Chapter 17: Fatima's Feast
The silence left in the wake of the portals felt different. It wasn’t an absence, but a settling. The residual energy from the ballroom had seeped into the very walls of the spa, a low, pleasant hum in the bones of the place. In Fatima’s suite, the hum was a palpable thing, buzzing in the terrazzo underfoot and warming the mirrored glass.
Hank Powers stood behind her, his large, calloused hands resting on her silk-clad shoulders. He wasn’t a small man—years of heaving engines and transmission blocks had built a solid, broad frame—but with Fatima, he was always deliberate, almost reverent.
“You’re buzzing,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Like a live wire.”
Fatima leaned back into him, her head resting against his chest. The scent of him—motor oil, cheap soap, the unique musk that was just Hank—cut through the jasmine and sage. It grounded her. “It was a… potent night.”
“Mmm.” His hands slid down her arms, slowly pushing the sleeves of her emerald robe off her shoulders. The silk whispered against her skin, pooling at her elbows. His lips found the curve of her neck, just below her ear. Not a kiss, but a press, warm and firm. “Jan’s work?”
“Indirectly.” She shivered as his stubble grazed her skin. “A group effort. Complicated magic.”
“Don’t care about the magic, Fati.” His voice dropped, taking on a rough, possessive edge that never failed to make her blood heat. “Just care about you.”
His hands moved to the tie of her robe. One tug, and it loosened. He didn’t rip it open. He unfolded her. The silk parted, revealing the swell of her breasts, the dark circles of her nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air and his proximity. He exhaled, a sharp, reverent sound, and his palms covered her, his thumbs brushing over her peaks.
“You’ve been thinking about this all day,” he stated, his fingers pinching her nipples gently, then with more insistence. “Haven’t you, habibti?”
The Arabic endearment, spoken in his flat Chicago accent, was an illicit thrill. Fatima’s breath hitched. “Yes.”
“Tell me.”
She turned in his arms, facing him. Her robe hung open, a mere suggestion of covering. She saw herself reflected in the vast mirror behind him, saw the look in her own eyes: dark, hungry, stripped of all her careful study and sharp intellect. Here, with him, she was just a woman. His woman.
“I thought about your hands,” she breathed, reaching down. She cupped him through his loose cotton shorts, feeling the thick, hard length of him straining against the fabric. “About this. About how it feels when you first push inside. How you have to go slow because you’re so fucking big.”
Hank’s jaw tightened. A low groan vibrated in his chest. He let her stroke him for a moment, his hips pushing instinctively into her hand. Then he caught her wrist. “My turn.”
He spun her around, her back to his front. The cool mirror met her flushed skin. He swept her dark curls over one shoulder, baring her neck again. His reflection loomed behind hers in the steam-fogged glass—a man of work and simple desires eclipsing the voluptuous, magical woman he somehow owned.
One hand slid around her waist, pulling her tight against him. She could feel every ridge of his abdomen, the coarse hair on his thighs. His other hand slid down her stomach, through the damp thatch of curls, and didn’t stop until his fingers were buried in her wetness.
Fatima gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. Her eyes slammed shut.
“Open your eyes,” Hank commanded, his voice gravel. “Look.”
She forced them open. In the mirror, she watched his tanned, oil-stained fingers part her slick folds. Saw herself, swollen and glistening, open to his touch. The obscenity of it, the raw vulnerability, sent a jolt straight to her core. She was dripping, her moisture coating his fingers.
“You’re soaked,” he growled, curling two fingers inside her, scissoring them slowly. “All that magic, all that… whatever the hell that was in the ballroom. Did it get you this wet?”
“No,” she whimpered, her hips pushing back against his hand. “You did. Just you.”
He added a third finger, stretching her, the burn exquisite. He fucked her with his hand, his pace deliberate and deep, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. “You gonna come on my hand, baby? Before I even get my cock in you?”
She was close, so close, teetering on the edge. The mirror showed her face, contorted in pleasure, her mouth open in a silent scream. His reflection was stone, watching her fall apart.
“No,” she choked out. “I want you. I need you inside me. Please, Hank.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening. He brought them to her lips, smearing her own wetness across them. She tasted herself, salty and musky, as she sucked his fingers clean, her eyes locked on his in the glass.
