blink, and sauntered over to weave between Rebecca’s ankles, purring.
The hunt was on. And the hunters had just discovered their prey had claws—and guardian angels with notched ears.
Fatima Abaza was pouring a cup of chamomile tea when the lock on their suite’s door clicked open by itself. It wasn’t the soft, electrical hum of a key card. It was the sharp, metallic snick of a physical pick being turned with expert precision. Hank looked up from his tablet, his football match forgotten.
Two figures in crisp ship’s officer uniforms slid inside. Their movements were synchronized, devoid of personality. One held a device that emitted a soft, blue pulse. The other advanced, hands empty but held in a ready, open-palmed stance.
“You will come with us,” the lead one stated, his voice flat.
Fatima didn’t spill her tea. She sighed, a long-suffering exhale. “You’re with the science boys, aren’t you? The ones who think joy is a chemical misfire.” She placed her cup carefully on the saucer. “You shouldn’t have come in here.”
The agent with the device raised it. A low thrum filled the room, intended to disrupt magical focus. Fatima merely closed her eyes, whispered a phrase in Arabic that sounded less like a spell and more like a mother scolding a child, and snapped her fingers.
The device didn’t break. The man holding it simply lost all interest in it. His eyes glazed over, his grip slackened, and the expensive piece of tech clattered to the carpet. He stared at his empty hand, a profound, soul-deep confusion crumpling his features.
“My… my model train set,” he mumbled, his voice full of wistful sorrow. “I never finished the landscaping on the HO-scale Bavarian village.”
The other agent blinked, his programmed attack sequence disrupted by this bizarre non-sequitur. That moment of hesitation was all Hank needed. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a mechanic who enjoyed sports. But he knew about leverage and kinetic force. He stood up from the couch in one solid motion and drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus.
The air left the agent’s lungs in a surprised, pained oof. He folded, gasping, and Hank, following through, brought his other fist down in a clumsy but effective arc onto the back of the man’s skull. He dropped like a sack of tools.
The first agent was now on his knees, weeping softly about miniature birch trees. Fatima walked over and placed a gentle hand on his temple. “Sleep,” she murmured. He slumped sideways, snoring.
Hank shook out his hand, wincing. “Damn. That hurt.”
“You hit him wrong,” Fatima said, inspecting the two unconscious forms. “You’ll bruise your knuckles that way.”
“Yeah, well, he had a hard head.” Hank nudged the agent with his foot. “Think they sent the B-team for us?”
“They sent a team. That’s the problem.” Fatima’s phone buzzed. It was a group text from Bethany, listing a rendezvous point near Deck B. “Come on. Bethany’s mobilizing everyone.”
As they stepped over the bodies, Hank slipped an arm around Fatima’s waist, pulling her close for a brief moment. “Remind me never to piss you off, Fati. You’re the deadliest motherfucker in Chicago.”
Fatima elbowed him lightly, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I hate it when you call me that.”
“I know,” he said, grinning. “That’s why I do it.”
In her stateroom, Vivian Chase was already pulling on a pair of black leggings and a tight, sleeveless top when the tail end of Jan’s power surge washed over her. For a half-succubus, it was less a wave and more a tonic, a bracing shot of energy that made her shadows stir beneath her skin. She gasped, a hand going to her chest where her heart beat a swift, hungry rhythm.
“That was Jan,” she whispered, her demonic senses recognizing the chaotic, life-affirming signature. “Something’s wrong.”
From the bed, Dale Foster tried to sit up, his face pale and sheened with sweat beneath the bandages. The scarring from the burned-out Consortium tech laced across his torso like a vicious, red web. “Viv, don’t. If they mobilized a field team, they have redundancies. Back-up plans for the back-up plans. I don’t even know who’s running this op. Hornpipe was compartmentalized.”
Vivian walked to the bed, her movements fluid. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, her lips cool. “I believe you. Which is why I can’t stay. If they have plans for plans, they’ll come here eventually. You’re a liability to them now.”
“You’re not a fighter,” he rasped, gripping her wrist. His touch was weak.
“I don’t need to fight,” she said, her smile tinged with sadness. “I just need to distract. It’s what I’m built for.” She straightened, pulling her vibrant red hair into a severe ponytail. “Rest. I’ll be back.”
She slipped out the door, her form seeming to blend with the shadows of the corridor, a barely-there silhouette moving with predatory grace towards the heart of the ship.
