Before she could register what was happening—before her mind could override the desperate impulse—her hand had drifted down to her side.
Her fingers pressed against the rough fabric of her tunic at her inner thigh. The pressure felt good. Pathetically, desperately good. A tiny fraction of relief in an ocean of need.
She pressed harder.
Her fingers slid lower, trembling, seeking more contact, more pressure. They brushed against the apex of her thighs through the thin linen and a strangled moan tore from her throat—raw, needy, utterly shameless. Her hips rocked forward into the touch without her permission, chasing the sensation, and her eyes fluttered shut.
A sharp intake of breath from somewhere to her left.
Viya's eyes snapped open—she hadn't realized she'd closed them—and reality crashed back in like ice water.
She was in the middle of the courtyard.
