Her hand, at some point during the third hour, had drifted to her thigh. The fingers, trembling, had traced the inside of her leg through her dress. The motion was unconscious. Involuntary. The 'my-body-needs-touch' response that the pheromones demanded. She had caught herself. Yanked her hand away. Pressed it flat against the wall. But the warmth between her legs had not subsided. It had grown. The damp spot on her panties had spread. The ache in her clit had become a throb.
Now, in this moment, she watched the four women sucking him. The slurping. The mumbling. The mindless devotion. And her hand, the traitorous hand that she had pinned to the wall, was on her thigh again. Moving. Up. The fabric of her dress, bunched at her hips, was being pushed by her own fingers. Toward her soaked panties. Toward the source of the heat that was consuming her from the inside.
'No,' she thought. 'No. Stop. What are you doing? You are a Baroness. You are—'
Viktor looked at her.
