Chapter 7: Taverna Temptation
The air inside the taverna hit Erin like a warm, damp towel – thick with the smell of grilled octopus, frying garlic, stale beer, and the ever-present tang of the sea. After the wind-whipped exposure of the cliffs, it felt heavy, almost suffocating. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, her legs still shaky, the thin yellow sundress clinging uncomfortably to her damp skin. Marcus’s release and David’s, mingled, cooled against her inner thighs, a constant, visceral reminder pressed against the fabric.
Marcus strode ahead, finding a rough-hewn wooden table by a large window overlooking the churning, slate-grey sea. Storm clouds bruised the horizon, swallowing the earlier brilliant blue. He dropped into a chair with a satisfied grunt, his back to the view, already scanning the small bar. David hovered, awkwardly pulling out a chair for Erin before sitting beside her, his eyes darting around the dimly lit space. Flickering lanterns cast dancing shadows on the worn wooden floor and exposed stone walls.
"Three Mythos," Marcus called out, his voice cutting through the low hum of other patrons – a couple murmuring in a corner, an old man nursing an ouzo. His gaze landed on the woman behind the bar. "Cold."
The bartender turned, wiping her hands on a rag tucked into the waistband of her dark jeans. She was probably mid-thirties, with waves of deep, espresso-brown hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow looked intentional, a few strands escaping to frame a face with high cheekbones and warm, amber eyes. Her figure was lush – full breasts straining slightly against a simple black vest top, a defined waist flaring into generous hips. She moved with an effortless confidence that resonated deep in Erin’s belly.
"Three cold Mythos," the woman repeated, her voice a low, melodic rasp with just a hint of an accent – Spanish, maybe? Her gaze swept over the table, lingering for a fraction of a second on Erin. It wasn't dismissive, like the tourist’s shock. It was… assessing. Curious. Her eyes traced the messy cascade of Erin’s blonde hair escaping its pins, the slight flush still high on her cheeks, the way the damp yellow fabric clung to Erin’s chest and thighs. A tiny, knowing smile touched the corner of her full lips before she turned to grab bottles from an ice bucket.
Erin felt the scrutiny like a physical touch. Heat, different from the dregs of her orgasm, bloomed in her chest. It was a sudden, sharp pang of desire, unexpected and intense. God, she’s stunning. The thought cut through her lingering dizziness. Seeing that confident curve of hip, the swell of breast beneath the vest, the strength in her arms as she effortlessly lifted the bottles… Erin felt a familiar throb low in her belly, a yearning she usually directed towards the men. This felt… new. Electric. Dangerous. Her gaze dropped to the bartender’s hands, strong and capable, as she popped the caps off the beers.
"Rough hike?" the bartender asked casually as she placed the dripping bottles on the table. Her eyes met Erin’s again, holding the contact a beat too long. There was warmth there, yes, but also an unnerving directness. Erin felt utterly transparent, as if this woman could see the salt on her skin, the scrape marks on her back, the twin loads cooling between her legs. She could probably smell the sex on her.
Erin’s throat clicked dryly. She couldn’t form words. Marcus answered easily, leaning back in his chair. "Took the scenic route. Found some… interesting viewpoints." He took a long pull of his beer, his eyes narrowed, watching the interaction.
The bartender’s gaze flickered back to Marcus, then returned to Erin. "Scenic can be demanding," she said, her voice softening slightly, just for Erin. Her hand brushed Erin’s wrist lightly as she placed a napkin near her bottle. It was fleeting, maybe accidental, but the contact sent a jolt up Erin’s arm. Her skin tingled.
"It can," Erin managed, her voice barely more than a whisper. She grabbed the cold beer bottle, the condensation slick against her trembling fingers, needing the anchor, the chill against her palm. She took a shaky sip, the hoppy bitterness a welcome shock.
David cleared his throat, picking at the label of his own bottle. "Uh, yeah. Windy up there." He avoided looking directly at the bartender, focusing intently on the sea through the window.
The bartender smiled, a genuine, warm curve of her lips that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Always is. Keeps things fresh. Need anything else? Agora?" Her gaze lingered on Erin. The word hung in the air. Now? Was it just service, or…?
"Food," Marcus stated, breaking the tension. "Whatever’s good. Fried squid? Tzatziki?" He kept his eyes on the bartender, a speculative glint in them Erin recognized. He’d seen the look, the touch. And he was calculating.
