Rome, EarthWorld
Esquiline Hill
February 1881

Lord Bastian Satyr was certainly a big one.

With an experienced eye, Silvia sized him up in a long, sweeping glance as she stood at the foot of his bed, her arm loosely wrapped around a bedpost corded with carven grapevines.

Dark, cropped hair; broad, sculpted shoulders; a pronounced indentation running the length of his spine; powerful thighs and buttocks; flesh glistening from his exertions; knees dug into the bedcovers between the smooth stockinged thighs of his bed partner.

Michaela looked so vulnerable and feminine lying in his enormous bed, under his enormous, straining warrior’s body. Her slender calves hugged his hips. Her body was open to receive each thrust of his organ. Silvia could only employ her imagination regarding how sizable that portion of his male anatomy might be. From her vantage point, all she could see was his backside. His naked backside. His naked, flexing backside.

She swallowed, her throat strangely dry. By firelight, he was magnificent—a golden god. Which just possibly made him worthy of the woman he was riding. Michaela was her closest, dearest friend in both worlds. Had been since their childhood in Vesta’s Temple.

Silvia had always watched over her as best she could. And when it came to hedonistic matters such as these, had lived vicariously through her. Tonight was no exception.

Michaela had been born a Companion, a courtesan with the power to please any man. Like most in her profession, she had taken hundreds if not thousands of lovers over the centuries. She always chose them carefully. That in itself told Silvia that this particular specimen of manhood must be something quite extraordinary.

Confident that neither of them could see her in her current form, she meandered around the perimeter of the bed, pausing at the sight of the confectioner’s box on the bedside table. Cioccolato. Mmm. There were few things that could have drawn her attention away from the carnal display on the bed, even momentarily. But chocolate was one of them. She bent and put her nose to it, inhaling deeply, wishing she could smell the sweet delicacies hidden inside the gay wrapping. But she was an Ephemeral, and when in a non-corporeal state as she was now, her sense of smell was nonexistent. She didn’t dare partake of them or do anything else that might draw the notice of the room’s other two occupants. But, Gods, she was starving.

At least the room was warm. The February wind was cruel outside these walls. She’d been half frozen on her way here. She moved to the hearth and held her hands to the fire.

Behind her, Lord Satyr was taking his time, rutting with long, vigorous strokes that caused his bed to lurch and shudder, and had Michaela sighing with pleasure. She glanced over her shoulder at them. They looked so perfect together. His incredible masculine body moving on Michaela’s exquisitely feminine one. His flesh darkened by his heritage and the sun. Hers a smooth, olive perfection that was so unlike Silvia’s own flawed, pale flesh. She touched her fingers to her cheek briefly, a gesture made so often she no longer knew when she did it.

Lord Satyr’s big hand slid under Michaela’s bottom, tilting her in a way that better accommodated him. Silvia could only assume from her friend’s soft, appreciative cries, that it satisfied her as well.

Although copulation was a private matter, she had no qualms about observing them. She and Michaela had no secrets. At least, not until recently, when Michaela had severed all connection after leaving Venice. Before she’d been able to wind up matters there, Silvia had rushed here to Rome, worried she might be in some sort of trouble. But now it appeared that any trouble was more precisely, in her.

She’d taken a Satyr as a lover, for Gods’ sakes! And not just any Satyr. The eldest scion of the four wealthy, powerful brothers who were the defacto rulers of the ElseWorld community here in Rome. He was the man in charge of excavating the Roman Forum. His celebrated archeological finds had made him the darling of human society. And had made him her next assignment.

He was speaking now, his lips at Michaela’s temple, murmuring to her in a mesmerizing blend of the ancient ElseWorld dialect, Latin, and modern Italian. And if she wasn’t mistaken, a hint of the Far East. At the sound of his voice, some wayward emotion began to wind tighter inside Silvia. Disturbed and restless, she went roaming in an effort to dispel it. The door to his armoire was ajar, and she peeked inside. Found dark coats and trousers next to starched linen shirts, all hanging neatly in a row. Too neatly, with the same increment of space between each hanger. Lord Satyr was certainly fastidious!

She moved to his desk, an immense affair of polished olivewood. Her fingers itched to search its drawers, but he might hear. And if he turned his head, the desk was in his line of vision, which meant she dared not move anything. Drawers seemingly opening by themselves would require explanation. Until she assumed a corporeal shape, she would remain invisible to him. Even Michaela would not be able to see her until she chose to show herself.

Perching atop the desk, she lay on her side, propped her chin in one hand, and commenced reading several letters he’d left out. Two were from Italian ministers of government regarding the state of the excavations in the Forum Romano. It was the third that caught her eye. Written in typical longwinded ElseWorld Council fashion, it was addressed to Lord Satyr, and it fairly hummed with magic. She skimmed it, her attention caught by one particular passage:

So Lord Satyr was searching for the Temple. Interesting! And how well suited to her own purposes. But she would make sure that any relics he found would find their way into her possession, not the Councils.
Michaela cried out, startling her, and Silvia’s eyes whipped her way, heart in her throat. But she quickly saw that it had only been a cry of passion for the bodies upon the bed were moving in sensuous harmony, Bastian’s giving, Michaela’s receiving. Feminine palms smoothed over the sharply cut musculature that was his chest, working their erotic magic.

Silvia’s jaw dropped. Most men would have come instantly under Michaela’s preternatural touch. Who was he that he could withstand her wiles so easily? And how much longer would this go on? The intensity of their coupling was beginning to make her distinctly uncomfortable.

She had pressing business to discuss with her longtime friend. Still, she hated to interrupt. Gods knew, Michaela deserved some fun. She’d nearly been killed by a jealous Harpie in Venice three months ago–the last time they’d been together.

Satyr’s head lowered, and his lips trailed the length of Michaela’s throat. She whimpered. Silvia’s fingertips lifted to her own throat, tracing a similar path. Realizing what she was doing–what she was feeling–she snatched her hand away. Her face was flushed, hot. Fifty hells! She’d never known a man to take so much time chasing a single orgasm. Michaela’s usual complaint was that they were too quick.

Hurry up, will you? she urged him under her breath.

To her astonishment, his body ground to a halt so abrupt that it visibly jolted both his partner and the bed frame. His head snapped around in Silvia’s direction, his brow knit in confusion. She pushed up to a sitting position, alarmed.

Silver eyes pierced the dimness, like stars in a twilight sky, relentlessly shining in her direction. The almost brutal, carnal expression on his masculine face made her heart trip, her breath stop. For the first time, she took in his features full on–the strong blade of his nose, his straight brows, square jutting chin. And those lips! Sensual, yet sharply cut. An uneasy attraction stirred in her breast, and she shivered; this time not from the bone deep cold she’d weathered to get here tonight.