He shoved his shorts down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and heavy-veined, the tip flushed dark. He didn’t guide it. He just positioned himself, the broad head nudging against her entrance.
“Show me how much you missed me,” he said, his voice tight.
Then he drove forward.
It was not a gentle entry. It was a claiming. His thickness stretched her unbearably, a glorious, burning fullness that stole the air from her lungs. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt, his balls pressed tight against her ass, her body sheathing him completely.
A ragged cry tore from Fatima’s throat. Her hands slapped against the cool mirror for purchase. “Allah, yes…”
Hank held still, buried deep, letting her adjust. His forearms braced on the mirror on either side of her head, caging her in. His breath was hot on her neck. “Every time,” he gritted out. “Every goddamn time, it’s like the first time. You’re so fucking tight.”
Then he moved.
He pulled back almost all the way, until just the tip remained, a teasing pressure. Then he slammed back in. The impact jarred her, her breasts swaying, her cheek pressed to the glass. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, powerful piston stroke that shoved her against the mirror. The sound was filthy: the wet slap of flesh on flesh, the creak of the vanity, her choked gasps, his guttural groans.
“Look,” he grunted, his pace unwavering.
She forced her eyes open. The mirror was fogging with their heat. Through the mist, she saw the animal truth of it: his powerful back and shoulders flexing, his ass clenching with every drive, her own body jolting forward, taking him, taking all of him. Her nipples were hard peaks dragging against the glass. Her face was a mask of utter ecstasy.
His hand left the mirror and tangled in her hair, not yanking, but holding, possessing. The change in angle made him hit something deeper, a spot that made her see white behind her eyes.
“Right there!” she begged. “Don’t stop, please, don’t fucking stop!”
He didn’t. His thrusts became shorter, harder, more focused, battering that perfect, secret place inside her. The coil in her belly wound tighter, a spring of pure tension. The magic of the night, the shared energy, it hadn’t left her. It was a pool in her core, and Hank was pounding it, churning it, bringing it to a furious boil.
“Gonna come,” she warned, her voice breaking.
“Do it.” His command was a hot blast against her ear. “Come all over my dick. Let me feel it.”
It was the permission she needed. The orgasm exploded through her, a convulsive wave that clenched around him, milking his cock in desperate, rhythmic pulses. She screamed, a raw, Arabic curse lost in the thunder of her own heartbeat. Her vision tunneled. The world was the mirror, his body, the incredible, relentless fucking.
Hank’s rhythm faltered. Her climax pushed him over the edge. With a roar that was more feeling than sound, he drove into her one final, devastating time and held, buried deep as he came. She felt the hot, spurting pulse of his release filling her, a scalding rush that seemed to go on and on, syncing with the final aftershocks of her own pleasure.
They stood locked together, panting, slick with sweat, leaning against the fogged mirror. Hank’s forehead rested against her shoulder. His hands, still gripping her hips, trembled slightly.
Slowly, he softened inside her, slipping out. A trickle of their mixed fluids slid down her thigh.
He turned her gently, pulling her into his arms, away from the cold glass. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her swollen lips. “Okay?” he murmured, his voice rough but soft.
Fatima nodded against his chest, her body boneless. “Better than okay.” She traced the lines of his back, the familiar landscape of muscle and scar. The humming in the suite had softened, banked to a contented ember. The magic was sated. She was sated. For now.
In the suite next door, the energy was different. Quieter, but no less intense.
Mara Henderson lay on her back on the king-sized bed, one leg hooked over Zack’s shoulder. He was buried between her thighs, his tongue performing a lazy, expert devotion to her clit. His hands gripped her ass, holding her open for him.
“Counselor,” he mumbled against her, the vibration making her jerk. “You taste like victory.”
Mara laughed, a breathy, uncharacteristically giddy sound. Her fingers were tangled in his brown hair, not guiding, just holding on. “It’s jasmine oil, you idiot.”
“Mmm. Victory jasmine.” He sucked her clitoris into his mouth, applying a soft, relentless pressure that made her back arch off the sheets.
Mara’s brilliance, her sharpness, her control—it all melted under the simple, earnest worship of this man. He was her anchor in the chaos, the one who saw the magic and didn’t flinch, who saw her and never looked away. His tongue circled, fluttered, then pressed hard. The orgasm built not as a crashing wave, but as a slow, deep tide, rising from her core, warming every limb.
