Succubae

I opened my door to him wiping his rain-soaked glasses on his cravat. His hair, damp and slick, swept over his temples like wings.

How beautiful he is. And how lost.

A smile cuts across his lips. "I came halfway 'round the world hoping you'd ached for me a little."

When I kiss him, an uncontained ferocity struggles out of me, pushing him up against the wall. I imagine the quiet shift of bones against the unrelenting sharp edges of unfinished brick. His pulse beats like quicksilver, and I don't miss how he shudders, just a little, when I press tightly against him, scraping my teeth on the sensitive skin over his jugular. I'm wrapped up in the tempo of his blood flowing, the pleasurepain osmosing through flesh. I want to see him shatter and pierce my hands on the splintered shards. I want my name smeared carmine-ripe on his mouth.

I've always been warned of men like him - the ones that drive you mad, suck you dry, steal your breath, twist you up beautifully until you're no longer a lily-white plane of smooth girl-flesh. He's the stuff of fractured fairytales, and at that moment I wasn't springtime and candy and the girl you'd take home to mother. I fucking love it, love him. He understands me, perhaps.

I take what I want, just as he'd always wanted me to.