A/N: So, I said I'd try my hand at the rescue-from-bad-guys-down-a-dark-alley scene. But my succubus is stronger than a human, so if the threat were regular men there would be nothing to save her from. Except maybe herself?
Deştepta
Pairing: E/B endgame
Rating: It's about a goddamn succubus, do you have to ask?
Setting: College AU vaguely following the Twilight storyline
All standard disclaimers apply
It's Friday night, and Bella is pissed. At herself. At the world. Mostly at Edward Cullen.
Does he deserve it? Probably not, she admits. At least, not at the level of her current mood. But he's not here, so she feels free to blame everything on him, whether he deserves it or not. Fucking moody, crankypants vampire.
She's upset for many reasons. First, because it's Friday night and she's alone, prowling the cramped space of her little apartment like a caged panther at the zoo. Back and forth from the nearly-empty living room to the messy bedroom she paces, one window to the other. She's not used to being alone, and she hates it. Oh, she's lived alone plenty—in fact, she does most of the time. But she rarely ever is alone, and that's what she's having trouble reconciling tonight.
Though Bella refuses to admit it, she's feeling maybe the teeniest bit sorry for herself right now. Loneliness is alien to her, something she avoids at all cost. But it's what she's feeling as she stands in the middle of her bedroom, staring at the old twin-sized bed with the saggy mattress stolen from campus. It's not big enough to fuck even one wolf on; when her boys come to see her, they use the floor. Or the walls. Virtually any surface except the one she sleeps on.
She's hungry now—famished, in fact, as memories of Edward's mouth devouring her cunt flash through her mind, vivid as the flame they kindle within. She wants him back, wants the bleak desperation in his hungry black eyes, the way he stares at her exactly like she's something to eat, the answer to both his every wet dream and every waking nightmare. He loathes her for what she does to him, she knows he does. He can take his frustration out on her body—she's more than willing to let him. In fact, she wishes he would. Running away and keeping his distance is a far worse torture than any physical punishment could be. He's stronger than her? Fine. So is Sam. She still wants that cold body covering hers, hard and implacable as granite, insatiable as the tide.
But no. He had to disappear instead, keeping her grumpy and wanting, refusing to give in to the pleasure she could bring him if only he'd let her. He can have everything—her body, her blood, the ultimate bliss—but he has to have the courage to come back and take it. She'll do booty calls no problem, but not to fucking Alaska. She chases no cock through the goddamn tundra.
Sam's on her list, too. He's being an ass, keeping his pack on patrol at all hours, all the wolves operating on a rigid timetable of classes, guarding, eating, and sleeping, which makes it very difficult for Bella to feed. She's fairly sure that's not his intention, but she's pissed about it anyway. Yes, Sam is worried about the reports and sightings of non-Cullen vampires hanging around the college town and greater Seattle. Yes, humans have been going missing at a rate even the clueless human authorities have taken note of. She understands all of that. This is Sam's territory, and he is a wolf. It's both his nature and function to protect his turf. But he's severely cramping her style and putting the rest of his pack in terrible moods besides.
On top of that, Alice wasn't in swim class yesterday. She sent Bella a text apologizing, explaining that the glorious sunny autumn day meant she and her family couldn't show their faces on campus. Bella couldn't even head to their house for some much-needed downtime, because all the Cullens apparently decided to go hunting on the peninsula for a few days instead. Stupid vampires with their stupid thirst. Bella gets it—she needs to go hunting herself, in fact, since it looks like Sam's got all of his wolves working tonight. She's too hungry to put it off any longer, the need rising in her, making her grumpier and less rational than usual. Bad things happen when she goes without for too long, and she knows better than to risk it just because she's irritated that she can't have exactly what she wants. No Edward. No wolves. And she's fucking alone on a fucking Friday night, which makes no fucking sense at all.
Living alone usually doesn't bother her. She does it all the time. But tonight, for some reason, it's really, really getting to her. She wants someone around to fuck when she needs it, wants a body to curl up with, sated and relaxed, at the end of the night. Her wolves served those purposes perfectly. Why did Sam have to go and ruin everything by trying to box her in, give her rules he should have known she wouldn't obey? She doesn't blame Alice at all for planting the idea of moving out—that was inevitable from the moment Sam tried to order her around like one of his pack. She's not a wolf, and she doesn't take orders from any alpha. He should know better by now, but reasoning has never been one of his strong suits.
