The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the chamber, casting long, honey-colored ribs of light across the wreckage of the previous night. It was the cusp of winter, the season where the air in Noctharis usually turned into a whetted blade, but inside the heavy oak bed, Ilaria was drowning in a sweltering, delicious heat.
She was tucked so deeply into the furs and linens that she felt like a cinnamon roll in a soft tangle of warmth and silk. For a long, hazy moment, she just lay there, her mind a blank, sunny slate. Her first conscious act was a slow, cat-like blink and the stiffness between her legs. Then, she felt a damp patch on the silk pillowcase.
"Oh, Saints," she squeaked into the fabric, her face flushing a vivid pink.