“Zack…” she warned.
He redoubled his efforts, his fingers slipping down to tease her entrance, sliding in easily. It was enough.
She came with a deep, shuddering sigh, her body tensing and then going utterly pliant. He worked her through it, gentling his touch until she pushed his head away, oversensitive and spent.
He crawled up her body, kissing her stomach, the swell of her breast, finally her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips.
“My turn,” she whispered, flipping them over with a strength that surprised them both. She straddled his hips, looking down at him. In the soft light, he looked young, awed, utterly hers.
She took him in hand, guiding him into her. She was still slick from her climax, from his mouth, and he slid in with a smooth, full glide. She rose and fell on him, a slow, rolling rhythm that was less about frenzy and more about connection. She watched his face, the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath caught when she clenched around him. This was her domain. Here, she set the pace. Here, she was in control.
She leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest, and took him deeper. “You’re mine,” she stated, the words a soft law.
“Yes,” he breathed, his hands coming up to cup her breasts, his thumbs stroking her nipples. “Always.”
She rode him until his control shattered, until his hips bucked up to meet her and he spilled into her with a choked cry, his eyes locked on hers. She followed him over, a second, softer climax rolling through her as she felt him pulse inside her.
She collapsed atop him, heart hammering against his. The desert night outside was silent. The only sound was their slowing breaths.
“We should shower,” she mumbled into his neck.
“Eventually,” he agreed, his arms tightening around her.
Across the hall, in a smaller, simpler room, Rebecca Franklin lay curled against Charley Winkle’s side. His arm was around her, his hand resting protectively on the slight, firm curve of her belly. The wild energy of the ballroom seemed a distant dream here. This was peace.
Charley traced idle patterns on her shoulder. “Are you alright? The baby… all that…”
Rebecca turned her head, her blonde hair fanning across the pillow. She smiled, a soft, knowing thing. “The baby’s fine. Better than fine. I think… I think he liked it. Or she. It felt safe. All that love in one place.”
Charley, the former Auditor who had given up infinity for this fragile, human moment, felt a lump in his throat. He leaned in and kissed her, a tender, slow meeting of lips that held promises of quiet mornings and shared laughter.
“I love you, Miss Becca,” he whispered.
“I know,” she whispered back, snuggling closer. “It’s the only magic I’ll ever need.”
In her own suite, Jan lay sprawled on the giant bed, Stacy a solid, warm line beside her. The Coach was already asleep, her breathing deep and even. Jan stared at the ceiling, her senses extended beyond the room.
She could feel them all—Fatima’s sated hum, Mara’s contented sharpness softening into sleep, Rebecca’s gentle glow. The threads of connection were there, vibrant and strong. Good.
But the quiet contentment radiating from the other suites only sharpened Jan’s own restless energy. It buzzed beneath her skin, a leftover current from the ley line surge with nowhere to go. Stacy slept the profound, untouchable sleep of a warrior after battle. Jan’s fingers itched for touch, for a new kind of spark.
She ran a mental inventory. Casey was home in suburbia with Mike and Rick, which was adorable for them but useless for her. Katie and Vivian were back in Chicago, and the remaining men were happily, noisily occupied. Brigid was off playing archivist in Ireland. Molly and Ginny were their own closed circle. Bethany would be calibrating steampunk gadgets, Annie was likely whispering to her kitten, and Lady Eleanor… well, ghost stories weren’t the flesh-and-blood distraction Jan craved.
That left Yukio and Amy.
The combination was perfect. Yukio’s bold, adventurous streak meeting Amy’s wide-eyed, deeply experienced faux-innocence. It was a flavor Jan hadn't tasted tonight. She shrugged on a thin silk robe, told Godfrey to guard Stacy, and padded barefoot into the hall.
The resort hallway was a tunnel of deep carpet and hushed silence. She stopped outside their door. From within, she heard a muffled thump, a hissed “shit,” and the distinct sound of sheets rustling.
“I didn’t think room service would be that fast!” Amy’s voice, slightly panicked, floated through the wood.
Jan smirked. She knocked, three light taps.
More shuffling. Then the door swung open.
