Page 17 of A Promise of Peridot
The room Isolde’s guards showed me to was the one I always stayed in when I used to visit the capital. A sunlit suite filled with fluffed sheets and a spectacular view of the whitewashed streets of the city and the sparkling Mineral Sea beyond.
In the washroom, past the soaking tub, was the bathing column. Like a closet of piping-hot, steaming rain paned with glassy emerald tiles.
I peeled off my dirty pants and tunic from our interminable journey on the ship and threw them in the wastebasket with more force than necessary. The mirror before me reflected a pitiful sight. Too thin, sallow, and rough. Patchy beard. Sunken eyes. I needed to stop hunting for peace in mugs of whiskey.
I turned on the water and let it spill out from the ceiling until the whole washroom was damp and sticky before stepping inside and scrubbing every inch of my body until I was raw.
When I was finished, I stood under the hot spray of water and braced my hands on the tiles before me. Little beads of heat dripped between my outspread fingers. A steady stream pounded the crown of my head and back of my neck. I tried not to let my thoughts wander.
Hotter.
That would help.
I twisted the knob until the water was scalding.
And then hotter still, until my skin was as red as a newborn’s.
It was no use. I couldn’t help but think of Arwen.
I had been putting it off for days. It just felt too dirty, too despicable to make myself come to her image knowing how she felt about me now—what I had done to her.
But I needed a single moment of release. Especially after the empty promises I had made to Isolde. Now, even if I won this fucking war, I’d have another one on my hands unless I married Sera off to some Fae noble. I couldn’t even fathom who might rule Lumera if we succeeded. I never let myself think that far ahead. To have defeated Lazarus would mean Arwen had...
My fist slammed into the slippery shower wall, cracking the tile and sending debris to my feet.
I couldn’t take to the skies, as I so often did when I was this restless.
Gods knew I wasn’t going to bed someone else.
And... I dreamt of her. Every fucking night. Arwen had invaded not only my waking thoughts but my sleeping ones as well. It was hopeless. Humiliating, to be so wound up, like a coiled wire after months and months of wanting and not having her.
One time, I’d allow myself to think of her. Just this once.
I circled my hand around my shaft and began to stroke in a steady rhythm. The swell of her breasts, bigger than my palm, and her hard, pink-tipped nipples swirled in my mind. The curve of her slender hips, of her wet lips and tongue. What they might feel like wrapped around me. I tried to imagine her still wanting me, riding me, writhing on top of me, begging me to thrust harder, to bring her to the edge. Her core slick and swollen, drawing me in. Her hands, greedy, pawing at me, begging me for more, more,more—I pumped faster into my hand, holding the other against the wet tiles to keep myself standing. I came hard and rough with her name on my lips.
The instantaneous shame that followed was even more potent than the desire that had fueled me. I was repulsed by myself.
I rinsed off and threw a towel around my hips. That would be the last time. It was a climax for old times’ sake.
Yeah, that made sense.
The knock on my door was a welcome distraction.Please, let it be someone who wants to punch me in the face.
I opened the door to Griffin’s stoic expression.
“Close enough,” I mumbled to myself.
He shot me a curious expression and sat down in the beige lambskin chair next to the fireplace, picking up a decorative opalescentseashell from the table beside him. “I just met with Master Aled.” He turned to me, a gleam in his eye. “We may have a way in with Crawford.”
My brows perked up. Finally, some good fucking news. “Really?”
“Here, in Azurine. Tonight.”
“Great,” I said, sinking into the chair opposite him.
Griffin examined me before he let out a brusque laugh. “You look wrecked.”
“I’m fine.”
