“As if you don’t already know.”
I barge into my chambers with all the wrath of a storm. The door slams shut with enough force to rattle the picture frames along the walls. A single lamp casts amber onto the patterned rugs and heavy curtains.
I spot my violin case in the open wardrobe. It rests beside my music stand, which sags beneath the weight of études, sonatas, the occasional show piece, all coated in dust. Kneeling beside the case, I run my hand along its oblong shape. There had been a time when particularly tempestuous emotions would draw the violin toward my chin, hours spent in concentration until I calmed. The moment my fingers brush the metal clasps, however, something falters in me, and I shove it aside.
With a groan of frustration, I toss myself onto the mattress, limbs spread, staring at the ceiling. My skin is flushed, my nipples peaked. A dull pulse between my legs, and my eyes flutter shut as I cup my breasts in my palms, squeezing slightly. I’m not sure what is morehumiliating: Notus hacking my defenses to shreds, or the fact that I still desire him despite his blasted refusal to explain why he left all those years ago.
Our hungry kiss before the public resurfaces. The engagement is a farce. It will collapse should anyone scrutinize it too closely. But we have history, Notus and I. It endures despite my attempts to kill it.
Sometimes, the best cure for sexual frustration is sexual vengeance.
I’m hitching up my dress when a floorboard squeaks from the other side of the wall.
Slowly, I push into a seated position against the pillows. The ground vibrates beneath the force of the South Wind’s tread. His footsteps pause, perhaps near the window. I imagine he stares down at the labyrinth, as I have done, and questions its purpose and presence. Shortly after, clothing thumps onto the ground. Then, the creak of his bedframe: Notus, settling into bed.
The layout of our suites are reflections of one another, which means his bed shares a wall with mine. The realization sends my pulse racing. If needed, I could knock against the wall, and Notus might answer. I’m easing back into the pillows when a low rasp snags my attention. It comes again, a sound of drawn-out tension, a stifled groan.
The hair on my body spikes in awareness. My ears recognize what my eyes cannot. I straighten, blankets bunched in my hands.
The South Wind touches himself on the other side of the wall.
My sweaty palm slides down my torso, balls into a fist against my quivering stomach. When I was younger, I would lie awake in bed and imagine what might happen should the South Wind enter my room. I envisioned the hot glide of his tongue. I anticipated the heat of his breath, the flex of muscle, the thrust of hips.
As his bed begins to knock against the wall in a slow rhythm, I quickly shed my dress and undergarments, grabbing the small vial of oil from my bedside table drawer. Gods, I am too twisted for words. The South Wind is a man grown. He has a right to privacy. But I’ve my own release to tend to. A woman has needs. Surely none can blame me for scratching an itch?
Legs spread, I slip my oiled fingers down my drenched center. My flesh quivers in excitement as I guide my hand to the small nub shielded behind the thatch of dark hair. The slightest brush sends pleasure curling through me, and I whimper.
I stare up at the ceiling, imagining the South Wind’s muscled torso arranged against the blankets. He would be naked, bronzed skin dusted in sparse black hair. His sex would hang heavy between his powerful thighs. His eyes, all pupils.
My core clenches in response, yet I do not allow the circular motion to falter. It propels me, higher and tighter and brighter. My toes curl. My heels dig into the mattress. Sweat dampens my skin, plastering the bedsheets to my flushed body. An ache spirals through my pelvis like a bowstring drawn taut.
Then there are his hands: wide of palm, thick fingers toughened by calluses. I imagine them slipping between my thighs, gliding through my wet folds. His fingers slowly penetrating my entrance, a feeling of fullness gathered there. As a trembling spreads outward from my core, I bite my lip, angle my hips nearer to my hand. More pressure. A firm pinch against the bud, and I cry out, the coiling in my pelvis exploding outward in a wave of warm, shimmering pleasure.
Sated, I sag into the mattress, among the wool blankets and cotton sheets. My eyelids begin to sink shut.
Someone hammers against the connecting door. I startle, a scream wrenched from my chest.
“Sarai?” Notus calls. “Sarai, open the door!”
I sit rigidly in place, face flushed, hand shoved between my thighs. My teeth grind in frustration. “What do you want?”
“Let me in.”
“Oh,nowyou want to speak with me?” My voice cracks. “It’s late, Notus.”
“If you don’t let me in, I’m breaking down this door.”
My head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut. The heat of climax begins to disperse in the passing moments. “Just a moment,”I croak.Shit. Snagging a clean cloth from my armoire, I wipe between my legs, beneath my damp underarms, before tossing the cloth onto my bedside table and hurriedly pulling my dress back on. Fumbling the lock, I heave the door open.
His broad figure demarcates the shadowy interior of his chambers. Loose trousers hang low on his hips, his muscled abdomen unfairly taut. The bare expanse of his chest fills my vision. I see nothing else. “What do you want?” I demand breathlessly.
“Are you all right?”
Only when I yank my attention from his pectoral muscles does my addled mind make sense of his question. “Excuse me?”
Notus stares at me as if I am a simpleton. “I heard a cry.” At my confusion, he explains, “You sounded like you were in distress.”
A subtle heat warms my cheeks.Distress. That’s one word for it. I didn’t realize my release had been so, well, exuberant.
