Page 8 of The Rusalka and Mr. Right

I've been domesticated. I don't like it. A century ago, I would have grabbed the nearest male and mounted him. Not only that, but he would have been glad about it. Unlike most of my sisters who smiled prettily before showing their razor-sharp teeth, grabbing a man by the neck, and sucking his soul out, I made sure that all of my meals left this mortal coil with a smile on their faces and fully satisfied.

But now, I look around the gym and I notice that men are there with their wives or maybe in their little packs of work buddies, lifting weights and laughing in groups of twos and threes. I know how to discreetly get between a mark and his packmates at a party, but it's a little harder when the room isn't filled with writhing bodies all humping to the music, practically having sex on the dancefloor.

I don't have the energy to bounce sexily on the treadmill in front of them, lifting my ass and swaying my hips. I need to get back in the water.

I head back to the new edition.

It’s nothing but beige, teal, and white, a concrete imitation of the Bahamas. I’m pleased that the pool is pristine and mostly unused. A staff member walks around the edge with a bored look and then exits back to the main gym. I slide into the water with a sigh, tying my long white gown up on the side like an asymmetrical swimsuit.

Water seeps through my skin and floods my cells. Relief, the first pleasure they've known in hours. Water will help me keep going for a little longer, but what I really need—

Just walked in the door.

He’s tall, dark, and handsome, with wide shoulders and two broad, flat pectorals that beg to be bitten, leading to a ripple of abdominal muscles that are defined enough to be alluring without being the focal point of his body.

His whole body is worth looking at, from the curls of his hair to the way his calves curve with long, lean muscles. A swimmer. A runner. Fit, but not a professional.

I size up men like a butcher carves out cuts of meat.

Maybe it’s the hunger talking, but it’s the first time—well, the first time in two centuries that I can’t take my eyes off of a man because he’s so captivating.

He’s mine.

For tonight, I mean.

Just for tonight.

THE SECOND I SIT DOWNon the edge of the steps, the only other person in the pool sits next to me. She leans against the wall of the pool, eyes closed, lips parted just a little as she sighs.

I slide into the water fast, hoping she doesn’t open her eyes in time to see that staring at her has had an obvious effect on me. My body has never reacted to a woman like that. I mean, I’ve seen a ton of hot women, and I have normal physical reactions, but this woman...

Fuck, she must have that new pheromone perfume on.

Shut up, Kev. That’s not true science. You know that.

You were already horny. Swim away. Swim fast, swim far.

I do, plunging down to the end of the pool with deep, hard strokes, breaking the water with my cupped hands, pummeling it like it owes me money.

When I turn back to swim the length of the pool in the opposite direction, I’m staring at her. Her body sinks below the water until only her head rests above.

Her skin is so pale, it glows, and long chestnut waves curl down her shoulders and fan out in the water while she rests there, totally unconcerned. She obviously doesn’t know how breathtaking she is, or she wouldn’t be sitting here in some deserted gym pool. She’d be walking on runways. No, posing for the world’s best artists and photographers.

Everything about this girl screams for attention, for my eyes to be on her—and all she’s doing is sitting still.

I slow my strokes. I want to look at her for longer. Like, my brain is telling me something is off, or something is up... or maybe I’m just horny.

Her head tips back, and I can actually hear her breath escape in a sigh as she sinks deeper into the water.

I dip my head again, eyes open, watching her body move, oh so subtly, on the painted white steps, hips restless, long legs curling and stretching, then crossing again.

When I come up for air, her eyes open and meet mine, as if she knew exactly where my gaze would be, as if she knew I’d be staring at her as I flounder toward the shallow end.

I duck my head under the water, but that’s worse.

This girl has the perfect pin-up body wrapped in skin-tight fabric, and now her hands join the action, coasting down her sides, lingering at her hips.

Her legs part, and one hand trails gracefully between them.

---