Fuck him. Fuck all of them: Sam, crankypants Edward, and all of the other wolves as well. And maybe the Cullens, too, for leaving her without even a friend to gripe with. She's hungry, and while she's kept to the pack since arriving here—the storm notwithstanding—she doesn't need to. Sam can't tell her what to do. If they're too busy to accommodate her, she can find her own damn meal. It's Friday night, and she should be out prowling the streets like the fucking succubus she fucking is.
Decided, she digs through the pile of clothes on the floor until she finds the tightest, shortest, sluttiest dress she owns—it's wine-red, edged with black lace, and way, way too much for a night out in a nice little college town on the outskirts of Seattle. She doesn't care. She's hungry, she's pissed, and the attention this will get her will fix both problems very, very quickly. She usually doesn't bother with makeup but tonight she applies it heavily, especially around her eyes, creating a masterpiece of dangerous, shadowed beauty. She's a creature of the night, of darkness and danger, and as she straps a pair of heeled sandals to her feet she knows she looks the part. She intends to feed voraciously on everyone who sees her, every sidelong glance of envy and lust. Fuck Sam. Fuck Edward, too, for being a cowardly little pissant, so afraid of her that he ran away and stayed gone. He's been in Alaska for a week now. Alice promises he'll return when Bella needs him, but she's not the kind to sit around and wait for any man.
There are plenty of seedy little bars in a college town: Bella can more or less take her pick. She doesn't care about atmosphere or music, and she doesn't bother taking any ID with her at all. No one ever cards her. She drives the short distance from her apartment complex into downtown, a quaint little revitalized shopping hub by the waterfront. Stepping out into the darkness, she breathes in the night. It's cool, just the faintest trace of lingering warmth fighting a last battle with the crispness of fall. She can smell the Sound, salt and seaweed, but above the scents of nature and the night, what calls to her loudest, cascading over her senses like the rush of water over a dam, is the scent of human desire.
They sing to her, all the souls lingering nearby in bars and restaurants, others in the trendy condos above the shopping district, a few working out late at the corner gym. The sour, fermented scents of beer and wine spilling from open doorways mix in her nose with the aches beating red in every living heart. She can feel them all buzzing in her blood, the individual pulses of yearning. Mostly for sex, but around the edges of her gift she catches other needs as well: desires for food, companionship, money, power, security. She can sense hints of them all to varying degrees, but none call to her, whet her already famished appetite, like the bodily lusts of other souls. Her liquid-dark eyes dilate slightly and her painted lips part as she drinks in the scent. It pulls her as inevitably as gingerbread lures children to a witch's stoop.
The draw is strongest from a crowded Irish pub that opens onto the cobbled waterfront promenade. She steps inside with a knowing smirk for the fat man playing bouncer; he lets her pass without carding or hassling her. Inside, the place is dark, loud, and crammed with people. It smells like beer and bodies and heat. It's perfect.
Bella avoids the bar itself; she doesn't want to drink. Guinness can't give her a buzz and she's looking to sate a different sort of need tonight. She eyes the patrons, inhaling the smells of the bar through her nose and lips, rolling the flavors along the roof of her mouth like a big cat prowling the savanna, seeking prey. What she wants most in the world right now is the cold, sweet-sharp savor of Edward Cullen, the taste that sated her better than anything else she's ever tried, but he's not here and neither are her wolves.
It's fine. She's perfectly capable of hunting up her own meal. She samples the electricity in the air as she pushes through the crowd, seeking the brightest pulses of desire. They call to her like lit sparks, heady and sweet, crackling with energy.
Tiny as she is even in heels, eyes follow her every movement. A tight little body in a tight little red dress will do that. Paired with her fire, the invisible heat that ignites human senses in a riot of sparks, and they're easy pickings, ripe fruit just waiting for her to pluck. She feeds happily, recklessly, on the desire and envy that erupt from each individual who spots and responds to her. It's like a terrible game of one-upsmanship, their lust feeding her fire, urging the flame brighter and hotter, attracting yet more attention. Even envy has a savor of its own, tinged as it is with wants and desires.
She may be awkward as the hostess of a housewarming party, but here she's in her element. She prowls, her mood rapidly improving as she plays this fantastic, terrible game. She steps deliberately through the crowd, toying with the collective nature of it, the individual sparks within the whole. Some people step away, allowing her room to pass out of politeness or reverence. Others with less inhibition press close, especially the asshole men, and she feels more than one or two gropes that could be played off as accidents, though she knows the truth. And while she'd happily slap the hell out of any man she caught doing that to a woman who didn't want it, she's here tonight specifically for this. She dressed deliberately to encourage it, awful as that may sound. She's hungry, and it's likely going to be one of those overbearing assholes who gets first dibs because they're the easiest prey. After that, particularly if she intends to bring someone home with her, she'll be a little more discerning.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone on a Friday night?"
