by Nikki Sex
Webb grabs my shoulders, effectively stopping my movements. He grasps me by my upper arms and pulls me to my feet.
“You feel incredible.” His voice is deep and husky; his words come out like a growl. “I won’t last. Tell me what you want.”
My breath comes fast and shallow. “Lie on the bed,” I somehow manage to say. “I want to be on top.”
“Christ, that sounds hot.”
A quick kiss, then he strides toward the bed, his fully erect cock pointing the way. Grinning, I follow close behind. When he notices I’ve already dragged the bedcovers down, he looks over his shoulder, his eyebrows arched in a question.
I smirk and shrug a kind of “guilty as charged” look.
He flashes me a wide grin back. I’m glad he didn’t seem to notice the box of condoms I left on the bedside table.
Webb hops up onto the sheets, lying down with a pillow under his head. When I climb on the bed and move toward him, he grabs me, both hands on my waist. With effortless strength, he lifts and swings me up on top of him.
I yip—a sound of surprised pleasure. My hungry core pulses with need. How freaking strong is this guy?
Goddamn, this masculine display is hot as hell. He makes me feel petite and feminine.
I straddle him with a thigh on each side. My slick, throbbing folds press against his shaft. He feels so good! My breasts feel full, heavy, and tender—my nipples hard and erect.
I grab a condom, rip the packet open, pinch the end, and roll it down the length of him. Mad with need, I still manage to keep my head. I’m immune to disease, but I don’t want him getting into bad habits.
See? Responsible sex—that’s what I’m about.
His eyes are half-lidded, darkened with lust. The muscles in his abdomen are tense. Hard and straining, his body trembles like a racehorse at the gate. Jaw clenched, he struggles and waits for me.
Urgent now, I burn with hunger. His big hands hold me, circling my waist as I rise above him. He hisses with pleasure when I grip him, and guide him inside. He thrusts up as I push down on him hard.
Yes! The stretch and exquisite burning fullness of him!
His cock, his energy, and his need fill me. He’s thick, hard, and he feels incredible. I cry out with a rush of power.
I grip his shoulders and surge up and down on his stiff length. I savor the joy of being on top where I can position him against my sweet spot. Our hearts drumming in sync with each other, I ride his power as I ride him—with fast, frenzied strokes.
Sensitive to emotion, my demon reads Webb the same as he reads me. Instinctively, he locates Webb’s darkness, his pain, his shadows. My demon is the ultimate empath—he searches through feelings and memories for what hurts most. If I let him, he’d bring that greatest fear or pain to the fore, using it to torment his victims.
Happily, my inner monster knows better. He’s poles apart from normal demons.
As I ride Webb, I slide my hands under my long, wavy red hair. Sure, it’s a wig, but it’s an expensive one. I raise my arms above my head and arch back while holding my locks up so he has the full erotic view.
Close to completion, I quicken my pace. His gaze locked to my breasts, Webb’s forceful thrusts contribute to our intense dance. I’m on the knife-edge of orgasm—he is, too, but I don’t want this to end.
Still deep inside me, Webb unexpectedly yanks me forward, down on top of him, crushing me against his torso. I give a small yip of surprise when he flips me over. Now he’s on top of me, his chest rough and delicious against my aching breasts. I welcome his weight, so firm and constraining.
His mouth captures mine, his cock hammers inside of me. The force of his thrust presses me into the mattress, making the headboard slam against the wall. I couldn’t care less.
“Yes! Harder!” I cry.
Our gaze locks. Tight lipped, his features twist as though he’s in pain. Webb’s eyes burn with passion at my determined command.
We both know I’ve given him consent to let go. Now he won’t hold back.
Bang. Bang. Bang. The bed rhythmically hits the wall as Webb savagely pounds himself into me, kissing me, swallowing my squeal of ecstasy. Quivering with the need to climax, I cling to him, concentrate, and try not to go over.
The ultimate high is to share this power simultaneously—to climax together. Only then will my demon fully feed.
