by Lacy Danes
I felt a tingling start in his gums, then a slow glide as his incisors lengthened. I knew what he was about to do, but I lay breathless, on the edge of an orgasm I knew would thrust me beyond the strata I traveled in my dreams.
When he bit, I screamed—a strangled, choking sound cut short as soon as I tasted the blood that seeped into his mouth, mixing with my cream to coat his tongue and slide in a sensual stream down his throat.
His voice rumbled around a murmur of pleasure so great he fought the urge to thrust against the bedding and spend himself.
I wasn’t nearly as strong. My body exploded, writhing against his mouth, anchored only by the hand thrust deep inside my body.
As waves of pleasure rushed over him, I understood at last the hunger that drove him. His heart slowed, his body warmed with the infusion of blood. Strength renewed, he disengaged his fangs and laved the tiny wounds he’d made, closing them completely.
When he lifted his head to catch my glance, I opened my arms.
He scooted quickly up my body, his cock sliding home inside my slick, silken walls. I wrapped myself around him, holding him tight against my body, sharing my warmth, my sex, my stolen passions with him.
He thrust three times, and then groaned loudly in my ear. His cum bathed my channel in creamy heat. He continued to rock against me for long moments afterward.
When I could form words again, I asked, “So why were you so angry with me for being there with her?”
“You don’t know?” he murmured against my shoulder. He lifted his head and sighed. “When you were drawing on her lust, you pulled me along with you. I felt everything she did. Heard everything you thought. When I bit her, I was offering you a gift.”
“And I refused your gift. Sorry, I didn’t understand what you wanted from me.”
He cupped my face between his hands. “You do now.” Again, his gaze, so dark and intense, held mine.
I dragged in a shaky breath. He’d touched me, deep inside, where no one ever had. He understood what I was, and wasn’t freaked.
Then again, he was something special, too. “I still don’t know your name.”
One side of his beautiful mouth lifted in a wry grin. “Don’t you know everything that’s important?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m a woman. I want shoe sizes, cell and home phone…”
“Birth date and social security number…”
“Do you have one?”
“Of course. I don’t spend all my time lurking on women’s balconies.”
“Darn.”
His thumb slid across my lower lip. “Want me to lurk on yours?”
I licked the pad of his thumb and wrinkled my nose. “You have an open invitation.”
His nostrils flared and his cock twitched where it lay tucked between my legs. Soon, he’d know everything there was to know about loving a succubus.
Maybe this was the start of something. Had I found a friend? Someone to share my isolation?
I sighed, content for now to share my bed, my blood, my passion with him. But just maybe, I’d found a love of my own.
Soul Strangers
EDEN BRADLEY
THE WARM WATER OF THE GULF OF MEXICO SWIRLS around her ankles, soothing the weariness from her bones. It had been a long drive down from Corpus Christi to Veracruz. She hadn’t meant to stop here, hadn’t really known where she was going; simply going was the important part.
She had wanted to be alone, and here she is, surrounded by the solitude of a nearly empty beach, populated only by a few strangers. And since they are strangers, they don’t matter, don’t intrude.
She has been entirely alone for three days—on the drive, then wandering this beach, taking short swims, sleeping in her hotel room. The room is really a small cottage on the beach, the sand coming right to her door, where she has to wipe her feet with a towel before going inside. Still, sand is scattered over the worn tile floor, buried deeply in the fibers of the colorful woven rugs.
The place smells of the sea, and a little of mildew and something faintly dark and exotic. She doesn’t mind. She loves the scent, even the undertone of mildew; it reminds her that she’s far from home, from her life. The bed, which is perhaps a bit too soft, cradles her as she sleeps at night and during her frequent daytime naps. She has been sleeping endlessly in her room here on the beach. Still, she’s tired. Her limbs are filled with a languid heaviness she cannot shake. Nothing seems to energize her—not the brilliant Mexican sunsets, nor the endless hours of sleep, not even the power of the ocean.