"Endáxi," the bartender nodded. "Squid, tzatziki. I bring." She turned, her movements fluid, hips swaying slightly as she walked back towards the small kitchen hatch. Erin couldn't tear her eyes away. The confident sway, the curve of her ass in those jeans… A fresh wave of heat washed over her, chasing the chill from the beer. She imagined those strong hands on her skin, not like Marcus’s demanding grip or David’s tentative exploration, but something different. Knowing. Female. The fantasy was vivid, unexpected, and incredibly arousing. She shifted slightly in her chair, the damp fabric between her legs a constant, intimate friction.
Marcus leaned forward, his voice low and carrying despite the ambient noise. He wasn't looking at Erin; he was staring intently at the bartender’s retreating back. "Now she looks like she could handle herself," he murmured, a predatory edge to his tone. He took another swig of beer. "Bet she knows a thing or two."
David shifted uncomfortably. "Marcus…" he started, a warning note in his voice. He glanced nervously at Erin, then back towards the bar area.
Erin felt a spike of something cold twist through the heat. Alarm? Possessiveness? The look in Marcus’s eyes wasn't just appreciation. It was acquisitive. Like spotting another potential conquest. The thought of Marcus turning that focused, demanding energy onto the warm, confident bartender… it curdled the desire Erin had just felt. That woman wasn't part of the script. She wasn't one of the twenty. She felt… separate. Real. And Erin suddenly, fiercely, didn't want Marcus touching her.
Marcus’s gaze snapped to Erin, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He’d seen her reaction too. The flare of heat for the bartender, and now this flash of something protective? Jealous? He raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. "Problem, sunshine?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "She’s your type, huh? Or maybe…" He let the implication hang, his eyes dropping pointedly to the damp patch on Erin’s dress, visible even in the dim light. "Maybe you just like getting attention. Any attention."
David stared down at the table, his knuckles white on his beer bottle. The storm clouds outside seemed to press closer, darkening the taverna. Erin clutched her own bottle, the cold glass biting into her palm, her heart hammering against her ribs. The bartender reappeared at the hatch, calling an order to the kitchen, her profile sharp against the light. Marcus watched her, then looked back at Erin, his smile turning wolfish.
The game had just changed. Again.
The bartender’s melodic "Endáxi," hung in the salt-tinged air as she disappeared towards the kitchen hatch. Erin watched the confident sway of her hips, the memory of that fleeting wrist touch still tingling. Marcus’s low chuckle pulled her back. "Problem, sunshine?" he repeated, leaning closer, his predatory gaze flicking between Erin and the hatch. "She’s definitely got you wound up. Different flavor, huh? Something new to taste?" David shifted again, staring hard at the churning slate-grey sea visible through the window, the storm clouds pressing closer, darkening the taverna’s interior.
"Leave her alone, Marcus," Erin murmured, her voice tighter than she intended. She took another gulp of the cold beer, the hoppy bitterness doing little to quench the confusing heat coiling inside her. Possessiveness warred with the raw, unexpected throb of desire the bartender ignited. This wasn’t just another nameless participant; this woman felt real, separate from the planned frenzy of the cliffs. Marcus reaching for her felt… wrong. Violating.
Marcus’s grin widened, wolfish and knowing. He stretched his arms, the muscles in his shoulders flexing beneath his thin t-shirt. "Why? Scared she won’t play your little game?" His eyes dropped pointedly to the damp patch darkening the thin yellow fabric clinging to Erin’s inner thigh – the evidence of his and David’s earlier attentions. "Or scared she will?" He leaned back, draping an arm over the empty chair beside him, radiating arrogant ease. "Relax. Everyone here’s playing for the same team tonight, right? More the merrier. Bet she’d be… enthusiastic."
David cleared his throat, his knuckles white on his beer bottle. "Marcus, maybe just… eat the squid. When it comes." He sounded strained, his gaze fixed on the worn grooves of the wooden table. The salty tang of frying seafood began to mingle with the stale beer smell as the bartender reappeared at the hatch, calling instructions in rapid Greek to the unseen cook. Her profile was sharp against the light, strong and focused.
