Dinner is forgotten between us on the table, cold and tasteless. The only thing I want to taste is him. I pull up the memory of his cock in my mouth, and the resulting ache is so intense that I squeeze my thighs together.

“What’s going through your head?” he asks as if he senses the direction of my thoughts.

“That first day in the library, when I was on my knees…” I pause, hesitant to continue. “I was thinking of how I’ve wanted to do it again.”

Muttering a curse, he stands. “You can’t help but tempt me.” He picks up our plates and heads toward the kitchen where Selma waits, out of earshot to give us privacy. “I have some work to finish before bed. You should get some sleep too.”

That’s the last I see of him all evening. I take a bath with the latest fantasy novel I’m caught up in, but not even reading about dragons and curses distracts my mind from Liam Castle.

I’m tempted to slide my hand between my legs to find relief, but I don’t.

Because he forbade it.

And I want that first with him.

I want him to take it so the others can’t.

I want him to win the auction, too, so the others have no chance of stealing my virginity.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. I toss and turn for hours, wracked by images of twelve sets of hands touching me, punishing me, using me for their pleasure.

The reality is terrifying, the pictures in my head irrevocable. I’m certain I’ll be up all night plagued by duty and destiny…

Until the bed shifts, and I realize I dozed off. At first, I think I’m caught between that weird moment between deep sleep and the more restless, partially alert variety. The kind of slumber where you twitch and it feels like someone’s sitting on the bed. It’s an eerie sensation, feeling a phantom weight when you know you’re alone.

Except…I’m not alone.

With a gasp, I lurch upright, and a firm hand sends me sprawling to the mattress again.

“Do you know what time it is?” Liam’s voice hovers only inches away in the darkness, his tone infused with the lustful rasp I crave.

I swallow hard, caught off-guard. “The middle of the night?”

“It’s past midnight.”

His speech is off, slower than usual and lacking inhibition. If I couldn’t tell by his mannerisms, the spiciness of whiskey in the air is telling enough.

“Are you drunk?”

“I never drink to excess. I’m merely armed with the right amount of celebratory scotch.”

“What are you celebrating?”

“My birthday.”

My gaze darts to the nightstand and the green glow of the numbers on the clock sitting there. It’s past midnight, indeed.

I make out the outline of his face in my darkened quarters. “Happy Birthday, Chancellor.”