Predator

by Liz Meldon

  “Yes.” To her credit, she sounded more confident this time, her voice steady. As he approached, he found her head resting on her folded hands, and she slowly turned it to the side so she could glance up at him. “I’m sorry about before. I don’t know why I’m so flustered.”

  “It’s very normal for your first time,” he told her, fighting the urge to run his gaze down the length of her body—what the sheets left exposed. Even if she was there for the explicit purpose of sex, he didn’t want to openly leer. Not very professional—or, given the strange new circumstances, not in his best interests. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded toward his bag, which he’d left on the floor by the dresser. “Would you like me to use massage oils?”

  “Oh, uh…” She bit her lower lip for a moment as she considered it, and Severus clenched his jaw, suppressing the image of him nibbling that tempting lower lip from his mind. Moira shuffled about beneath the covers somewhat as she said, “Massage oils sometimes give me a rash. Or they used to, anyway.”

  “Moisturizing lotion?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Scent-free. All natural. I use it for clients with sensitive skin.”

  Her cheeks flushed again as she nodded, then faced the bed—perhaps to hide the recent flood of colour. Severus marched across the room to grab the bottle from his bag, but found his legs mildly uncooperative, as though they had no desire to leave her side. Stranger still.

  Once he had the appropriate lotion in hand, he dragged off his T-shirt, not wanting to stain it, and tossed it on the dresser. Returning to the bed, he noted that she had taken the time to fold all her clothes before piling them neatly on the armchair. For some reason, the very idea tugged at his lips and threatened to make him smile.

  He took a deep breath.

  Just get this over with. She’ll be a puddle of wet, dripping desire soon enough, just like all the rest of them.

  As he clambered onto the bed, he realized he had no idea where to position himself. Instinct told him to settle over the delicate curve of her behind, but the second he did she’d feel his still very present, very hard cock through his jeans, and Severus didn’t want to startle her.

  So, he knelt at her side, gently lowering the sheet to her hips. Silently, Moira gathered her splayed brown hair, which still didn’t look quite right, and dragged it over to one side, exposing two highly sensitive areas—her spine and her neck. Severus stared down at her as a vision of running his tongue from the small of her back to the nape of her neck danced across his mind’s eye.

  Fuck.

  Shaking his head, he squeezed the lotion onto his hands, rubbed it in a bit, and then got to work. The second his hands smoothed up her back, applying just the right amount of pressure, Moira tensed briefly, then let out a long, luxurious exhale. Severus smirked. Just like all the rest.

  Only she wasn’t. The longer he massaged her, lingering on some knots in her upper back, Severus realized he just wasn’t getting anything from her. No matter how he touched her, no matter where he touched her, all Severus became was more and more aroused. Not stronger. Not sharper. Just hornier, until finally he yanked the sheets down, exposing her completely, and dragged his tongue along the hollow of her lower back. She shuddered, and, over the round, pert globes of her ass, Severus caught her toes curl.

  A sinful grin crossed his lips, and his hands wandered lower, smoothing over her backside and gripping her thighs firmly. She gasped, feet digging into the bed now, and all Severus wanted to do was bury his face between her legs. He could smell her arousal. He could feel the heat radiating off her, the tension in her limbs when he scraped his teeth along the delicate skin of one cheek. Her legs twitched, as though startled by the flash of pain paired with what he knew was a sensuous rubdown. Severus clasped her thighs tighter, one large, firm hand on each, and used his thumbs to circle the tender flesh along her inner thighs. Goosebumps erupted—a job well done.

  Severus crawled down the bed, running his tongue along the inside of her right thigh, using both hands on her left, and she moaned—the sweetest, most tempting sound he’d ever heard. Although she had requested no oral, he could easily imagine parting her legs and burying his face between them, spearing her wet heat with his tongue, tormenting her clit until she came with a scream. Bless those soundproof walls.

