Page 27 of Feeding Beauty (The Lost Girls #5)

Eating Myself Out

AURORA

A sheet of cold rain comes down on Talon and I as we walk along the darkened docks, chilling me to the bone. Which, admittedly, helps. A little.

Because fae lords, my body hurts. It’s not the ache of a good orgasm. Not the soreness that comes with satisfaction.

This is wrong. Current rips through my spine. My limbs feel brittle, glass stretched too thin. My skin is too tight. My chest is caving. My ribs are knives, and my stomach is one great screaming void. My curse kicked the door wide, a meal waiting on the other side.

Worse than starving. I’m cannibalizing.

We had to wait for hours. Trapped in that apartment, waiting for nightfall to come.

Every minute dragged. My head split open behind my eyes. My limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. And all Talon kept saying was “Hold on. Just a little longer. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay, baby.”

Baby. I still love when he calls me that.

I have no idea why Talon’s brought me out here. I want to ask, why aren’t we going to a motel like last time? But even forming words grates across my tongue, heavy and slow.

My limbs are shaky, useless. My head’s pounding with the kind of migraine that feels personal. And under all that?

Humiliation.

I tried to take the edge off. Tried to be strong. Clever. In control of my own body. But I can’t even touch myself without it turning into a fucking catastrophe. Can’t even come without lighting the match of my own slow death. My curse feasted on my orgasm. I was nothing but fuel.

I thought maybe I could handle it on my own. Just once. Take a little pleasure. Take a little power. But instead, I fed it me . My own life force.

I’ve never felt so betrayed by my body, and my list of grudges against it are long and detailed.

This is some tremendous bullshit, and if Mal were here, I would tell her so before popping her in the face with my fist.

I stumble.

Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be a very hard punch, but once I get a little dick in me, I’m going to track her down and beat her to a pulp.

I laugh at my own thoughts, but it comes out a strangled rasp.

Talon hesitates. “We’re almost there,” he says.

Then he wraps his arm around my cloaked body to help me keep straight as we continue.

My face turns up into the cold sleet just in time to catch the hot red embers flashing in his eyes as he holds me.

Talon uses his other hand to lift the hood on my cloak, so it better shields my face from the light rain.

He's careful not to touch my flesh, and for one brief moment, I let myself believe this is our life. That I get to lean on him. That he gets to hold me. That we’re just…together. Whole .

The fantasy gives me equal jolts of pleasure and pain. Resentment flares in me. Why does everything between us have to be so witchtitting bittersweet?

Even through the headache, through the haze and burn and emptiness, I keep thinking about what he said. All of it.

The way he saw me. The way he knows me. The way he’s been watching, memorizing, aching for me, without ever touching.

I want to gather every word, every whispered confession and name he called me, and fold them into something solid. A memory box. A talisman. Something I can clutch to my chest when I need strength.

"We're here," he announces, drawing my attention forward.

From the outside, it looks like a condemned warehouse—rust streaks, rotted siding, one half-lit streetlamp above. But the bouncer standing out front tells a different story.

He’s big. Bigger and bulkier than Talon. Bald head, tattooed neck. His eyes glow like lit coal.

“You here to play?” he asks, gaze flicking between us.

Talon nods, retrieving his phone. “We’re registered.”

"Then you know the terms." The bouncer pulls a rune-etched tablet from his coat, tapping the screen. “Blood signature. Both of you.”

Talon puts his phone away before he reaches out and touches the tablet with his index finger. There's a small blue spark at the contact.

Under the expectant gaze of the bouncer, I reach out to do the same. A sharp pinprick zings across my finger.

“Magic immunization verified,” the bouncer intones. “Emotional consent spell active. No cursed bites. No fertility issues. No dream-walkers without collars. You’re cleared.” He studies us. “And you understand the Old Pact still holds?”

I hesitate, having no idea what the hell he’s talking about much less where we are. “I?—”

“We do,” Talon says, voice rough.

The bouncer lifts the metal bar behind him and lets it drop with a heavy clang . The sealed door creaks open.

“Then the only thing you’ll catch in there is heartbreak,” he mutters. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We step into warm, velvet shadows, and music that pulses like a heartbeat.

“What’s the Old Pact?” I whisper to Talon as we enter the building. The air is charged enough to raise every hair on my body.

Talon keeps a hand at the small of my back, steering me gently.

“This place is a temple to Bastet—Egyptian goddess of pleasure, sex, and safe indulgence. The owner made a pact: anyone entering offers a drop of blood, and in return she grants protection against disease, coercion, and magical corruption. Think of it like divine sanctuary.”

A club. A sacred one. Maybe a safehouse for people like me?

Then the scent hits me.

Thick, heady. Sweat and skin and pheromones.

Sex.

It’s an incense that thickens the air—tangible, cloying, almost sweet.

My mouth waters. My pulse kicks up. Beneath it all, a low bass thrums through the warehouse walls, a second heartbeat vibrating my bones.

Moans roll, distant thunder tangled with the wet slap of flesh, a breathless gasp that triggers my entire body to shiver with anticipation.

Lust doesn’t just hum under my skin, it scrapes. Sparks. Ignites.