Yukio stood there, completely naked. The light from the suite glossed her voluptuous figure, highlighting the rose tattoo on her shoulder, the curve of her hips, the dark triangle of hair at her junction. She didn’t flinch.
“Took a risk giving a stranger an eyeful,” Jan said, her gaze appreciative but amused. Over Yukio’s shoulder, she saw Amy scrambling, pulling a duvet up to her chin on the bed.
“Checked the peephole,” Yukio replied, a defiant tilt to her chin. Her eyes were dark and clever. “You’re not a stranger. You’re the catalyst. Want to come in? We were just about to have a naked snack and see where the night went.”
As if on cue, a young man in spa livery appeared down the hall, pushing a room service cart covered with silver domes. Jan moved with fluid speed. She stepped into the hallway, intercepting the cart before it reached the door. She pulled a crumpled wad of bills from her robe pocket—Stacy’s money—and pressed it into the attendant’s hand.
“We’ll take it from here. Thanks.” Her tone brooked no argument, and the tip was obscenely large.
The young man blinked, stammered a thank you, and retreated without ever glancing at the doorway. Jan wheeled the cart into the suite and kicked the door shut.
Yukio pouted, hands on her hips. “I was hoping to give him a thrill. Something to remember.”
“He’ll remember the tip,” Jan said, parking the cart. She surveyed the suite. Amy was a blonde lump under the covers, peeking over the fabric. The air smelled of their shampoo, spilled wine, and restless anticipation. “So, naked snacking. That’s a new one.”
“We were hungry,” Yukio shrugged, striding back to the bed with an unselfconscious sway. She perched on the edge. “And we were working up to other things. Freddie and Jason left through your sister’s portal, all wistful and boyfriend-y. We needed a palate cleanser.”
Amy finally lowered the duvet. Her hair was a mess, her lips bee-stung. “We were going to play a game. A truth or dare thing. But… we didn’t get far.”
Jan let her robe drop. It pooled at her feet. The cool air touched her skin, pebbling her nipples. She saw Amy’s blue eyes widen, saw Yukio’s assessing gaze travel over her freckles and curves. The restless energy inside her focused, sharpened to a point.
“Forget the game,” Jan said, her voice dropping into a lower register. She approached the bed. “And the snacks.” She stopped in front of Yukio, so close her thigh brushed Yukio’s knee. “What were you and Amy planning to do after your little snack?”
Yukio didn’t look away. She reached out, her fingertips brushing the inside of Jan’s thigh. “I was going to dare her to sit on my face. And then I was going to dare myself to make her cry my name.”
A small whimper came from Amy’s side of the bed.
Jan smiled. It wasn’t her usual bright, laughing smile. This was something slower, more predatory. “Good dare.” She turned her head towards Amy. “You hear that, Willow? You going to let her?”
Amy bit her lip, then nodded, pushing the covers down. Her body was willowy, pale, her breasts small with pink tips. She was already breathing faster.
“But here’s a new rule,” Jan said, climbing onto the bed. She knelt between them, the mattress dipping. “You don’t get to her until I say so.”
She placed a hand on Yukio’s chest and pushed. Yukio went back against the pillows with a surprised grunt, but her eyes glittered with challenge. Jan swung a leg over her, straddling her hips, facing Amy. Jan’s ass pressed against Yukio’s stomach.
“Watch,” Jan told Yukio. Then she leaned over Amy.
She didn’t start gentle. She captured Amy’s mouth in a deep, plundering kiss, her tongue sweeping inside. Amy moaned, her hands coming up to tangle in Jan’s short red hair. Jan kissed her like she was devouring something sweet, one hand cupping Amy’s breast, thumb rubbing hard over her nipple. She broke the kiss, trailing her mouth down Amy’s neck, to her chest. She took a nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, nipping with her teeth.
“Jan!” Amy gasped, her back arching.
Behind Jan, Yukio shifted. Jan could feel her heat, her breath on the small of her back. Yukio’s hands came up to grip Jan’s waist, holding her in place.
Jan’s other hand slid down Amy’s flat stomach, through the fine, blonde hair, and found her wetness. Amy was soaked, her folds slick and hot. Jan pushed two fingers inside her without preamble, curling them, fucking her with a steady, deep rhythm. Amy’s hips jerked off the bed, a broken cry escaping her.