  “Russ?” Moira’s soft voice broke through the fog of lust. He blinked rapidly and found his mouth at the curve of her ass, his thumbs hiked up on either side of her swollen sex; he’d ventured in without even realizing it, so lost in the fantasy of what she’d look like when she came that he hadn’t been conscious of his actions. Jaw clenched, he sat up quickly, about to apologize—when he found her studying him over her shoulder with a heat in her eyes that made his cock sing.

  Something akin to a growl rattled around in his chest as he crawled up her, finally clambering over her and grinding his now-throbbing, yet still horribly confined erection against her backside. She arched below, head thrown back and lips parted, and whimpered softly when his teeth nipped at her neck.

  Still he wasn’t getting anything.

  And Severus didn’t give two flying fucks anymore.

  All he could think about was her, this mystery woman who wasn’t like all the rest, and driving himself into her over and over until he collapsed.

  She turned somewhat frantically beneath him, hands sliding up to cup his face as it descended upon her, mouth claiming hers again. Last time, he had let her steer. He had let her tentative touches guide them, set the pace—but now it was time for her to taste the fire, the fury, of his kiss. Severus caught her with her lips slightly parted and took full advantage, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as she moaned, exploring every crevice, marking her in ways known only to the two of them. Her hands dropped down to his shoulders while he repositioned themselves so her legs wrapped around his waist, not the other way around.

  Moira tasted divine—and all he’d sampled was her mouth. He pressed harder, driving her into the bed as her heels dug into his back. Her hands, with those willowy fingers and burning caresses, wrapped around the back of his neck, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to snatch them and pin them next to her head. Lash them to the bedposts with silk. Leather. Rope that would leave her marked for days to follow.

  He tore his mouth from hers and dragged it down her neck instead, fearing what the kiss was doing to him—what it was truly awakening. As he sucked at the nape of her neck, trailed his tongue along her collarbone, he found her kiss like a drug, like a weapon, severing the tether of his control. His sanity, perhaps, if he let it drag on long enough.

  What sort of creature could do that to an incubus?

  He glanced up at her when she keened his stage name, her hips bucking against his, before nuzzling about to find her pulse. His tongue swirled around it, sucked at it, bruising the delicate skin of her neck. Her heart beat hurriedly, but not as dangerously fast as Severus knew he could drive it. With but the simplest touch of an incubus, human hearts danced. Not Moira’s. He growled again, this time raking his teeth across her skin, and her nails bit into his neck.

  “Russ…” Suddenly those hands jumped lower, skimming over his muscular figure, not stopping until they reached the brown leather belt around his hips. At the feel of her unbuckling it, he forced himself to straighten, chest rising and falling harder and faster than it should. She fumbled over the belt only briefly before wrenching it open. Next came the button of his dark jeans, the zipper sliding dangerously down his rigid shaft. He hissed when she cupped him through the remarkably thin fabric of his briefs, that damn lower lip caught between her teeth again.

  With a hint of uncertainty playing across her features, Moira stroked him over his briefs, then gripped the waistline and tugged it down. His hands fisted when his cock tumbled free, falling like a lead weight between them. Her eyes widened, only for a moment, before she wrapped her hand around its head and swept her thumb over the glistening tip. His hips jolted on their own accord, and he clamped down on the insides o
f his cheeks.

  Normally he had all the control. His clients had no sway over his body, no way to dictate his excitement. Most of all, they never took from him. Severus should have been brimming with energy, overflowing from all that skin-to-skin contact. Instead, he felt like putty in her hands, easily manipulated, suddenly pliable.

  And that simply wouldn’t do.

  So, he nudged her hands away and bore down on her again. He meant to pin her, smother her with his weight, but once more she wrapped her legs around him, drawing his now-freed cock ever closer to her heat.

  “You are dangerous, Moira,” he growled, slipping a hand under the back of her head and grasping her hair. “Do you know that? More dangerous than I could ever be…”

  “I’m ready,” she whispered, eyes wide and wild when they met his, those ethereal blues forcing him to inhale sharply. She spoke as though she hadn’t heard him, and he clenched his eyes shut when she eased her hips, her heat, along the full length of his cock. Gone were the tremors in her words, the blushes across her cheeks. Beneath him was a goddess—only Severus couldn’t choke out her name even if he wanted to.

