Day 48
The headless statues stand tall in her bed chamber decorated in the finest silks and laces local custom could supply, ornate and unaccusatory.
Wakes up in a cold sweat, Cameron's navy-blue shirt sticking to her body, riding up underneath her breasts and she can't catch a breath. Phantom jogging with him down the hallway and a deep inhalation, just one, that expands her lungs.
Completely inflated.
Qetesh wanted the statues, the sex, the fill of man and every hour marked by orgasmic roars.
The sexual flutter between her thighs when Cameron arches an eyebrow or cracks his knuckles, the irreverent rage when simple tasks don't compliment her ideals, the kind she has to hide, to shower away, to entomb, lest another person see her unequivocal rage, the fires that churn within her, the nails that bore into the soft skin on her palm.
She smashed the heads off of marble statues so no one was there to witness her shame.
