“That’s because she’s the victim of an unwanted Soul-mark. That tends to drain one’s libido,” I say dryly.
Her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
I turn the bottle in my hands, worry growing beneath my calm.
“I’m afraid, little one, that you’ve taken much more of this than is good for you. I fear the way you’re feeling probably has to do with you drinking so much of this wine, which is a known aphrodisiac.”
Julia shifts on the chaise, visibly uncomfortable now.
“Well what can I do about it?” she demands. “I mean, I’m having a really hard time over here. Would it help if I…” Her cheeks get red. “If I, you know, touched myself?”
I study her carefully. I already know the answer—the wine is not designed to be relieved by solitary touch—it is meant to drive the drinker toward connection, consummation, and bonding. Toward another.
Toward me.
But she needs to discover that for herself.
“You can try,” I say evenly.
“All right, I’ll be back in a minute,” Julia says, rising unsteadily. She heads toward the bathing chamber, not meeting my eyes.
The door closes behind her.
I exhale slowly and rake a hand through my hair. I move to the bedchamber and strip out of my suit and shirt, changing into sleep trousers, my body already taut with anticipation. I am not stalking her. I am not rushing her.
I am waiting, because I know what will happen.
She will try to slake her lust herself…and she will fail.
And when she comes back to me—flushed, frustrated, and trembling with need—I will be here.
Ready to help.
60
Julia
I lock the bathroom door behind me like I’m afraid someone is going to interrupt what feels like a private emergency. I guess I could ask Lucian to help me, but I feel wrong about it—I feel guilty about this whole thing.
Hanna is lying in bed right now, having her soul sucked slowly away and it’s my fault—Whistler brought her here because of me. I don’t deserve to have pleasure right now—to allow myself the luxury of letting Lucian go down on me—which I’m sure he’d be willing to do if I asked.
No, the best thing I can do is take care of myself and get this out of my system. And that’s fully what I’m intending on when I step into the bathroom and turn the lock.
My skin is buzzing—my nerves feel too close to the surface, somehow. There’s a heat coiled low in my belly that won’t settle, won’t ease, won’t go anywhere. It’s not just arousal—it’s need without direction, hunger without relief.
I can handle this, I tell myself. I’m an adult woman. I can take care of myself.
I hitch up my skirt with shaking hands and slip my fingers beneath the thin fabric of my panties. The touch makes me gasp. I’m already slick, already oversensitive and aching in a way that makes my thighs tremble.
It has nothing to do with my period—that seems to be over. I don’t know why—maybe Lucian’s blood-magic had something to do with it. But just because I’m not bleeding or cramping anymore doesn’t mean I’m not in pain.
I try to focus—try to touch myself to ease the ache. But though my fingers circle my aching clit, over and over, nothing happens.
The feeling just builds…spreads…grows sharper and emptier at the same time. It’s as if I’m standing on the edge of a cliff but there’s a barrier there—something that refuses to let me jump.
“Oh God,” I whisper, frustrated tears stinging my eyes. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I manage this?”