  “Ready, are you?” he managed instead, battling to contain the beast within—the beast who lived, thrived, and died for lust. This goddess had revived him, brought him back from the abyss—and she had the gall to just nod up at him.

  “Russ, I want you to—”

  Moira squealed, the sound muffled by his lips crashing over hers. The moment they touched again, the firestorm resumed, and Severus was lost. In her. In the now. In the lust pounding through his veins. He reached between them and steered his cock to her slick entrance. With one sharp thrust of his hips, Severus filled her. She arched up against him, moaning as her hand clasped the headboard.

  Certainly no virgin, but tight and hot all the same. He found himself momentarily stricken dumb, succumbing to the sensation. He’d had a lot of sex. Severus did it for a living these days. But he’d never felt a cunt like hers. Gone were the cares, the precautions, the measures he had in place for all his regular clients. He simply had to have her, utterly. He saw nothing beyond that.

  He bucked against her before easing out and pounding back in, taking her harshly. Any other woman would have broken by now, but she clung to him with one arm around his neck, rocking her hips to meet each rough thrust. Soundproofed walls contained her cries, her moans, but he wanted more. Severus wanted her screams. He wanted her skin flush and slick with sweat. He wanted to see her become the same as he, two creatures of unbridled passion.

  A thousand dollars sat on the dresser by the door—a thousand dollars to make her come. Severus grinned against her lips; she wasn’t just going to come. Not once. He had another hour and a half to make her weep with such exquisite ecstasy—

  “Your eyes!” She jolted suddenly, as though poked with the end of a cattle prod, then shoved him off. Severus toppled to the side, heart hammering and cock throbbing, desperate to return to its new favourite place, and quickly propped himself up on his elbow.

  “What?”

  “Your eyes…” She scrambled to the side of the bed, swinging her legs over the edge and pressing a hand to her forehead.

  My eyes?

  He faced the mirrors on the closet doors quickly. In his true form, his entire eye appeared black. Perhaps he had let his earthly disguise slip for a moment, so wrapped up in this delicious creature that he forgot himself entirely. Now, however, he looked like any ordinary human.

  Well, close enough.

  “I don’t know what you saw,” he started, forcing himself to calm, to settle, to regain control, “but if it frightened you, I’m sorry.” When she said nothing, keeping her back to him, Severus reached across the bed. “Moira? Did I hurt you? Are you—”

  She flinched out of reach the moment his fingertips grazed her shoulder, scampering off the bed, still naked, and making a beeline for her clothes.

  “I shouldn’t have done this,” he heard her muttering, and Severus made a half-hearted attempt to cover his still very prominent erection by throwing a sheet over it.

  “Moira—”

  “It’s not going to work,” she said, the sentiment followed by a cackle as she shimmied into her panties. Her jeans came next, and it was only then Severus realized she was crying. His skin prickled as if kissed by a morning chill. When she looked up at him, she swiped a hand across each cheek, seemingly torn between hysteria and mania. “It never works. I’m just not destined to…to… It’s never going to happen. I’m sorry.”

  “Moira, why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s going on?” Clearly there was an underlying issue she hadn’t thought to share with him during the phone consultation. With her wearing more clothes, dragging her shirt over her head, bra shoved in her purse, he found it easier to restrain the beast within. Sort of. And probably not for very long. “If you need someone to listen to—”

  “I don’t need you to be my therapist,” she said sharply as she grabbed her coat and purse.

  “And I’m not offering to be. If you’re having problems sexually, I just happen to know a thing or two about—”

  “I made a mistake doing this,” she insisted, boots crammed back on. When she faced him again, her eyebrows seemed—disheveled. As he’d suspected earlier, she had used some sort of pencil to colour them, because there was a patch of bright white peering back at him in the middle of her right brow. Curiosity at an all-time high, he stood, keeping the sheet around himself and extending a hand to her.