Erin’s pulse hammered against her ribs. The image of Marcus’s demanding hands on the bartender’s warm skin sent a spike of cold dread through the heat. No. She gripped the beer bottle tighter, condensation slick on her palm. "She’s not part of this," Erin stated, forcing her voice level. It was a gamble, asserting herself. Her Erin persona thrived on submission, but this felt different. Necessary.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise, then amusement, crossing his face. "Says who?" His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Last I checked, Erin likes attention. Any attention." He emphasized the name, a subtle reminder of the persona she wore. "And she promised," he added, his gaze sweeping her body dismissively before locking onto the bartender again, "to entertain every cock. Big or small." The crude reminder of her own words hung heavy.
The bartender approached their table then, carrying a steaming platter of golden fried calamari and a bowl of creamy tzatziki. She set them down with efficient grace, the scent of lemon and garlic momentarily cutting through the tension. Her warm amber eyes met Erin’s briefly, a flicker of unreadable something – curiosity? Warning? – before shifting to Marcus. "Squid is good. Fresh today." Her voice remained calm, melodic.
"Looks it," Marcus said, his tone suddenly smooth, charming even, as he deliberately scooped up a ring of calamari. But his eyes never left hers. "Smells amazing. You cook it yourself?" He popped the squid into his mouth, chewing slowly, his gaze intensely appraising.
"Sometimes," she replied evenly, wiping her hands on the rag at her hip. "Depends." She didn’t flinch under his scrutiny, standing her ground with a quiet confidence that made Erin’s breath catch. Her gaze swept the table again, lingering on the barely touched beers, David’s tense posture, Erin’s flushed face. "Enjoy."
She started to turn. Marcus’s hand shot out, not touching her, but landing flat on the table right before her, blocking her path back towards the bar. It was a subtle but unmistakable move, a territorial claim. The bartender paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down at his hand, then back up at his face.
"Actually," Marcus said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble he used on the cliffs, the charm replaced by pure, focused intent. "We were just talking about you. Erin here was wondering…" He tilted his head towards Erin, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "…if you’d like to join the party later. Sounds like you might fit right in." His gaze swept over her body with deliberate slowness. "What do you say?"
Erin’s blood ran cold. The taverna seemed to shrink, the lantern light flickering violently as thunder rumbled, closer now. David froze, his eyes wide with alarm. The bartender didn’t move, her expression unreadable, but her posture shifted minutely, coiling like a spring. Erin felt the dampness between her legs turn icy. Marcus had crossed the line, dragging the warm, real woman into their chaotic fantasy. And there was no taking it back.
The taverna’s air thickened, heavy with fried garlic, salt, and the sudden, crackling tension. Marcus’s hand remained planted on the table, a barrier, his invitation hanging like a dare. David stared, frozen, a calamari ring forgotten halfway to his mouth. Thunder growled again, closer, vibrating the worn floorboards beneath their feet.
Isabella didn’t flinch. Her amber eyes locked onto Marcus’s, cool and assessing. That tiny, knowing smile flickered back onto her lips, bolder this time. She slowly shifted her gaze to Erin, who felt pinned, breathless, caught between the damp chill of dread and the electric thrum the bartender ignited.
"Join?" Isabella echoed, her melodic voice cutting through Marcus’s crude energy. She deliberately stepped around his blocking hand, the movement fluid, reclaiming her space. She leaned her hip against the table’s edge, facing Erin fully now, ignoring Marcus. Her gaze traveled Erin’s face – the lingering flush, the messy hair, the apprehension wide in her eyes. "What party is this?"
Erin swallowed hard. The lie felt like sandpaper in her throat. "It’s…" she started, her voice cracking. Marcus’s predatory stare burned into the side of her face. David shifted, his chair scraping loudly.
"A private gathering," Marcus interjected smoothly, reclaiming control. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur meant to draw Isabella in. "Exclusive. Very… participatory. Erin here is the main attraction." He gestured vaguely towards her with his beer bottle. "But she seems to think you might… complement the festivities." He flashed a grin, all teeth. "We could use some local flavor."
Isabella’s eyes never left Erin’s. Erin saw the calculation there, the sharp intelligence behind the warmth. She saw the flicker of understanding – the damp dress, the shaky hands, Marcus’s possessiveness. Isabella tilted her head, a strand of dark hair escaping her bun to curl against her neck. Erin’s gaze followed it, heat prickling her skin.
