Page 9 of The Prospect's Succubus
He let go of my wrists and slid down my body, teeth scraping along my collarbone, tongue flicking across the hollow of my throat. I arched my back and pressed my tits into his face, needing his mouth, needing the pain of it. He bit one nipple, then the other, sucking so hard I nearly screamed.
His hands found my thighs, fingers digging in and spreading them so wide the stretch made me tremble. He settled between my legs, face hovering just above my cunt, breath fanning over wet, throbbing skin.
“Look at you,” he said, voice almost mocking. “Already soaked.”
He didn’t give me time to answer. He licked me, long and rough, tongue flat and greedy. He ate me like a starving man, lips and teeth and fingers working in perfect, ruthless rhythm. I clawed at the sofa, nails leaving tracks in the leather, my whole body seizing as he shoved two fingers inside, then three, then curled them until my vision fractured.
I came in seconds, harder than I’d ever planned for, hips bucking so violently I nearly threw him off. He held me in place, never slowing, riding out the waves until I collapsed into the cushions, boneless and shaking.
He didn’t let up. He kept licking, slower now, deliberate, drawing out every last spasm until I was sobbing with pleasure, begging in a language I didn’t know I still spoke.
Finally, he stopped. Climbed up my body, hands on either side of my face, and locked eyes with me.
“Not done,” he said.
He spun me over, pulled my ass up, and shoved my face into the cool leather. I gasped, tried to scramble away, but he caughtmy hips and hauled me back with a single hand, the grip bruising and perfect.
His cock was out now, thick and blunt, the head leaking against the seam of my ass. He lined himself up and pressed inside, slow at first, letting me feel every inch as he filled me. The stretch was nearly too much, but the burn was exactly right. He drove in, bottomed out, then pulled almost all the way out and slammed back, harder than before.
He fucked me like he wanted to hollow me out. No pretense, no slow build, just raw power and absolute control. My knees slid across the leather, body folding up beneath him, hands scrabbling for purchase. He leaned forward, pressed a hand to the back of my neck, pinning me to the sofa. The other hand gripped my hip, fingers digging in so deep I could feel the marks forming.
The slap of flesh on flesh echoed off the high glass and stone. The blue-white glow of his scars lit up the entire room, turning the air electric.
He fucked me through the first orgasm, then the second, never slowing, never giving ground. Each time I came, I thought I’d black out, but he kept me awake, kept me present, kept me right at the edge until I didn’t know who I was anymore.
He pulled out, spun me back around, and threw me onto the coffee table, scattering candles and melting wax across the rug. He didn’t care. He fucked me again, this time with my legs spread wide and locked around his waist, every thrust driving the breath out of my lungs. He kissed me while he did it, tongue deep in my mouth, claiming every piece of me I thought was untouchable.
I begged for it. I begged for him, for more, for anything he wanted to take.
He bent over me, lips at my ear. “Say it,” he whispered, voice barely more than a growl.
“Yours,” I said, and it was true.
He came with a roar, heat flooding me, hands locked around my waist so tight I thought I’d break. I came with him, body clenching so hard I saw stars.
When it was over, he didn’t let go. He held me, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot on my lips.
For the first time, I saw it, the pain in his eyes, the need to be more than just a weapon. It gutted me.
He stroked my hair, gentler than before, and kissed my temple. “Next time, it’s your turn,” he said, and the smile was almost human.
The dream broke apart then, the edges curling away, leaving only the heat and the echo of his hands on my skin.
I woke up gasping, cunt throbbing, sheets soaked through. My body ached in every place he’d touched, every place he’d marked. I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and waited for the pain to fade.
It didn’t.
For a second, I had no idea where I was, or when, or even who. The silk sheets were bunched at my waist, soaked through and clinging to my skin. I sat up, snapped upright by an electric jolt that shuddered from my spine straight down to the place where my thighs met. Every nerve ending below the waist tingled with leftover voltage; the rest of my body just buzzed, barely contained.
My first thought was, Fuck. The second was, again?
I dragged a hand through my hair, which was wild and matted, some strands stuck to my forehead with sweat. The smell of spent candle wax floated through the room, overlayed with something darker, almost burnt. I touched my cheek and felt the heat there—real, not just dream memory. My breasts ached, nipples still stiff and hypersensitive from ghost hands and teeth.My cunt throbbed, slick and swollen, the hunger somehow sharper now that I was awake.
For the first time in…forever?—I felt embarrassed. I’d spent centuries inside other people’s nightmares, manipulating them like sock puppets, and now my own subconscious had mugged me in an alley and left me sprawled and panting in my own bed. I laughed, a dry, strangled sound, and pulled the sheets up as if that could hide the evidence from myself.
It was a pointless gesture. The aftermath of the dream clung to me, thick as honey. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the blue-white glow of Torch’s scars, the raw heat in his eyes, the way he’d looked at me, through me, like the world’s last honest predator.
I wanted to say it was just the novelty, just the thrill of a mark who didn’t roll over at first sight. But that was a lie. The real truth was worse. I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted him. It wasn’t just the body, though, fuck, what a body—it was the way he made me feel like prey, like he was going to devour me first and spit out the bones. I’d spent a lifetime perfecting the art of control. Now I was terrified to admit how much I wanted to lose it.