  “You’re upset—”

  “And that’s none of your concern. Keep the money.” Tears streaking down her face in thick glossy tracks, she raced for the door and tried to open it. The lock gave him a few precious seconds to get his briefs and pants tugged back up, but by then she had everything unlocked and was gone. Severus called her name, hurrying after her—only to find an empty hallway on either side of him. The elevator at the far end of the hall was in use, but it was going up, not down. Logically, he could assume she’d taken the nearby stairwell, but he opted not to follow her.

  She was right, of course. It wasn’t his concern. She wasn’t his to pick apart and put back together at his leisure. None of his clients were.

  But Moira was a mystery. As he went back into the hotel room and closed the door soundly behind him, Severus found he couldn’t make heads or tails of what had just happened. None of it. Not the fake hair colour. Not her strength. Not the way she affected him—the real him. And certainly not the way he couldn’t take from her as he did with every other human.

  Clearly, she wasn’t a human. There was no other explanation.

  Yet she was no demon either, no enchantress or witch. Not a creature of Hell, period.

  So, what, exactly, was she?

  And why did she make him feel alive for the first time in centuries?

  Tonight, he had no answers—just a stubborn hard-on and disconcerting sense of powerlessness over his own body—but Severus was determined to find them.

  And soon.

  Chapter Three

  One moment Moira was staring down at the essay that she needed to mark, the words blurring in and out of focus, and the next she was shooting upright, heart racing, as her phone’s alarm shrieked. Blinking rapidly, it took her a few beats longer than it should have to clue in to where she was—her professor’s TA office, which all four of the grad students assigned to the first-year Introduction to Art History class used for office hours. Sighing, she slumped in the high-backed chair, its armrests peeling and seat cushion woefully understuffed after years of teaching assistants’ butts crushing it.

  She must have fallen asleep, because she was still on page one of the six-page essay, and hadn’t done more than scribble a note in red pen about the title formatting being incorrect.

  “Ugh.”

  Moira rubbed at her face, then leaned forward and tapped her phone screen. 9 PM. Office hours were officially over for the day. Somehow she had drawn the short straw this semester; every
Tuesday and Wednesday night, she was here, in a cramped office, making herself available for freshman undergrads who never visited anyway. Sure, at the beginning of the year a few of the keeners would make use of TA office hours. However, given that the last term of the year was hurtling toward finals at lightning speed, Moira’s seven-to-nine-PM time slot tended to be underused and under-appreciated.

  Tonight had been no different. At least she hadn’t drooled on the essay she was supposed to be grading when she fell asleep, head propped up on her hand.

  Huffing, she grabbed the neatly stapled pages and set them on the stack of unread ones, then added the five papers she’d gotten through in the last two hours to the read folder that all the TAs used. With eight hundred students in the lecture, most of them thinking art history was an easy humanities credit to breeze through for their program’s requirements, she’d had two hundred essays assigned at random to her last week after the due date.

  Thus far, she’d made it through about twenty. The rest were due next month just before the undergrads took their final exams, and given that she would have her own final assignments to contend with then, Moira really wanted to get them out of the way. At this pace, it seemed more likely that she’d be done next year, not next month.

  “Kill me,” she muttered, then started packing up her things. The office was one in a row of a dozen along the east wall of McKinnon’s Library, FHU’s lone arts and humanities research center. When she stood up, Moira’s outstretched elbows could touch either side of the walled-in cubicle. A little diamond-shaped window overlooked the courtyard below, usually brimming with students eating their lunches or tossing a ball around in the daylight hours. Old wooden desk from the fifties—check. Chair that should have been replaced ten years ago—check. Wall organizers that ate into the already-cramped space—double check. Four hours a week, she felt like she was in solitary confinement. No wonder students never came to visit; they had to stand in the hall if they wanted to talk, with a TA sitting in that shitty chair and the door open.