Page 75 of This Vicious Hunger
More, more,more.
Olea shifts, scrambling upright and pushing me back. She forces me down with her hands on my shoulders, and in seconds she is hurling herself at me again, barely giving me time to think. She shoves me flat onto my back and climbs onto my face, at once grinding down and leaning back so that her fingers can make their mark on me in return.
Her fingers search hungrily, rubbing against the folds of my skin, grazing my most sensitive flesh as I lick and suck in return. The sight of her, head thrown back, mouth open in ecstasy… It is heaven. It isruin—for I know I will never settle for anything other again.
“Shall we tell Florencia?” Olea says softly. It is late afternoon, though I think neither of us has any idea how much time has passed, too caught up in the map of each other’s bodies. We have stopped more than once, lazily, enjoying the delay, in order to fill carafes with ruby wine, devouring grapes and plates of cheese Olea has brought up from the cellar, before returning to our frantic explorations. We lie now, in another blissful lull, naked in the garden beneath the canopy of poison trees.
“About what?” I ask, playing dumb.
Olea turns her head to me and the sunlight catches on her nose, her full lips still raw from my kisses. What might, in another life,have been awkward between us is nothing of the kind. “I mean. She asked us to keep records about how we’ve been feeling since we took the cure, and—I don’t know about you, but I haven’t exactly been truthful in mine. It feels too… private.”
“I’ve not kept any records at all. Why should I?”
Olea rests her head on my chest and her hair is warm and heavy. It smells like flowers and cream. Her breath tickles my bare breasts and I feel another impossible surge of desire. I could do this all day, every day, forever and ever and still not tire of the taste of her, the scent, the feel of her soft skin against mine. For the first time in days it seems as though a future in the garden—even if just a temporary one—is not truly awful.
“I don’t think we should tell her,” I add. “This kind of strength… I don’t think it would do her any good to know about it. And the other things, the feelings… I doubt this is what she’s interested in.”
“Me either,” Olea agrees quietly. “I don’t think we should tell her. Not yet, anyway. Not until we know more about how it might play out. It’s like… It’s like seeing everything in sunlight. The world is ablaze with it. I’ve never seen, neverfeltlike this.”
Relief rocks me. The old Thora would have wanted to turn over our discoveries immediately, desperate to please. The fact that the antidote has the power not only to heal but also to strengthen, to build stamina, to heighten every sensation, isgroundbreaking. This is not just a cure for all. It has the potential to completely revolutionise humanity. No more disease, no more wounds, but no more hunger or true thirst either. And we still don’t know the effects on aging or emotional conditions, or the true bounds of our new strength. I’m surprised, but truly happy, that Olea understands the need for caution.
“Not just that,” I say. “We deserve this peace, don’t we? Why shouldn’t we keep it to ourselves for a little while. After all you’ve been through at her hands, the pain you’ve suffered in this place, why can’t she wait?”
“You’re right.” Olea is quiet. “She lied to me.”
“Right. And once we set this ball rolling, there will be no going back. Petaccia has no idea what she’s unleashed. And besides…” I shrug, jostling Olea’s head gently, trying to banish her grief. She has hardly spoken of Petaccia’s revelation about Olea’s origins, but I know she’s hurting. “Maybe I want you to myself. Just for a little while.”
Olea’s breath slows as she whistles a cool breeze over the top of my breasts. I wriggle, clenching my thighs tight. Tentatively she pinches my right nipple between her thumb and forefinger, first gently and then harder until my own breathing quickens in response. Olea lifts her head and meets my gaze as her other hand trails the length of my body, sending electric zaps of energy right to my core. Her fingertips are freezing, sending shivers in waves as she finds the damp patch of hair between my legs, tugging playfully, then slips one icy finger between my lips. I gasp in delight.
“You can keep me to yourself anytime,” she murmurs, and lowers her sharp teeth to my waiting breast.
Chapter Thirty-Six
In the days and nights that follow, I am aware only of the world in terms ofneeds. Hunger, thirst, lust, exhaustion: each need begins small, a kernel, but unattended it becomes a flame. We sleep where we fall, often with our limbs entwined, fingers and mouths sticky. When we are not sleeping, eating, or otherwise engaged, Olea and I raid her library, reading and performing the tales aloud. I have never heard Olea laugh as she does during these in-between hours, when we dress in fresh nightgowns and wrap our hair in towels to act as queens and servants.
We sketch and paint with Olea’s battered charcoal and watercolour set, often setting up where the trees grow thickest. One evening we go as far as taking a bottle of wine and a blanket to the fountain, where we set up camp for several hours in the moonlight. I draw Olea amongst the blooms, a riot of lilies and foxglove captured in strokes of blushing pinks and purples. She lies back, resting her elbows on the ground and her hands across her bare breasts, her legs parted at the knees so I can capture the petals within.
When we return the following day the streaks of paint from our lovemaking still spatter the bright stones in a pastel haze. Weare both so aroused at the sight of the evidence we left behind that we spend another hour lying amongst the wreckage, grass in our hair and thorns pressing against our bare legs. The scratches heal within minutes, but the pain they elicit is sharp and fresh and—delicious.
Petaccia returns to the garden only thrice during this time. More lies, for she claimed she would check in regularly, but I’m glad she doesn’t. Mostly I’m too enraptured by Olea to care. Petaccia appears once while we are cooking, a figure dressed in a black hooded robe and ever-present black gloves. She speaks little, keeping a careful distance that neither Olea nor I care to disturb. We hand over our notes—almost entirely fabricated as they are—and then ignore her until she leaves.
The second time she comes, Petaccia brings food and wine, great sacks of pasta and rice, small potatoes and jars of brined olives and cheese. I watch her pull the little cart through the winding paths of the garden, its wheels oiled so it is near-enough silent. I glance at Olea, and her shrug is confirmation enough: This is normal. This is how she has survived all these years.
“She comes a different way, and at a different hour, each time,” Olea says softly when she notices my expression, no doubt dark as thunder. “As a child I thought there might be other gates, but truly if there are I’ve never found them.”
“So you could never escape if you wanted to.” Sickness roils in me, warring with the heat of anger. The deeper I swim in this dream, the closer comes the sulphurous stink of hell.
“I didn’t want to.” Olea shrugs again and the gesture is so practised, so defeated, that I wonder if she believes her own lies. If that’s the only way she can process the magnitude of ills Petaccia has burdened her with all these years.
When Petaccia arrives with the food on the small handcart, I’m ready and waiting outside. Olea hovers in the doorway, a ghost in the daylight. Petaccia waves and grins—as though this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Supplies,” she says briskly. “Olea, unload the cart.”
Olea moves jerkily to do as she’s told, but I step in her way.
“You do it,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