The man is tall and young—no doubt a student. Flat straw-colored hair falls in his eyes. He's sporting a mullet that's probably meant to be punk but just looks dated. Bella eyes him speculatively. Desire flows from him, but it's sullied by the overwhelming sour tang of too much alcohol. She can feel it, and see it in his eyes. She's starving and not feeling terribly picky right now, but she doubts this boy would be able to perform in his state, even with her. She has no wish to deal with the bruised ego of a drunk when he realizes he can't get it up.
"I love the music," she says as an excuse, which is a bald-faced lie. On the low stage at the back of the bar, a trio of men are murdering a traditional reel. Their drunk audience doesn't seem to care, the people closest to the stage clapping and stomping along out of rhythm. It's fucking annoying. Bella inhales one last taste of the first man to speak to her, then draws back into the crowd. She's too hungry to waste time on him. Instead, as her fire expands and tendrils of invisible flame press outward into the throng, she seeks the brighter, hotter sparks, the deeper wells of desire already alight. Like calls to like, and she could use a voracious, insatiable partner or three tonight.
The first spark she follows, when she catches sight of the body it belongs to, turns out to be a tall blond woman who reminds Bella a little of Rosalie Cullen. Not her face, but something about her proud bearing and give-no-fucks attitude is all Rosalie. She has a sexy undercut with a geometric design buzzed into the sides of her scalp, but she also has a person of indeterminate gender on her arm, so Bella passes. She has no use for a monogamous relationship, but she learned through much trial and error not to fuck with people in one. It causes drama, and she doesn't have time for that.
Skirting the left side of the stage, winding her way slowly through the crowd, Bella extends her senses for her next target. She can smell the sweat of the man sawing away at his fiddle, his boots level with her forearm. She admires his perseverance, if nothing else.
The presence of another hot spark stops Bella in her tracks as tendrils of her fire flit across it. She almost stumbles, the rowdy crowd near the stage steadying and supporting her. For a moment she's not sure at all what she's found. The heat of this desire is deeper than the blonde's, with an entirely different savor to it. It calls to her like a siren and she shoves through the crowd impatiently to find it. Fuck, she's so hungry, and it's making her a little bit irrational. There's something achingly familiar about that scent, though it's foreign, too, known and yet unknown, a mystery that sets her blood singing. As she nears its source her nostrils flare and her eyes dilate. This one's male, and he's hungry—fucking ravenous. For sex, yes, his bodily lust pulsing like the beat of her own heart, steadier than the rhythm of the music. But there's another hunger roaring loud, a deep, aching need, a smolder that might take an ocean to quench.
A large, happy drunk jumping to the beat of fiddle and bodhrán jostles her hard. Bella wobbles on her heels and almost goes down; he grabs her arm, apologizing profusely as he tries to steady them both. She laughs it off. He's bearded and adorable and if she weren't so intent on the dark lust pulsing nearby she'd absolutely tell him he could make it up to her in an alley or her car. As it is, she's too focused on the deep well she can feel radiating darkness and desire. There's a razor-sharp edge to it, flint and cold steel—danger. She hears the warning as clearly as she hears the lure.
Fuck, yes. She's willingly helpless in the thrall of both.
"Here kitty, kitty."
The voice is cold as ice. It burns with the frozen fire of a vampire's kiss. The very male drawl is low and soft, calm and deceptively pleasant. She can hear the omen in his undertone as clearly as a red light flashing. Her eyes snap up from where she was adjusting her dress…
...and meet the coldest, reddest gaze she's ever seen.
Vampire.
Bella is not stupid. Impulsive, yes. Reckless, absolutely. But not stupid. She knows perfectly well what she ought to do when she sees that blood-red stare. She should get the fuck out of there and call Sam to come take out the trash before any innocent humans get hurt. This isn't one of her sophisticated, domesticated Cullens. This is a demon with no semblance of restraint, no tethers to humanity holding him back. The Cullen family learned through practice and discipline how to keep their demons in check. The man before her? This one delights in the nightmare. She can smell it on him, see it in the cold glint of his bloody eyes.