Back in Mara’s ravaged stateroom, the air still crackled with spent energy and the acrid smell of ozone and vomit. The three Consortium agents were bound with lamp cords and belts, slumped in a groaning, unconscious heap against the far wall. Stacy stood over them, her pistol held loosely at her side, a deep frown on her face.
“What the hell do we do with them?” she asked, more to the universe than to anyone in particular. “We’re on a boat. In the middle of the goddamn ocean. It’s only day three. We can’t just throw them overboard.”
“We could,” Jan offered weakly from the bed. She was propped up against the headboard, looking frail and drained, her fiery hair dull.
“We’re not throwing them overboard,” Mara stated, pacing. She stopped and looked at Jan. “What is the Cosmological Anchor? That’s what they said they wanted.”
Jan’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. She looked down at her hands, turning them over as if expecting to see something. “I have no idea. I don’t have any anchor. I don’t even own a boat.”
“They seemed pretty certain,” Mara pressed.
“Well, they’re wrong!” Jan’s voice trembled with frustration and exhaustion. “I have my compact, my pendant, my lucky stone, and some dice. That’s it. No anchors.” She took a shaky breath. “But I do know I’m running on empty. That little display… that was the last of my juice. I’m tapped.”
Stacy holstered her gun. “So we’re sitting ducks for the next wave of goons.”
“Not necessarily.” Jan looked from Stacy to Mara, a flicker of her old mischief returning to her eyes, though it was dim. “I can recharge. Fast. But I need help.”
Mara crossed her arms. “What kind of help?”
“Skin-on-skin contact. Sympathetic resonance. A… catalyst.” Jan gestured vaguely between the two of them.
Mara and Stacy exchanged a long, weary look. A silent conversation passed between them, born of years of friendship and shared, exasperated history.
“It’s practically the only thing she ever wants,” Mara said, her voice dry.
Stacy shrugged, a resigned, what-else-is-new gesture. “And it’s vital to save lives. Probably.” She walked to the door, checked the corridor through the peephole, then engaged the deadbolt with a firm click. She dragged a heavy armchair from the corner, grunting with the effort, and wedged it under the door handle.
“Godfrey, keep watch,” Stacy said. The golden retriever puppy, who had been observing the proceedings with detached bemusement, let out a soft whuff and settled his head on his paws, his eyes fixed on the unconscious agents. He felt the distinct urge to take a nap.
Jan watched, a small smile touching her lips as Mara, with a sigh that was more theatrical than annoyed, began to unbutton her silk pajama top. Stacy was less ceremonious, pulling her tank top over her head in one swift motion, followed by her sports bra. Her toned physique was a testament to her profession, each muscle defined.
“Skin-on-skin,” Jan reminded them, her own fingers fumbling with the tie of her shorts. “The more contact, the better the flow. It’s not just sex. It’s a circuit.”
“It’s always a circuit with you, Red,” Stacy said, but there was no heat in it. She kicked off her leggings and stood naked, hands on her hips. Mara, now also nude, folded her clothes neatly on a chair, her movements precise even in this.
Jan finally shed her clothes, letting them pool on the floor. In the dim light, her pale skin seemed to glow, the smattering of freckles across her shoulders and chest like a distant constellation. She was thinner than Stacy, softer than Mara’s lawyer-sharp edges, but there was a vitality to her, a warmth that seemed to emanate from her very core.
Mara climbed onto the bed first, her movements businesslike. Stacy followed, her athletic ease making the mattress dip. They flanked Jan, their bare skin pressing against hers. The initial touch was clinical, a necessity. But then Jan closed her eyes, and a soft, green-tinged light began to pulse just under her skin where they touched.
“Oh,” Mara breathed, as the clinical feeling vanished. It was replaced by a profound, awe-inspiring sense of rightness. Jan’s body under her hands wasn’t just a friend’s; it was a masterpiece. The curve of her hip was a divine slope. The swell of her small breast was perfect. Mara’s fingers, which had started with hesitant contact, now traced the lines of Jan’s collarbone with something like reverence.
Stacy felt it too. The warmth wasn’t just physical. It was a deep, soul-level admiration. Jan’s short, red hair was a crown of fire. The delicate strength in her wrists was beautiful. She found herself leaning in, her lips brushing the shell of Jan’s ear. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” she whispered, the words leaving her without thought or filter.
