Happy birthday. You’re about to become a succubus.
Professor Weston Ryans has known Clarice since her days as one of his students. Though now they are nothing more than friendly colleagues, he clearly recalls her enthusiasm, her wit, and the litany of sinful things he wanted to do with her after hours. After catching her with her nylons around her ankles, he decides to smooth things over, but ends up hearing his favorite former student is the bargaining piece in a demon contract. And Weston knows something about demon contracts—he lost his father to one.
Suddenly everything is thrown into question. Clarice is about to change, but she doesn’t believe it. Weston is determined to help, but he doesn’t know how, and the clock is ticking. Yet when the transformation starts, Clarice finds herself hungry for one thing…and Weston is happy to cater to her needs.
Excerpt
“Well ... I dunno, but that’s kinda what I tell myself.” A long breath rolled through Weston’s lips. “And your soul is not being ripped away. You’re becoming something else.”
“A succubus.”
“That’s right.”
“A being that likes sex.”
“Feeds off sex,” he clarified. “You’ll need it to survive.”
“Yeah, yeah. Do I at least get to like it?”
“I’d hope so.”
Clarice crossed her arms and sat back. “She said it’s supposed to start soon, you know. The transformation. Didn’t you just say a succubus drains the life outta anyone they ... you know.” She gestured crudely. “Fuck?”
“Depends on the succubus,” Weston said, pointing at the open page before him. “Human hybrids operate like vampires, though, so ... yes. You’ll pretty much sap whoever you ... umm, fuck.”
Clarice wet her lips. It likely wasn’t the best time to mention that talking about sex, even in casual reference, had done things to her libido it ought not. She wasn’t twelve years old and she had enough sensibility about sex not to become a panty-throwing, swooning teenage type at the mere mention. Yet the second the word dropped off Weston’s tongue, something in her gut stirred, and a small shock tickled her clit.
Oh, not good.
“The life?” she whispered, wiggling in her seat. “I don’t wanna be responsible for ... you know, draining life. And Pixley said it was going to start almost immediately.”
“The transformation.”
“Yes.”
Weston met her eyes again, and a spark of heat singed through her body. Clarice squirmed once more, doing her best to ignore the sudden warmth in her skin and the moisture pooling between her legs. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
The power of suggestion was not to be underestimated. No way just talking about sex could make her...
Another rush of heat crashed and she had her answer. Her skin burned and she felt positively drenched between her thighs. Hot, aching, and in desperate need of contact. At once all her senses kicked in, and her nostrils flooded with the scent of woods and leather, of aftershave and ... Weston.
“Damn.”
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Weston said.
“I kill who I fuck. Define not bad?”
“Who said kill? I never said kill.”
“You said sap. What does that mean if not kill?”
“Sap? Pretty much means sap.”
“Like the stuff in trees?”
Weston growled, and the sound did little more than make her insides tingle. “No,” he barked. “I mean you’ll ... it’s like a battery. Say we were to—”
“Fuck?” she coughed.
“Have sex,” he clarified, as though the terminology mattered.
Her body was primed and ready to jump across the table, tear his pants down his legs, impale itself on his hard cock, and ride him like a bronco.
Clarice coughed, shoving the seat back and springing to her feet. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.”
Weston stood, as well. “Well, I’m not suggesting we have sex. I’m just saying if we did, you wouldn’t kill me. Not in this state. I’d just be a little useless for a while.”
A warm, naked, Weston stretched across her mattress. Clarice’s knees about buckled, her hands shaking and the heat between her legs almost too much to bear the strain of walking. “My God...”
“What?”
“I think you should leave.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t know how much of this I can take.”
“How much of what you can take?”
“I pretty much want all of it.”
Weston blinked. “All of what?”
“What I can take.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”
Another wave washed over her. Clarice lost her footing and went sailing to the floor, her back crashing against the wall. “Shit!”
“Shit,” Weston echoed, tripping over his feet to help her up.
If he touched her, it was all over. Clarice held up a hand. “You stay there.”
“Where?”
“Back. Just over there. And don’t talk about sex.”
“Don’t...” It took a moment, but understanding finally dawned in Weston’s eyes. Understanding followed by something she could only identify as masculine pride. “Why, Ms. St. Clair...”
God, the things the man did with his voice. Was he trying to get her...
Clarice’s eyes narrowed. “Just stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Talking. Standing close. Being alive in my apartment. Go be alive somewhere else.”
Weston shrugged. “Seems you don’t have much of a choice if you wanna survive the next two days. You need sex. So take it from me.”
Something itched the back of her throat. She flexed her fingers and worked her neck from side to side. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Sure I do,” he said, grinning one of those grins that made the coeds go weak-kneed, and she was no exception. “Take it from me.”
The tickling sensation matured into an inhuman growl, one that seemed to seize the walls and floors and consume all in a cloud of hot, aching need. In all her years she’d never felt at all out of control. Not once. Not even the few times she drank until the room grew fuzzy or took a hit off her friend’s funny-looking cigarette. Now, though, now all sense of command she possessed had simply vanished.
If he didn’t run, she’d take him. And she wouldn’t show mercy.
“I’ll sap you,” she said, though the words came out more as a sultry purr than the warning she’d intended.
“No, you won’t. You’re still young in the transformation.”
“How ... ahhh, how do you know these things?”
“Years of study.” Weston was suddenly up close, his chest pressed against her small breasts. A trembling breath rolled off Clarice’s lips, pangs of longing shooting down her diminutive resistance. “It’s me or it’s someone else, and I know what I’m getting into.”
“I don’t.”
“I’ll guide you.”
Whatever she wanted to say, if there had been anything aside from a mixture of vowels and consonants to form actual words, disappeared the second his mouth descended upon hers. No more fighting. She surrendered, her body both weak with desire and surging with strength that felt too good to question, but similarly nothing like anything she’d ever touched. Whether it was the rush of the moment or his kiss, she didn’t know, but one touch, one hint of what she could have, had her convictions checked at the door. He was warm, inviting, tasted of coffee and cinnamon, and she wanted to devour him whole.
Coming April 30 from Liquid Silver Books.
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