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It’s hot in the club, and Morgana’s hair is sweat-stuck to her neck and collarbones, and her body glitter is shimmering and her short red dress is riding up and up, and she’s leaving lipstick marks on everyone’s cheeks, and the drinks twirl over the bar into men’s fingers and from their fingers to hers, a relay race of spritzers and margaritas and daiquiris. The music is something off the Top 40, and Morgana narrows her eyes at the speakers, which shudder and switch to blaring Amy Winehouse. She downs two shots of tequila as they try to make Amy go to rehab before sinking her teeth into a lime wedge. Her mouth puckers, and she leans against the nearest shoulder, inhaling the man’s cologne and sweat and his eyes widen, as if he can’t believe his luck.
He shouldn’t. Morgana’s already moved on, her long black hair whipping other people’s shoulders and faces, and they don’t care because the sting is the closest they’ll ever get to this red-lipped, green-eyed, shimmering woman. There’s something about her that no one can place, even as she blasts through the pulsing throng like a comet, the long line of men her tail. Wherever she steps, her metal heels crack the light-up floor; she never dances without leaving damage. Her laugh rings over the music, which the DJ is desperately trying to change, unable to understand why his console has stopped responding. “Oh, my fucking God,” he says, and he’s not entirely wrong.
Morgana’s been dancing for so long that she’s almost forgotten what she’s running from, but even gods—especially gods—have exes. Morgana’s is waiting in the corner, her fishnets torn and her dark eyes smoky. Her long, mascara-clumped lashes curl like wings against her cheeks. One hand is curled delicately around a glass of pink wine. Then the crowd eclipses her, and Morgana growls.
Outside the club it smells like rain and cigarettes, and yellow light from the lamp posts scatters over the dewey asphalt. Morgana slides her hair off her neck, enjoying the cool breeze playing along her damp skin. “I know you’re out here, pretty one.”
Gwen is so fast that Morgana doesn’t even see her. A flutter of fabric against Morgana’s elbow, a hot breath in her ear, and she’s pressed chest-first to the wall, her cheek ground into the brick. She smiles, long and slow.
“Mmm, Guinevere. You feel so good.”
“Don’t talk,” says Gwen, her voice low and furious. “It’s my turn.” She yanks Morgana’s skirt over her hips, and Morgana giggles.
“Like what you see?”
“Shut up,” says Gwen, yanking aside Morgana’s panties and shoving two fingers into Morgana’s wet heat. Her other hand snakes over Morgana’s pelvis and fondles her clit. Morgana moans and thrusts back on Gwen’s fingers. Gwen slaps Morgana’s ass. “Do I need to gag you?”
“If you think you can,” says Morgana, panting.
“You have no idea what I can do,” says Gwen, and snaps something cold Morgana’s left wrist. Immediately, she feels like she’s losing density or being demagnetized. Her godhead, which constantly warps the world around her to suit her needs, is slumbering beneath a blanket of cold iron.
“Where—”
“I know a guy.” Gwen thrusts her fingers back in, and it hurts this time. Morgana curses and tries to pull away, but Gwen holds her fast. “Can you imagine if your brothers and sisters could see you now? The goddess of love being fucked in an alley like the slut she is.”
“You’ve gotten better at this,” Morgana pants.
“I’ve had lots of time to learn,” says Gwen, and crooks her fingers. Morgana’s legs give out as Gwen strokes her g-spot, tears of pleasure rolling down her cheeks. And then Gwen is going back to Morgana’s clit, squeezing it between two fingers as Morgana bucks and sobs. Heat beats wildly between her legs as her orgasm approaches. Her toes curl, her thighs tense, her eyes flutter closed, and her cunt clenches in a white-hot pulse of pleasure. She throws her head back onto Gwen’s shoulder, moaning as her orgasm rips through her.
“On your knees,” Gwen says, and Morgana complies, docile as anything. Her nose is right against Gwen’s crotch, and she can practically smell her arousal. Gwen widens her stance and stays there until Morgana understands, ducking her head underneath Gwen’s skirt. Her arms are still above her head, wrists in Gwen’s vice-like grip, so Morgana has no choice but to pull down Gwen’s underwear with her teeth.
She licks and sucks and buries herself in Gwen’s cunt before turning her attention to her clit. She flicks it with her tongue, making Gwen shudder. Empowered, Morgana starts to suck. Gwen’s thighs tense around Morgana’s head, and her breathing speeds. Morgana loves this, loves taking a woman apart with just her mouth. It’s never been about the men, even though her power calls to them like a light to moths.
Gwen gasps at a particularly hard suck, her grip on Morgana’s wrists loosening. “Fuck, Morgana, that’s so good.”
No, Morgana’s godhead isn’t necessary for her to give mind-blowing orgasms. Gwen comes quickly, her shaking knees forcing her to the ground. Goddess and god-hunter examine each other, finally taking in five years’ worth of changes.
“You left me,” Gwen says at last, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright from sex. “You bitch.”
Morgana shrugs. “I got bored.”
“Fuck you,” says Gwen.
“Toying with mortals is what I do.”
“Seriously, fuck you.”
Morgana runs a finger along her shackle. “Think you could help a girl out?”
Gwen snorts. “Give you the key? Not likely.”
This earns a pout from Morgana. “Come on, Gwen. I love you.”
“1148 Monmouth Avenue,” says Gwen, rising to her feet. Morgana blinks up at her.
“What?”
“Come round sometime,” says Gwen, already turning away. “My husband wants to meet you.”
Morgana scrambles to her feet, cursing. “You can’t leave me like this!”
“Funny,” says Gwen. “I seem to remember saying the same thing to you.” And she walks away, leaving Morgana cold and powerless outside a nightclub where no one knows her name.