Jan’s Power of Exposure was flaring, unbidden, a reflex of her depleted state seeking nourishment. It wasn’t a coercive spell. It was an amplification of a truth already present—the deep, platonic love her friends had for her, twisted now into raw, worshipful desire.
Mara’s mouth found Jan’s, the kiss deepening from something functional to something starving. Her tongue slipped past Jan’s lips, and Jan moaned into the contact, her own hands coming up to cup Mara’s face. Stacy’s mouth traveled down Jan’s neck, to her shoulder, then lower, her tongue finding a peaked nipple. She sucked it deep into her mouth, her hand sliding down Jan’s flat stomach.
Jan arched her back, a gasp breaking the kiss. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice thick. “Just like that. Touch me. Everywhere.”
Stacy’s fingers slid through the soft thatch of red curls, finding the slick heat beneath. Jan was already wet, her body thrumming with the energy being drawn from their touch. Stacy pressed two fingers inside her, curling them, and Jan cried out, her hips bucking off the bed.
Mara watched, enthralled, her own body responding. The awe she felt was morphing into a needy, hollow ache between her legs. She kissed Jan again, then moved down, her mouth replacing Stacy’s on Jan’s breast. Her other hand reached for Stacy, fingers tangling in her dark hair, guiding her head lower.
Stacy needed no encouragement. She shifted down the bed, settling between Jan’s thighs. She used her thumbs to spread Jan’s glistening lips, revealing the swollen, pink core. She didn’t tease. She licked a broad, flat stripe from Jan’s opening to her clit.
Jan shrieked, her back bowing. “Fuck! Stacy, yes!”
Stacy dove in, her tongue lashing at Jan’s clit in tight, rapid circles before plunging deep inside her. The taste was electric, a direct conduit to the power Jan was trying to rebuild. Mara, watching Jan’s face contort in pleasure, finally gave in to her own need. She moved over Jan’s face, lowering her hips until her own wetness hovered over Jan’s mouth.
“Don’t stop,” Jan gasped, understanding. She lifted her head and her tongue flicked out, lapping at Mara’s folds.
The room filled with the sounds of them: the wet, hungry noises of Stacy eating Jan out, Jan’s muffled moans as she serviced Mara, Mara’s own choked-off gasps as she ground herself against Jan’s mouth. The circuit was complete. Energy—primal, sexual, joyous—flowed between them, a closed loop of giving and receiving.
Jan could feel it flooding back into her, a reservoir filling from a deep, underground spring. Her magic, her essence, was reknitting itself from their shared pleasure. Stacy’s fingers fucked into her with relentless rhythm, her tongue a wicked point of focus. Mara’s taste, musky and sweet, flooded her senses. She was the center, the conduit, the object of worship.
Stacy felt Jan’s inner muscles begin to clench around her fingers, a fluttering, urgent pulse. “She’s close,” she growled against Jan’s thigh, then redoubled her efforts, sucking Jan’s clit into her mouth.
Mara felt her own climax coiling, a tight spring in her belly. She reached down, tangling her fingers in Jan’s short hair, holding her in place as she rode her face. “Come for us, Jan,” Mara commanded, her voice trembling. “Fill yourself up.”
The permission, the awe, the intense physical sensation—it was too much. Jan’s orgasm detonated, a silent, white-hot burst behind her eyes that quickly rushed through her entire body into a screaming, physical release. Her cunt convulsed around Stacy’s fingers, a gush of fluid wetting Stacy’s chin. The magical feedback surged through the circuit.
Mara came a second later, her cry sharp and loud as she ground herself against Jan’s mouth, her thighs shaking. Stacy, electrified by the energy passing through her, followed almost instantly, her own hips stuttering against the mattress as a lesser, but still intense, wave washed over her.
They collapsed into a heap of slick limbs and panting breaths, the green glow under their skin fading to a soft ember and then nothing. Jan lay in the middle, her eyes closed, a deep, serene smile on her face. Color had returned to her cheeks.
“Better?” Mara asked, her voice husky, as she rolled onto her back.
“Much,” Jan breathed. She flexed her fingers, and a tiny, perfect green spark danced across her knuckles. “Battery’s at… sixty percent. Maybe seventy.”
Stacy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a tired smirk on her face. “Happy to be of service.”