This was her chance. While his attention focused on her legs, his face buried in silk and skin, she fumbled for the hidden pocket in her bodice. The vial was small, smooth glass warm from her body heat. Her fingers were clumsy—from wine, from what his mouth was doing, from fear.
He bit gently at her thigh, and she gasped, her hand freezing. But he took it for encouragement, his mouth moving higher, tongue finding the edge of her undergarments. The wine made her body respond without her permission, wetness gathering, muscles tensing.
She pulled the cork with her teeth, trying to mask the small pop with a moan. The angle was awkward—she had to tilt her head back, pretend she was arching in pleasure while the clear liquid slipped down her throat. Nothing. It tasted like nothing. Like swallowing air.
Five minutes. Maybe less.
His mouth found her center through the thin fabric, and her body jolted. The empty vial nearly slipped from her fingers. She managed to set it on the table beside her, among the scattered dishes, just as his tongue pressed harder.
"Already so wet," he said against her, satisfaction clear in his voice.
She couldn't speak, could only nod as he pulled her undergarments aside. His tongue was direct, skilled, and the wine made her feel every movement like lightning. Her thighs trembled, her hands white-knuckled on the table's edge. She hated that it felt good. Hated that her hips moved toward his mouth without her permission.
He worked her until she was shaking, until the wine and stimulation had her on the edge of something she didn't want. Then he stood, his mouth wet with her, eyes completely black with desire.
His hands went to his trousers, unbuttoning with practiced ease. She watched him reveal himself—hard, ready—and the warmth in her chest recoiled even as the wine made her body clench with anticipation.
"Come here," he said, pulling her forward to the very edge of the table.
She thought he would take her there, but instead he lifted her, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist to keep from falling. He carried her back to his chair, settling with her straddling his lap. She could feel him pressing against her, separated by nothing now.
"Ride me," he commanded, his hands on her hips, positioning her.
She sank onto him slowly, the wine making her body accept him easily. He was different from Eliam—cooler, smoother, wrong. But the fullness made her gasp, made the warmth in her chest thrash with confusion.
"That's it," he encouraged, guiding her hips into rhythm.
She moved, using the wine's effect to make it convincing. Her body knew the motion, the angle, what felt good even when she didn't want it to. His hands roamed—her waist, her breasts through the dress, her throat. Always possessing, always claiming.
Time was running out. She could feel it like a countdown in her blood. The bloodshade diluting with each heartbeat.
She tilted her head back, exposing her throat as she moved on him, finding a rhythm that made him groan. "Bite me."
"What?" His hands tightened on her hips, forcing her down harder onto him.
"Mark me as yours. So everyone knows. So Eliam knows, if he ever sees me again." The words tasted like betrayal. "Make me forget him."
His eyes went dark, pupils blown wide. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head further back. "Say it again."
"Bite me. Feed from me. Make me yours."
He didn't hesitate. His mouth found her throat, and she felt the moment his teeth broke skin. The pain burned red hot, but the wine dulled its edges, made it mix with the heat already in her blood.
He drank deeply, groaning against her throat, his hips thrusting up harder as he fed. She felt him swallow once, twice, three times. The bloodshade was in him now, spreading through his system with each pull of her blood.
His free hand moved to the laces of her dress, trying to expose more skin, and she rolled her hips, keeping his focus on pleasure and blood.
Then he paused.
"You taste..." He pulled back slightly, blinking. "Different."
Fear shot through the wine's haze. "Different how?"
"Sweeter. But also..." He shook his head, as if clearing it. "I feel..."
His grip on her hips loosened. She watched his pupils dilate differently now—not with desire but with confusion. The bloodshade was working.
"What did you..." He tried to lift her off him, to stand, but his legs weren't cooperating properly. His cock was still hard inside her but his movements had become uncoordinated, weak.