That’s when I see it.

A woman in sheer mesh bent over a velvet bench while a vampire laps at the inside of her thigh. Just beyond them, two men kiss with teeth and tongue, one of them trailing glowing runes down the other's chest with the glow of a spell-branded fingertip.

Oh.

This isn’t just a club.

This is a sex club.

The realization slams into me with a second wave of hunger—deeper, more dangerous. The hunger snarls to life. Thankfully it directs outward, away from my body for the first time since I made my massive mistake.

The warehouse is a den of sensual excess. Draped silks in oceanic blues and greens billow from the high ceilings, giving the illusion of moving water. A chandelier fashioned from mother-of-pearl shells casts refracted light in fluid patterns.

To the left, a sunken lounge area pulses with low music and lower moans. Lovers sprawl across cushions in various states of undress. Some whisper confessions, others grind slowly, hands and mouths exploring.

A server glides by with a silver tray of jewel-toned cocktails, each one fogging with chill or glinting with enchantment.

The waitstaff are all human, dressed in corseted uniforms with subtle scalloped patterns—fish scales woven in satin and silk.

Every corset, regardless of gender, is cut to showcase as much skin as possible.

Tits out, hips bare, and fishnets held up by garters.

Farther in, alcoves carved into the old brick walls host more private performances—a fae couple locked in a tangle of limbs on silk ropes, a human woman bound and writhing with pleasure as her partner teases her with flickering illusions.

I shudder when I catch sight of a vampire kissing his partner before sinking his teeth into what looks like a willing donor on his lap. The memory of the bouncer’s words about everything protected for consent comes to mind.

Talon leads me down a corridor to a series of rooms. I glance at the rules posted in ornate gold lettering. Door closed means private party. Open door means come join and play.

Talon directs me inside one of the rooms. It reminds me of the high-end hotel suites I’ve seen on Hex Island , when the cast got to go on a sexy vacation and suddenly everything was silk robes and spontaneous hookups.

This is that, if the producers had taste.

The space is immaculate, the air thin and over-purified, the sheets stiff with the memory of steam pressed into them between every guest. The lighting is low and soothing, tinted in soft sea-glass hues that ripple over the satin walls.

Everything carries the faint bite of citrus peel overlaid with the dry crisp of linen.

Fresh, not floral. Even the leather ottoman gleams, the kind of polish that screams clipboard inspections and relentless standards.

A minibar stretches across one wall, gleaming with brushed gold accents and crystal handles. Behind the glass are chilled bottles of wine and champagne, glistening mineral waters, delicate chocolates sheathed in foil, and sea-salt caramels lined up like jewels.

Then there are neatly stacked boxes in matte black and pastel velvet, each one sealed and labeled with delicate symbols. Some are obvious—cuffs, plugs, vibrators. Others look like medical-grade tools wrapped in luxury. I don’t know what half of them are, and somehow, that feels intentional.

The sign makes it easy to figure out how it works. Open a box or crack a bottle, and it simply goes on your tab.

The bed is sleek, minimal, and unapologetically indulgent.

The linens are ice-white and buttery soft, layered with silk throws in coral and gold.

The pearlescent and intricate headboard is a curved seashell.

Above, a ceiling mirror edged in burnished brass reflects every angle, catching the flicker of recessed lights that move like sunlight through shallow water.

"Undress."

The timbre of Talon’s voice causes a shiver to go through me before landing as a pulse in my sex, despite how wretched my body feels.

I try to keep hold of myself, even as I obey him. "I don't know if I can do this." I confess. "I'm too hungry, and last time, I almost killed Merry." I end on a shamed whisper, shutting my eyes tight.

I wrap my arms around myself. I’m running on a fraying edge.

Whoever comes in here, I’m going to kill them. I know it. I have no control. Even with Talon here, there will be no holding back the fangs of my curse from draining whoever walks through that door and into this bed.

"Aura." The way he says my name forces me to open my eyes. "Trust me."

I search his dark molten depths, letting myself relax, just a fraction. “I trust you.”

“Good.” He nods. “Because you won’t be feeding from just one person. We are going to have a little...” he hesitates, “party.”

My brows lift a fraction.

That way I’ll feed from multiple people. Maybe taking some from several will keep any one person from being drained.

“You thought of this?” I ask.

He nods, a flush coming to his cheeks. “It seems like it could work.”

I can’t say I disagree. We seem to be trying all sorts of things these days. I swallow hard. Hopefully his plan goes better than my idea did this morning.

Then he pulls out the chains from the pack he brought. We don’t have to use the chains, but they are a reminder.

I need that reminder, like a uniform. Dropping the cloak, I push off the loose dress I wore under and take them from him.

The cold jewels find all the dips off my body, causing goosebumps to wash over me. I shudder in equal parts disgust and anticipation. The larger part of me grows with excitement and insatiable appetite, ready to pounce.

Before he can move, I speak again in a lower tone. “I wish it was you. You and me.”

He stops, swallowing hard. I follow the bob and drop of his throat. “Me too.” Then in a quiet, wistful tone that matches mine, “Me too.”