Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
His command, wrapped in that velvet promise, unravels my resistance. With a shaky exhale, I let my knees fall apart beneath the water.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and his words send a shiver of pure need through me.
It’s always been a mystery to me how I can feel utterly miserable during my period…and yet be horny at the same time. It’s like my body doesn’t know what it wants during this time.
But Lucian seems to know.
His soapy hand finds the junction of my thighs but he doesn’t dive right in…doesn’t rush. He washes me with the same gentle thoroughness he used everywhere else. His fingers stroke through my curls, making me shiver and he cleanses the outer folds with slow, deliberate strokes, his touch firm enough to be cleansing, but soft enough to be a caress. I am trembling, my head tipped back against the cool marble rim of the tub, my eyes closed. The cramping ache is still there—a distant echo—but it’s being steadily overwhelmed by a different, building heat.
“So beautiful here,” he whispers, his voice thick. One finger slips between my lips, gliding through my natural wetness, which is already gathering despite my physical discomfort. “So soft and hot. Even now, your sweet little pussy prepares itself for me. It knows what it needs.”
He circles my entrance, applying a gentle, maddening pressure that makes my hips lift slightly off the tub floor.
“Do you feel that?” he asks. “The ache beginning to change? To become something else?”
“Yes,” I gasp. Because I do. The pain is blurring, transforming into a deep, throbbing need.
He continues his ministrations, washing me with an intimacy that leaves me breathless. His fingers explore, learning every crevice, every sensitive spot, but he doesn’t push inside or bring me to the edge. This is a promise of things to come. He’s stoking the fire, proving his point, but waiting for later to make me come. The edging is a kind of exquisite torture.
Finally, when I am clean and quivering and utterly pliant in his hands, Lucian helps me to stand and rinses me with clear, warm water poured from a crystal pitcher. The water cascades over my breasts, my stomach, between my legs, washing away the suds but not the memory of his touch.
He helps me out of the tub, his strength making me feel weightless. He wraps me in a towel so large and fluffy it swallows me whole, and he dries me with the same slow, worshipful attention.
He pats every drop from my skin, kneeling to dry my legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of each knee. He rubs the towel over my back…my buttocks…my thighs, and then stands to gently blot the moisture from my breasts, his thumbs lingering on my nipples once more.
Then he dresses me in a nightgown of ivory silk so fine it feels like a caress against my sensitized skin. It slips over my head and floats down my body, clinging to my damp curves. He smooths it over my hips, his hands lingering.
“Pleasure will ease the ache, my darling,” he says again, his eyes holding a dark promise as he strokes my hair out of my eyes. “And soon, I will give you so much of it, you’ll forget you ever knew pain at all.”
“You…you don’t have to do that,” I say breathlessly.
“Ah, but I want to. How do you feel?” he asks.
“Better,” I say honestly. “Still crampy, though. You don’t…” I hesitate. “You don’t have any period products here, do you? Pads? Tampons?”
“I’m afraid not,” he admits. “But none of that will be necessary.”
I frown.
“Well then, you’re going to want to put a towel down. I don’t want to uh, mess up your bed.”
“You won’t,” he promises
He leads me back to the bedroom and helps me into bed.
I clamp my thighs together instinctively.
“Lucian, really—if I could just have a towel—”
“Shhh.” He tucks me between the sheets. “I told you—I’m going to take care of you.”
But now that I’m out of the warm water, the pain is returning. Another cramp hits, sharp enough to steal my breath. I gasp, curling inward, and suddenly his hand is there—warm, steady—resting over my lower belly.
“My poor little one,” he murmurs. “Let me ease your pain.”
“How?” I gasp. “Unless you’ve got industrial-strength ibuprofen, nothing—ah—nothing is going to help.”
“I have no medicine,” he says softly. “But I do know another way.”
Another wave hits and I groan, tears pricking my eyes.
“Anything. Do anything. I don’t care—as long as it helps.”
His gaze darkens—not with hunger, but with focus and something that looks like devotion.
“Very well,” he murmurs. “Just relax my darling and let me ease you.”
And for the first time all night, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to endure this alone.
41
Lucian
I know before she says a word.
I smell the change in her—subtle but unmistakable—woven through the sweetness of her Sanguis Vita like a darker thread. The monthly tide of blood that human women are taught to fear, to hide, to apologize for is coming.