Webb thrusts his engorged cock in and out, pumping with ferocious vigor. He’s relishing every second. It’s as though it’s the last day on earth, maybe his last few moments.
His chest rises and falls, his nostrils flare. His breath is as ragged as my own.
Unstoppable. Imminent. Something huge builds between us, coiling…straining to let go.
It’s power. It’s magic. It’s delicious…and it’s mine.
I feel him swell inside, his entire body stiffens. Webb grunts with one last violent thrust, and releases.
Power spills from his essence, his throbbing cock, his hungry need, his body, heart, and soul. I allow myself to drop my formidable defenses, to finally let go of control. I’ve trained my demon not to take, but to delight in accepting only what is freely given.
Mindless, I’m all instinct and animal as we climax together. Writhing, pulsing, jerking, I moan in ecstasy as he cries out. My core rhythmically clenches hard, milking every drop.
Time stops as everything I am disappears. The torturous agony of being filled with power makes me delirious with sensation. Excruciating pleasure rolls through me—so extreme that my nerve endings register the intense sensation nearly as pain.
The moment is wondrous for both of us.
This is a perfect transfer of power—more than a fair exchange. The darkness that colored Webb’s soul lifts, brightening his aura with pure energy.
Shocked, I recognize the metaphysical flavor of this power. As I taste it, I’m reminded of the toddler earlier today as he crawled into the light.
What the hell just happened? Has Webb absorbed some of the magic we received from that heavenly realm?
If so, good for him. With the power he’s given us, we’re both more than happy to share.
Chapter 12. When is a Ghost Not a Ghost?
Webb is still unconscious with a smile on his face as I quietly close the door to our room. It’s after midnight and lightly raining by the time I finish my shower and leave the hotel. I make a dash for the car, grinning all the way. I’m happy, supercharged with energy, and deliciously sore in all the right places—in all the best ways.
My demon and I did something to Webb. Something good.
I never discount the effect of hormones and genetics. Webb is a man. His body is programmed for sex.
What does that mean? It means subsequent to sexual release, his mood improves. For men, no matter how depressed they are, one hot screw and life is suddenly worth living. As a result, I left Webb high as a kite...right before he passed out.
That was typical and expected.
How then, did I inadvertently remove the shadows of sadness, confusion, and pain from the aura of his soul? His darkness vanished completely by the time I left.
He was restored by my demon.
My demon has healed me physically and mentally countless times. One good magical energy feed can pretty much fix anything short of death. We’ve never healed anyone else. This is a first.
The joy of doing something so right leaves my inner friend and me buzzed. The sexual afterglow I’m experiencing doesn’t hurt either. If you could plug me in at this moment I figure I could light up New York City.
I open my car door, hop in, and give my dog a goofy grin. Toby slants me a disapproving look.
I laugh. “Oh, get over it, pooch. Honestly? I think you’re jealous. I’m definitely going to find you a girl dog in heat. Maybe if you get some, that’ll sort—”
“Excuse me.” A soft, male voice interrupts, a tentative whisper in my mind. “Can you please help me?”
These unexpected words are followed by the appear
ance of a barely luminous image. It appears to be the dully shimmering figure of a teenage boy. It’s not quite a ghost—not yet, anyway—but he’s close.
Shit, is he dying?
My heart jumps into my throat. My initial reaction is a split second of full-blown panic—
—then, purposeful activity takes over. Through years of experience, nearly instantly, I force myself to remain calm, to focus.
One thing about being long-lived is it gives one the ability to more easily face a tragedy. When I was young, my first disasters seemed like the end of the world. After surviving famine, war, loss, injuries, and certain death, I learned to deal calmly with unpleasantness—to react with composure, so my demon never gets the wrong idea.
I focus on the not-yet-ghost, send my question mentally and out loud: “Where is your body?”
His pale face registers shock and surprise. “No one could hear me, but you hear me.”