"Participatory," Isabella repeated, tasting the word. Her lips curved into something more deliberate than a smile. "And Erin is the attraction." She paused, letting the implication hang. The scent of lemon on her skin mixed with the sea air drifting through the open window. "Interesting."
Marcus’s grin widened, sensing victory. "Very. So? What do you—"
"Erin," Isabella interrupted, her voice suddenly softer, focused solely on her. "Is this your invitation? Or his?" The question was direct, stripping away Marcus’s posturing. It demanded truth.
Erin’s heart hammered against her ribs. Conflicting currents pulled at her – the ingrained pull to please, to embody the fantasy, warring with the fierce, unexpected desire sparked by this woman and the cold knot of fear at Marcus dragging her into it. She met Isabella’s steady gaze. Saw the challenge. Saw the offer beneath it. Her own desire, sharp and undeniable, cut through the confusion.
"Yes," Erin breathed, the word escaping before she could second-guess it. Too fast. Too eager. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she held Isabella’s gaze. "Mine."
Isabella’s expression shifted, the calculation melting into something warmer, more intense. Approval. Interest. Her gaze dropped to Erin’s lips. "Okay," she said simply. Then she added, her voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that sent a shiver down Erin’s spine despite the taverna’s warmth, "But only if you let me kiss you. Now."
The demand hung, sharp and unexpected in the heavy air. Marcus’s smug expression froze, then twisted into disbelief. David choked quietly on his beer. Erin’s mind blanked for a second, filled only with the image of Isabella’s lips, the warmth in her eyes, the sheer audacity of the request here, in front of them.
Erin didn’t hesitate. She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping harshly, and stood. "Yes," she whispered again, the word thick with need. "Please."
Isabella straightened up, closing the small distance between them in one fluid step. She smelled of olives, lemon, salt, and something uniquely hers – warm skin and spice. Her strong hands came up, one cupping Erin’s jaw with surprising tenderness, the other resting lightly on her hip. Erin’s breath hitched, her body humming. Isabella’s thumb brushed her cheekbone.
Then Isabella kissed her. It wasn't tentative. It was firm, confident, exploring. Her lips were softer than Erin imagined, moving against hers with deliberate pressure. The taste of her was startlingly real – faint salt, the tang of something herbal, an underlying warmth. Erin’s eyes fluttered shut, a low moan catching in her throat. She kissed back, abandoning thought, lost in the sensation – the smooth slide, the slight pressure of Isabella’s teeth catching her lower lip for a heartbeat, the intoxicating femaleness of it. She melted into it, her hands instinctively finding Isabella’s waist, feeling the curve of her hip beneath the thin cotton vest. The world narrowed to the press of lips, the shared breath, the shocking intimacy of it in this crowded, tense space.
Marcus’s sharp intake of breath was audible. A low, angry sound rumbled in his chest. Erin felt it, registered the heat of his glare, a counterpoint to the fire Isabella ignited. She hated his leering presence, hated how his predatory gaze was undoubtedly devouring the two of them. Yet, perversely, the awareness of him watching, of David frozen beside them, sent another jolt through her. The mental image flashed, unbidden and vivid: Marcus’s strong hands gripping Isabella’s hips from behind, thrusting into her, while Erin watched, helpless and aroused. The contradiction – revulsion and dark, thrilling heat – twisted inside her, making her press closer to Isabella, deepening the kiss, seeking oblivion in the Latina’s mouth even as the fantasy of Marcus taking her bloomed hot and unwanted in her mind.
The kiss lasted seconds that felt like minutes. Isabella finally pulled back, just enough to break the seal of their lips. Her eyes, dark and unreadable now, held Erin’s. Her thumb brushed Erin’s lower lip where she’d bitten it. She didn't smile. She simply gave a small, decisive nod.
"Later," she murmured, the promise hanging heavy. Then, without a glance at the stunned men, she turned and walked back towards the bar, hips swaying, leaving Erin trembling, breathless, and achingly in a lustful need.
The taverna door slammed shut behind a departing fisherman, the sound jolting David upright. He stared at Erin, then Marcus, his face pale. "Marcus, man, what the hell was that?" His voice wavered, eyes wide with disbelief and a flicker of fantasy. Cheers erupt from around the bar. What a show.