Chapter 18 #3
She touched hers to his, the crystal singing. The wine was perfect, not too sweet, not too dry. She took a small sip, then another. Already she could feel it working, warmth spreading through her chest, down her arms. Her skin began to feel sensitive, aware of every brush of fabric.
"You're not eating much," he observed.
"Nervous stomach." The truth, for once.
"You have no reason to be nervous." He reached across the table, fingers encircling her wrist. "Unless you're planning something."
Her pulse jumped under his touch. The wine was making his skin feel too warm against hers, making her aware of every point of contact. "What would I plan?"
"I wonder." His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist. "You were so resistant before. Now suddenly compliant. Wearing his colors. Sharing wine with me."
"I explained about the colors—"
"Yes. Very convincing." He didn't release her wrist. "Tell me, what changed? Really?"
She had to give him something true, something he could taste as honest. "When you kissed me. When you… touched me." She made herself meet his eyes. "I… I didn't hate it as much as I should have."
His pupils dilated slightly. "No?"
"No." The wine made the word easier, made her skin flush with false warmth. "And I hate myself for that. But hating doesn't change it."
He studied her face, then released her wrist to stand. "Come here."
She rose on unsteady legs. The wine was working faster than expected, making everything feel soft-edged and too warm. When she reached him, he pulled her close, one hand at her waist, the other tangling in her carefully arranged hair before pulling her face closer.
"Show me," he said against her mouth. "Show me you don't hate it."
She kissed him, made herself kiss him like she meant it, her arms going around his neck. The wine helped, making her body respond. His mouth was hungry, demanding, and she matched it, letting him taste surrender on her tongue.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
"Better," he said. "Much better." His hands roamed, finding the shape of her through the silk. "But I think you're still holding back."
"The food will get cold," she managed, though her voice came out breathier than intended. The wine was making everything feel like too much—his hands, the silk, the air itself.
"Let it." But he led her back to the table anyway, pulling her onto his lap instead of letting her return to her chair. "I find I'm hungry for something else entirely."
She could feel the vial pressing against her skin. Not yet. Too soon, and the bloodshade would lose potency before he fed. She had to wait, had to endure more of this performance.
His mouth found her throat, kissing where he'd bitten before. She shivered, unable to stop the reaction. The wine made everything feel like fire and ice at once.
"This collar," he murmured against her skin, fingers tracing the delicate lace at her throat. "It hides too much."
Before she could respond, he gripped the sheer fabric and tore. The sound of ripping lace was sharp in the quiet room, and cool air hit her newly exposed throat and collarbone. He discarded the ruined pieces without a second glance.
"Better." His mouth returned to her skin, trailing down to where the lace had been. "Responsive tonight."
She shivered, unable to stop the reaction. "Maybe you're seeing who I really am." The lie came easier with wine warming her blood, making her pliant against him.
"Am I?" His teeth scraped her throat, not biting yet, just threatening. "Or are you performing for me?"
Her heart stopped. But his hand was moving up her thigh, and she realized he was teasing, not accusing.
"If I were performing," she said, turning in his lap to face him properly, "would it feel like this?"
She kissed him again, deeper this time, letting the wine guide her body's responses. His groan of approval vibrated through her chest. The warmth recoiled from the contact, but she pressed closer, using her body to hide its retreat.
"No," he said when they parted. "No, this doesn't feel like a performance."
His hands were everywhere now, possessive and sure. The dress felt like nothing between them, silk too thin to be armor. She could feel his arousal pressing against her, could feel her body responding thanks to the wine, and she hated herself for it.
"Bedroom?" he suggested, voice rough.
"No." She kissed him harder, selling the desperation. "Here. Now. I don't want to wait."
He laughed, dark and pleased. "Eager. I like this change.
" He lifted her onto the edge of the dining table, the wood cold against her thighs.
Dishes clattered as he pushed them aside, a wine glass tipping, spreading burgundy across white linen.
His hands ran up her legs, fingers finding the edge of her stockings, the bare skin above.
The silk of her dress bunched higher with each touch.
"Beautiful," he murmured, spreading her knees wider, stepping between them.
His mouth followed where his hands had been, lips pressing to the inside of her knee.
She jerked at the contact—the wine had made her skin feel too thin, every nerve exposed.
His tongue traced higher, teeth grazing the soft flesh of her inner thigh, and she had to grip the table's edge to stay upright.
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.
She slid from his lap, his hands grasping for her as she backed toward the door, watching him struggle.
"You..." His words were slurring now, eyes struggling to focus. "You poisoned..."
"Not poison. Just sleep." She watched him try to reach for something, anything, but his hands wouldn't obey. "I told you I was tired of fighting. I just didn't specify which fight I was ending."
He tried to speak again, but the words wouldn't form properly. His hands scrabbled at the table's edge, trying to keep himself upright.
"You took everything from me," she said quietly. "Now I'm taking it back."
He collapsed back into the chair, eyes rolling back. The last thing he managed was her name—half-curse, half-question.
Then silence.
She stood there shaking, the wine still making her skin feel too sensitive, her body still warm from his touch. Blood trickled from the bite on her throat, and she pressed her hand to it, trying to stem the flow.
One hour. Maybe two. That's all she had.
She ran.