“Yes,” I reply evenly. “I can see you, too. Where is your body?”
The near-ghost pauses, hesitating to tell me.
“It’s OK. What’s wrong?”
Again, he doesn’t answer. Frightened and vulnerable—this fading boy is attempting to camouflage how he feels. Is this some self-serving instinct? Or is it due to lack of trust? What is he hiding?
I can read ghosts really well—I sense their emotions. Demons are incredibly acute when it comes to reading people, too. It’s the empathy thing, and why they excel at torture.
Over the years, with practice, I’ve been able to virtually feel what a human or supernatural feels. It’s extremely useful for figuring out a person’s motives. The more desperate the situation, the more I seem able to read someone.
This kid surprises me. Whatever has happened to him is near-death bad, yet despite his troubles, I’m stunned to realize his hesitation isn’t about him. He’s reluctant to burden and upset me.
Shit.
The young man’s behavior awakens every protective maternal instinct I didn’t know I had. He’s halfway to crossing over—but there’s such innate goodness in him. My impulse is to bask in that goodness.
I force myself to speak with composure. “What’s your name?”
“Owen Tremblay.”
“Pleased to meet you, Owen. I’m Jan. Now, how about you show me where your body lies.”
“This way.”
The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle. I start my car, put it in drive, turn on the windshield wiper, and ease the accelerator, following him in a slow crawl. My new friend moves down an alley and stops.
I park the car as close as possible, open my door, grab my stun gun and medical kit. Toby leaps out, instantly and eagerly speeding off in pursuit. He’s not a barker, thank God. I need to slip in as quietly as possible.
“Over here.” The dying boy’s voice echoes in my mind.
Preternaturally alert, I allow my senses to heighten, attentive to danger. I don’t feel paranormal energy near—except the deep-well of shifter power I noticed previously, somewhere due north.
My skin prickles unpleasantly.
Something isn’t right. The wrongness is tangible. Is this part of last night’s terrible dream? If so, I can’t see it. What I can perceive are the fading scents of a vampire and a werewolf. How odd. My pulse quickens. There are sticky tar remnants of dark magic in the air.
Bad magic. Black magic.
Metaphysical events, such as the raising of power, leaves a distinct residue behind. Every type of magic is unique, but my demon and I can usually identify it.
At times, the afterglow from a spell creates a tingly sensation down my spine, an entrancing taste or a smell. More often, magic slowly announces its arrival with a sensation, such as sudden cold or heat—a queasy feeling or a growing itch that won’t stop.
Sometimes the residue from magical power hits me like a slap in the face. Once I was even slammed into an unexpected orgasm. More commonly, however, I experience an invisible caress from natural energy—like when I’m near a powerful shapeshifter or vampire.
This black magic leaves a burning, bitter aftertaste. Anything repugnant pleases my demon. For me its evil darkness knots my stomach and turns my body cold.
My inner beast vibrates with excitement—conscious of something powerful, something delicious nearby. Death, pain, torture—it’s in his nature. He lusts after all sensation; the stronger the better.
I clench my jaw. Oh, joy, I tell myself contemptuously, because I know I’m going to simultaneously love and hate this gory scene, while my demon will passionately embrace it.
I can’t embrace it.
That’s how I know I’m still mostly human.
A popular psychological theory suggests humans strive for internal consistency. Cognitive dissonance is the discomfort experienced when a person feels two or more opposing beliefs or feelings at the same time.
An example might be not wanting to smoke for health reasons, but continuing to enjoy tobacco because you find it soothing. Or deciding it’s wrong to yell at your spouse, but discovering real pleasure in letting your partner have it. Kind of like poking at a sore tooth with your tongue—you know it will hurt, but you can’t stop.
To a greater or lesser degree, most days I run into this dilemma with my inner demon. When it comes to these situations, I slam into my own cognitive dissonance problem at full speed—I’m talking heart rending, bone breaking, face-first hard.
Here it comes. This is definitely going to be one of those times.