What is it she needs?
She moves deeper into the blue-and-green water, looking out to sea where the late afternoon sun touches the tips of the waves in glinting bits of silver. The ocean surges, swells, caresses her knees, her hips, like the soft hands of a lover she has never known.
There is movement next to her and she turns to find a man standing nearby, waist-deep in water. All she can see of him is his torso, his head. Sunlight gleams off his wide, tanned shoulders, one of which is covered by an intricate tattoo, but she can’t make out the design. She can see the shadowed planes of a finely muscled back, a narrow waist.
Her body gives a surprising shiver. He turns, almost as though he is aware of her looking at him, and smiles brilliantly.
She smiles back and suddenly he is moving toward her. She can see now he has a striking face, one of those faces that is beautiful and masculine at the same time. His features are a bit irregular but his jaw is strong, his mouth lush and sensual. His eyes are the color of the earth, that same deep brown she finds when digging in her small garden at home. But she doesn’t want to think of home now. No, all she wants is to be here, watching this man.
His body is all hard-packed muscle and he moves with grace through the weight of the water. He pauses several feet away. But he is still close enough that she can make out the smooth texture of his skin. Her eyes are brought back to his tattoo, which she can now see is a tiger drawn against a background of tsunami waves in classic Japanese style. She finds herself wanting to touch it.
Water seems elemental to the moment. Except that he is all earth, this man. This stranger. And when he speaks, his voice is a deep rumble that is very much of the earth.
“You’re new here.”
It is a statement, yet she feels the urge to answer. He’s American and it seems the hospitable thing to do.
“I came the day before yesterday.”
He simply nods, moves in closer. She cannot take her eyes off him. When she does glance up, his gaze is focused on her face. The sun is glaring but she can see his eyes, dark and earthy, and they make her tremble inside.
Why does she feel as though he can see right through her?
She is suddenly very much aware of the water rushing like silk between her thighs as the waves surge, then retreat. The bare skin exposed by her turquoise bikini, the same shade as the ocean out beyond the waves, makes her feel naked beneath the stranger’s gaze.
She watches him. He licks his lips. She wants to kiss him so much her own mouth waters. He takes another step closer, until he is standing so near she swears she can smell the salt on his skin.
She doesn’t dare move, to break the spell of this moment. They are doing nothing more than watching one another. She doesn’t want to have to speak. Her whole body feels raw with yearning. She just wants to touch his skin; she doesn’t want to think about why.
A wave rolls in, splashing against the small of her back. With his elemental gaze still locked on hers, she can imagine it is his hand that caresses the tender flesh there. And again, she feels as though he can see right into her, as though he knows who she is deep inside.
“Swim with me,” he says.
They splash out into the waves, and he dives through them, coming up dripping, like some fantastical merman. But he is some fantasy creature. Her mind is making up stories about him already—erotic stories, sensual daydreams. His hands all over her naked skin, on her breasts, between her thighs. His
mouth on hers, moving over her flesh…
She dips below the water to cool off. When she surfaces, smoothing her long brown hair from her face, he is right there. He puts a hand on her arm, just a small feathering of fingers she can barely feel, yet it goes through her like an electric shock. Her nipples come up hard beneath the wet fabric of her bikini. Her sex goes warm. She wants him to touch her again.
She moves closer, letting the waves bring her right up against him. His body is every bit as hard and strong as it looks. And his solid erection presses into the soft flesh of her belly.
In her mind is one word: Yes.
His hand grasps her shoulder, slides down her arm, and the next wave crushes them together, her breasts pressing against his hard chest. She looks up, sees his mouth, wants to kiss him still. And as though reading her mind, he lowers his head and his mouth comes down on hers.
His lips are lovely, soft, salty with the ocean. When he parts her lips and slides his tongue inside, she melts all over. Her sex grows molten with need, and she kisses him back, hungry for whatever he offers. He fills her mouth; his tongue is hot, wet. She needs more.
