Two
BPOV
My eyes close, straining to keep them there.
I hold my breath, savoring the burn as it twists inside me, pleading with my mind to seek out the smell, to quench the need.
Over the two-hundred years of my existence, I have never killed a human.
Sure, I have taken a bite or two, drunk from past lovers in the midst of sexual ecstasy; oh, how sweet a lover's blood is, nectar dripping with life and pleasure.
But never has a human died by my hands; never by my selfish need to sink my razor-sharp teeth into their soft, buttery skin and share in their blood.
I always looked at what they did as a gift to me.
Each lover satisfied in their own mind with what I am, what they thought I might be; secure in giving their body to me, the joining of flesh. I can't help it if they are lured to my wilds, stunned with a sudden want to give into their every desire.
Succubus, you have been eager to please them as well.
Yes. I cannot deny that I enjoy lust, passion and most of all, company of a warm body.
Thump. Thump.
My thoughts steel, holding as they willingly focus on the sound.
A heartbeat.
Blood.
Pumping.
The liquid running through this creature, filling their body with life while they torture my will into caving.
Thump. Thump.
Then, as I start to control, to focus on something else, the pulse increases.
Thump. Thump.
My eyes fly open, but my grip tightens, the iron in my hands crushed by the force of my hands. My eyes search, the pulse a beacon.
Standing at the bar, a young man, his skin flush, the blood surfacing, flowing.
Thump. Thump.