“She’s tight,” Jan said over her shoulder to Yukio, her fingers pumping. “And so fucking wet for us. You feel how hot she is?”
Yukio made a sound of agreement, one of her hands sliding from Jan’s waist around to her front, delving between Jan’s own legs. Yukio’s fingers were clever, finding Jan’s clit immediately, circling the swollen bud with firm, knowing pressure. Jan’s breath hitched, her own hips pushing back against Yukio’s hand.
It was a circuit closing. Jan fucking Amy, Yukio fucking Jan with her fingers. The energy began to spiral, a tighter, more private version of the ballroom’s cascade. Jan felt the Green Moon power in her core, not unleashing it, but letting it bleed into her touch, into the electricity sparking between their three bodies.
“Okay,” Jan panted, her fingers still buried deep in Amy’s clutching heat. “Now. Yukio. Your dare.”
She pulled her fingers from Amy with a wet sound and shifted off of Yukio. In one fluid motion, she guided Amy, who was trembling and pliant, to straddle Yukio’s face. Amy hesitated for a second, looking down at Yukio’s expectant, fierce expression.
“Do it,” Jan whispered, her lips at Amy’s ear. “Sit on her face. Let her eat you out until you forget your own name.”
Amy lowered herself. Yukio’s hands clamped onto Amy’s thighs, pulling her down the final inch. Yukio’s tongue found its target immediately. Jan saw the intense, focused movement of Yukio’s head, heard the first muffled, hungry sounds.
Amy’s whole body stiffened. A long, trembling moan poured out of her. “Oh god… Yukio… right there…”
Jan moved behind Amy. She pressed her body against Amy’s back, her breasts against Amy’s shoulder blades. She reached around, her hands finding Amy’s small breasts again, pinching and rolling her nipples as Yukio feasted below. Jan kissed Amy’s shoulder, her neck, whispering filthy encouragements.
“That’s it. Grind on her tongue. Take what you need. She wants you to come all over her face.”
Yukio’s efforts became more vigorous. Her hips were moving against the empty air, seeking friction. Jan slid a hand down Amy’s stomach, past where Yukio’s face was buried, and found Yukio’s own slick cunt. She plunged two fingers into Yukio’s tight, hot channel.
Yukio jerked, a muffled cry vibrating against Amy. Jan fucked her with her fingers, hard and fast, in counterpoint to the relentless lapping of Yukio’s tongue. She was the conductor again, connecting them, amplifying every sensation.
Amy was the first to break. Her climax tore through her with a shattered scream, her body shaking violently, her thighs clamping around Yukio’s head. Yukio held her through it, drinking her in, until Amy collapsed sideways onto the bed, boneless and gasping.
Jan didn’t let up on Yukio. She withdrew her dripping fingers, swapped positions. Now she loomed over Yukio, her own need a pounding ache. She guided Yukio’s hand between her legs.
“Make me come,” Jan ordered, her voice raw. “Then you can have whatever you want.”
Yukio’s fingers were as good as her tongue. She knew pressure, rhythm, the exact spot to rub that made Jan’s vision blur. Jan rode her hand, riding the building wave of magic and pure physical release. She came with a sharp, guttural cry, her cunt clenching around nothing, the force of it buckling her elbows.
She rolled off, breathless. For a moment, there was only the sound of three women gasping for air in the dark room.
Yukio moved first. She crawled over to Amy, who was still dazed, and kissed her deeply, letting Amy taste herself. Then Yukio looked at Jan, her eyes dark pools in the dim light. “My turn to want.”
“Go ahead,” Jan murmured, spreading her arms.
Yukio didn’t ask permission. She kissed Jan, a messy, hungry kiss. Then she pushed Jan’s thighs apart, lowered her head, and ate her with a single-minded intensity that had Jan’s heels digging into the sheets within seconds. It was claiming, a retaliation. Jan tangled her hands in Yukio’s dark hair, holding her close, as a second, slower orgasm built and crashed over her.
Later, much later, they were a tangle of limbs in the wrecked bed. The room service cart sat untouched. Amy was asleep, curled into Yukio’s side. Yukio traced the freckles on Jan’s arm.
“You’re a hell of a palate cleanser, O’Connor,” Yukio whispered.