Pulling away, she presses her lips to his neck, slides her tongue down his throat and hears a small moan from him. Her body pulses in response. Moving her mouth, she licks the tattooed skin of his shoulder, swirls her tongue over the design there. Salt—the salt of sweat and of the sea. And something else, something almost sweet, vanilla-like, beneath the salt. Something which is simply a part of him. His hands go into her hair, his fingers curling, but he lets her move freely.
She pulls back to see the landscape of his body, the angles and curves of him. Reaching out to touch him, she finds his nipples hard beneath her fingers. She wants to pull them, one at a time, into her mouth, and she does, while the strength of the ocean moves them around.
His hands slide down her sides and slip beneath her bathing suit top. Finding her nipples with his fingertips, he caresses, pulls, teases, until her sex is throbbing with heat. She moves back to his mouth, licks his lower lip, takes it into her mouth, sucks on it. He pinches her nipples, hard, and she breathes out, “Touch me.”
His arm comes around her waist, pulling her into his body. His hand snakes down between them, beneath the water, pushes aside the edge of her bikini bottom. And delves inside, finding her swollen folds. She can hardly stand it, his touch, the warm rush of the water, the heady scent of him in her nostrils. He moves his fingertips over her clitoris, which is hard and alive and needy. He begins to rub.
She is aching, nearly hurting. Reaching beneath the water, she pulls his engorged cock from his trunks and is thrilled with the size and the weight of it. And even more with the feel of the heavy steel ring embedded just below the head. Immediately fascinated, she runs her fingertips over the cool metal, playing with the ring, tugging on it a little.
She strokes him in cadence with his hand between her thighs. He is guiding her legs with his free hand now, wrapping them around his waist, so that he is holding her, weightless, in the water.
Sensation builds. Blood pounds through her veins, her pulse beating into his mouth where it is sucking on the flesh of her throat. Her sex beats in time, a low, thrumming rhythm, matched by his pulsing cock in her hand. She loves the way he fills her palm, that she can barely wrap her fingers around him. But she doesn’t want him inside her yet. She wants them to come into each other’s hands first.
When he pushes a thumb inside her she almost loses it. She grasps his cock tighter, strokes harder, hangs on until she hears him moan again, feels his body tensing all over. She moves her hips into his hand, trembles as he presses onto her clit, taking her up and over the edge. Pressure is building inside her, like a vessel filled to overflowing. He moves his hand faster. Pleasure swims through her veins, through her head, overtaking her. And as her orgasm washes over her, she pumps his cock, feeling the hot rush as he comes into her palm. She shakes with the force of it, thrusts her hips, presses harder into his fingers. And he doesn’t stop, stays with her, while her sex clenches, while pleasure arcs through her sex, through her body.
Her hand is sticky with his come, but soon the cleansing ocean water washes it away, leaving her feeling a little sad. She clings to him, her sex still pulsing and warm, her breath a ragged panting in her own ears.
And all around them, the ocean moves to its own eternal rhythm.
With his fingers, he wipes her wet hair from her face. Such a tender move from a stranger, but with his softening cock still in her hand, he is hardly a stranger, is he?
They stay together in the water, letting the ocean rock them, her head against his chest, until the sky begins to streak with pink and amber. Neither seems to want to let go, to end the experience.
Finally he asks her, “Are you tired?”
“No, not tired at all.” And for the first time in days, she realizes this is true. She feels the energy in her body like a banked fire he has sparked to life.
He is quiet a moment, then he whispers, so softly she can barely hear him above the pounding of the surf, the call of ocean birds, “Take me to your room.”
She looks up at him, nods her head. Slowly, she unwraps her body from his, uncoiling like a long strand of seaweed, the tension gone from her body. She feels a sense of release. And yet, a new and exquisite tension is building simply from the soft tone of his voice in her ear. At the implication of what might lie ahead tonight.
