Page 116 of The Succubi's Choice

She smooths her hand over his chest, over the long lines of stress, over the muscles and the smooth skin. Feels him twitch, as her hand trails up his neck to his chin, where she cups his face, playing with the hairs next to his temples.

He presses his cheek into her palm, and she marvels at the pressure, at the heavy weight of him against her. “We have to wait for the code to be ready,” he whispers, as if someone could overhear them in this tender moment. “I would have woken you if it was urgent.”

In his voice is a strange type of permission, of her being able to back away, of some sort of way out. Some way of avoiding the end to the conversation they started the evening before, in the wee hours under the streetlamp.

Instead, she cradles his face against her hand, relishing in the smoothness of the skin on his cheek, and the way his eyes flutter shut into her touch. At the strength in his muscles and the hidden heat within him. At the way he leans, ever so much, towards where hand goes, at the way he yearns for her touch.

She’s used to people wanting her touch, she’s used to getting it as easy as she can breathe. She’s used to people chasing her, to being the center of attention in a room, to being coveted.

She’s not used to someone wanting her like this. Without her charm. Without her hunting. Without her harming them, without her draining something from them and leaving them, never to have them again.

She breaks the touch, and his eyes flicker open again, lidded, just looking at her, his arm solid against her waist.

He looks, for a few seconds, like he’s going to say something, but instead kisses her right on the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder, open mouthed, and she arches her back against him. She gasps, she must have, but she’s not aware of it, just that her mouth is open and her breath is stolen away.

She’s had men kiss her there before, women too, but his kiss is blazingly hot against her skin, like the first touch of hot water on cold hands, like stepping into a heated car on a sunny, cold day. Paradoxically, it sends a shiver down her spin, visceral.

His hand comes up to her breast, bare beneath the pajama top, and the pad of his thumb brushes across her nipple, sending another shudder down her spine. Even over the clothing, it’s like he branded her, marked her as viscerally his.

She’s never been with someone twice before, and the thought catches in her throat and makes it difficult to breathe. Like this is something so large, some barrier to get over so great, and…

And she cannot hurt him. It’s a truth, baked deep into her bones, that she can sense and feel and know.

Gingerly, as if he can sense that all of her emotions are right below the surface, he threads his hand beneath her shirt, and his hands are a blazing hot against her stomach. He spreads his fingers, as if bracing her, holding her in place as he kisses down her shoulders.

Even without her charm, even without her abilities, he wants this. He wants her.

With another lingering kiss, he looks up at her through his eyelashes. “May I?” He asks, like a gentleman of old.

She doesn’t know what he’s asking permission for, not specifically, but she nods. “Yes,” she says, and her voice is breathy, surprising herself. “Yes, yes of course.”

Another flicker of a glance at her, then he presses her down into the couch, her back hitting the threadbare fabric, the roughness sending all the nerves in her body into the sky.

He works with quick efficiency, peeling her top off of her, and he breathes out hard from his nose, as if the very sight of her leaves him wanting, as if the few small points of contact between them is all he can handle.

At the thought, at the touch of his hands and the roughness of the couch and the heat of the room, her charm sparks, visible and bright, arcing through the air and into the center of his chest, and her breathing tightens, briefly, in some sort of irrational terror.

Instead, he just smiles at her, his lips quirking up beautifully. “It’s still doing that?” He asks, as if they’re discussing something as innocent as the weather or the neighbors.

She nods, not trusting herself to speak, and he picks up her arm, with the black marks and the deep aches, and presses a kiss against the twisting marks, as if they’re something to treasure, as if they’re pieces of art.

They ache, ever so slightly, at the touch of his lips, but it’s strange, as if the contact comes through a thin layer of dust. He kisses up her arm, past the twisting scars and the angry black marks, to the crook of her elbow, and she shivers again, her charm sparking once more.

“And they were worried about you charming me,” he mumbles, much more to himself than to her.

“Well,” Miri says, arching her neck back against the couch, pressing against it for something to smooth the contact, “if they saw us now, I don’t think we’d change their minds.”

He’s moving slowly, ever so slowly, and all of her aches for him to go fast, faster than this, give her more contact and more touch until she’s overloaded and unable to think about anything. Something, just more than this.

Her words get a chuckle from him, one she can feel more than hear, and he tugs down her small pajama shorts, kneeling between her legs and fixing his mouth over her.

She jumps and squeaks, at the sudden heat against her pussy, and he lavishes her with his tongue in long, slow movements, and every motion is like fire against her, building and growing, larger and larger, until she shudders against him and he finally pulls away.

There’s a small moment, where he looks at her, his lips shiny, before she jolts forward, pushing him back on the couch and straddling him.

His lips move, as if he’s whispering a prayer or incantation, and she all but yanks on the tuxedo pants he’s somehow still wearing, pulling them open.

Their eyes meet, bright and sudden, and the skin not touching him is chilled in the air, before she lowers herself onto his dick and he throws his head back in a strangled gasp.

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