“Something terrible happened to my sister and me,” the near-ghost says as I catch my first glimpse of the bloodbath.
Life is full of meaningless tragedies. This is clearly one of them. Shocked, my breath explodes out of me as if from a body blow to the chest. I have to keep my shit together—but damn.
My, my, my, what a mess.
The scene is dimly lit by shadowy streetlights in the distance. Lying in an overflow of trash beside a green commercial dumpster, two barely clothed bodies have been discarded like garbage. Even with a shroud of darkness, I sense vast quantities of blood…I smell it…feel it…taste it.
Hunger blooms from the center of my being. Lust burns low in my body like an open flame. As if tipped from a pitcher, images from my past pour into my head, my thoughts, my mind. A rush of feelings cascades through me.
Hunger joins nausea.
Joy links with sorrow.
Rapture—wild and euphoric—combines with haunting despair.
Despite my knowledge and experience, this kind of carnage is hard to face. How can I feel both delight and disgust at exactly the same time? My responses revolt me.
It’s the story of my life.
Chapter 13. Resisting Temptation
A fog of potent energy surrounds me. So much unused power! All of it readily available—just waiting to be eaten. My demon tempts me while my entire body heats with desire.
I hear myself thinking, if we don’t hurry, it will go to waste.
I sway, feeling a bit woozy—weak with waves of pleasure. The taste of two dying bodies combined with the tingling energy of souls soon to pass rolls through my senses.
Wounds. Blood. Flesh.
I ride through my reactions: sensual arousal, curiosity, hunger, bloodlust. As a person, I’m appalled and disgusted. Such brutality is ugly and abhorrent. Yet my demon rejoices, reaching powerful heights of rapture from witnessing the massacre. I ride his exuberant power boost with him.
Near death. Delicious. Yum.
After all of these years, my demon and I are so entwined. I can’t tell where I stop, and he begins.
My hands clench tightly on the medical bag and my stun gun. I curb my desire to roll in the blood, to lick the victims’ wounds, and to absorb the delicious psychic power draining from them.
All of this happens in less than one heartbeat.
Fiercely and thoroughly, I suppress all emotion. Like slamming shut a thick metal door, I lock down thoughts of feeding. I block sensation and disconnect
from feeling.
Upset, Toby whines while my demon basks in this butchery.
“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter firmly under my breath to my inner friend. “You’re not hungry—we just had a big meal. Let me deal with this.”
I shield my demon as much as possible. He’s an obedient child, despite his urgent desire to throw himself into the slaughter. Whatever will I do the day he disobeys me?
I quickly check pulses. Bruised, torn, battered, and bleeding; their hearts beat fast and thready due to blood-loss. Cold and clammy, they both take low, shallow breaths.
They’re in shock. Yet no major arteries have been touched. Strange. Why were they left alive? Why was their blood and flesh wasted?
Over the years, I’ve learned how to differentiate common assault from a supernatural attack. This violence is supernatural…and unnatural.
Unheard of, in fact.
A vampire and werewolf worked together to do this. Impossible! Even more bizarre—the shifter and vampire both bit their prey using human teeth. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it before.
“We need help,” the boy says, as if I’m unaware of his plight. His deep green eyes are wide and trusting.
Kindness. Patience. Concern for others—his innate goodness shines like a beacon in a storm. Despite his desperate circumstances, the fact he’s near death, he doesn’t demand my assistance.
This unexpected courtesy works as a balm, pleasing my demon and easing my tension. Frowning, I caress his human aura, sensing the taste of him. His temperament has no rough, aggressive edges. It’s a gentle, soothing wave.
Male submissive. Perfect…if he lives.
Wolf packs are full of annoyingly dominant personalities. Without a strong alpha, they literally tear each other apart. Male or female, submissives in a pack are calming, rare, and sought after.
I must make some swift decisions. What am I going to do with these two kids?
“Will you help us?” he asks.
I manage to keep my mouth shut on my instinctive reply.