He takes her hand and follows her out of the sea. On the beach, she grabs her towel from the sand, her straw hat, the book she brought along to read, but which she wasn’t able to concentrate on.
Together they move across the sand. At the door to her room she turns to look at him. His skin is beaded with water, the tips of his short, light brown hair still dripping. She offers her towel to him. He takes it, but rather than drying himself he smoothes the towel over her skin: her shoulders, down her arms, across her stomach. When he kneels to dry her calves, moving up her thighs, her sex gives a hard squeeze.
Yes…
In a moment he is on his feet again, roughly rubbing himself dry. He lifts his chin, motioning for her to open the door. She pauses, and he smiles at her.
His smile is brilliant, radiant. As beautiful as the rest of him.
She turns the knob, opens the door and they slip inside. She drops her hat and her book on a small painted table. He moves past her, looks around, then drapes the damp towel over the back of a chair. She shivers a little in the cooler air of the cottage, watching him move, the sleek motion of hard-packed muscle.
She takes a step toward him.
“Wait,” he tells her. “I want to look at you. To watch you for a moment.”
She stops, waits. He runs a hand down his stomach, over that narrow trail of dark hair leading from his navel and into the band of his black and red trunks. Yes, she wants to see him as well, wants to see his naked flesh, his pierced cock. Her nipples are going hard once more, the lips of her sex filling, swelling.
When he presses a hand to the front of his trunks, she can clearly see the outline of his hardening cock beneath the wet fabric.
Oh, yes…
And then he slips his trunks off and stands before her, naked. His body is a marvel, all hard muscle and smooth, tanned skin. His cock is so beautiful, her hands ache to touch it. Her sex aches with the need to feel him inside of her. And the wicked metal ring glinting in the dying sun coming through the shuttered windows.
Her throat goes dry. Her sex goes wet. She squeezes her thighs together.
“Your turn,” he says.
With his dark eyes on her, she brings her hands up to cup her breasts through her bathing suit top; she cannot wait for his touch. Her nipples are so hard they hurt. His eyes are riveted to her hands moving over her breasts, and she moves the triangles of blue fabric aside, squeezes her nipples, tugs on them, pleasure burrowing deep into her system. Everything is amplified by his brown eyes on her, by the lust clear on his face.
He moan
s softly. Whispers, “Beautiful.”
It has been a long time since she’s felt beautiful. But now, with him, she does. And it is a sort of relief she can’t explain, even to herself, whispering beneath the desire.
But she doesn’t need to think now. She only needs to feel.
Pulling her bikini top off, she keeps her gaze on him. His mouth has gone soft, his eyes glittering. And he is stroking his cock, his fingers moving lightly over that rigid flesh.
She has never seen anything hotter in her life.
She slides her bikini bottoms over her hips, steps out of them, takes one step closer to him. He moves toward her, stops a foot or two away.
“Touch yourself for me,” he demands.
She smiles, feathers her fingers over her nipples once more before moving lower, brushing her mound. When she slips two fingers over her cleft she is soaking wet, slippery, like the sea. She can still hear it, smell that tang of salt in the air. And it is all a part of the moment—the sea moving and surging, the scent in the air. It is the power of the ocean and he is the earth, and between them is fire, building, burning.
“Put your fingers inside yourself,” he tells her, and she does it, spreading her thighs a little and dipping into that wet, waiting hole.
Pleasure moves through her, at her own touch, at his dark gaze on her. At the way he takes a gasping breath and clamps his fingers over his beautiful cock.
He reaches out and takes her hand from between her thighs, raises it. His lips open and he takes her fingers into his mouth, the damp heat enveloping her.
This must be what his cock feels like, sliding into a woman. Sliding into her.
Her sex clenches.
“I need to feel you,” she tells him. “I need your hands on me. Your mouth. Your cock.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice low, full of smoke and need.
Her hand still in his, he leads her to the bed. The sheets are mussed from her nap earlier in the day, the pillows dented. He lays her down on her back and kneels over her. She shivers, waiting.