She also ought to be very, very afraid. Logically she understands this, or at least, her wolves and the Cullens are all very vocal on this point. She needs to run like hell. But she was doomed to play this game out the moment she scented him. The dueling natures of her being demand it, and her logical mind is helpless to intercede. The demon succubus in her purrs sweetly, her fire expanding, licking through her veins as she inhales the darkness of this man's desires. It wants him—wants him badly. She's so hungry, and she knows he can sate her. She wants to devour him, bleed him dry of all the longing rolling off of him, until he has nothing left to give her.
At the same time, the twisted little masochist in her absolutely knows she's in the presence of a monster bigger and badder than her. Darker than her. And that demented little maso wants him, too. Her wolves are stronger than her but they're not darker. Even Sam, who doesn't love her and feels no remorse for the bruises he leaves on her skin, has never pushed the edges of her boundaries. This one, she can sense, has no regard at all for any of that shit. The warped, insane maso instinct in her kicks into overdrive, an impulse she's helpless to control. Her body goes still, all thoughts of fight or flight instantly moot, the urge to feed and the urge to submit to whatever this demon wants uniting to overpower all rational thought. He can have her. She's powerless in the face of what his demon does to hers.
In the small, detached part of her mind still able to think, her reactions fascinate her. He fascinates her. She's not afraid, not really, though she probably should be.
Or should she? She's not human, and she's not really afraid of anything. Yes, the Cullens and wolves are united on this point, but she's pissed off at all of them right now and not really interested in anything they have to say. She is, however, very interested in the beautiful demon standing before her.
He's not a large man, though he's plenty bigger than she is. Almost everyone is. She can see a firm physique under his threadbare white tshirt and worn leather jacket. He's fucking hot, long pale hair drawn back in a messy man-bun, his face beautiful, his expression pleasantly blank despite the danger dripping from every inch of him. She steps closer when he beckons with a slow, deliberate crook of his pale finger.
Yes, this is the spark she sought in the crowd. Most of the humans in this bar are handheld sparklers; he's a truckload of C-4. A delicious chill rolls up her spine and her cunt clenches hard, the hungry ache inside turning into something more now that she's sighted her target. Her fire flares, and she watches the microexpressions on his face as he senses the change in her heat. Her nipples pebble under the tight fabric of her dress and the wet heat between her legs increases. She's always slick-sweet, always ready, but the predator in this man makes her drip, as if her little cunt were salivating with hunger.
"What do we have here?" His head slowly tilts to the side as he studies her. She can feel the cold burn of his stare, the laser-focused intensity as his gaze travels from her full, painted lips to the throbbing artery in her throat, then lower to rake across her hard nipples, down to the indecent hem of her skirt riding high on her thighs. She can't feel the invisible velvet touch she so often gets around the Cullens, but she still wonders if he's assessing her with something other than his eyes. His chest expands as he deliberately inhales a deep breath of her scent, her fire. "Sweet kitty," he drawls, and his low voice rakes across her skin like sandpaper, doing something awful to her equilibrium. "I came here for a drink. I'm not sure what I found instead."
Sam's told her a million times to stay away from vampires, and it always goes in one ear and out the other because she's older by far than he is and no one can tell her what to do. She's pissed as hell at both him and Edward, and even if she could resist her own base nature, she wouldn't. She'd do this deliberately to spite both alpha and Cullen. Fuck them.
"You really want to know?" she asks sweetly, and she closes the distance between their bodies with one final step. It's an irrevocable move, something she knows she'll never be able to take back. She should have run when she first sighted him. Now? Now she's his. Her sensitive nipples graze his chest, and she wants him to yank down the top of her dress, exposing the hard little points, icy fingers rough on her beaded flesh. "Only one way to find out."
He hums his agreement. One hard hand snaps out, grabbing her hip possessively. His grip is bruising, and the little maso in her goes still like a good girl, pleased into silence by the power of his force. The demon drinks from him greedily. She's so hungry, and she needs physical contact, needs the slide of body on body, wet on wet. These little sips of purely intangible desire can't sate her even on a good day. Like an apéritif, it only whets her appetite.
"Do you want my name, little fire?" The hand not holding her prisoner touches her cheek.
"Does it really matter?" She's under no illusions about what this draw is. She's not some naive little girl looking for romance in the worst possible place.
"No," he agrees. "It doesn't. But it's James anyway."
His fingertips trace the delicate line of her jaw, drifting slowly down the pale column of her throat until he reaches her pulse point. He hovers there, stroking lightly, pressing just at the throbbing artery with a feathering of contact. Everywhere he touches she ignites, the familiar heat of her own inner flame pulsing through her, bright as the sun. Electricity sizzles between them; she's a little shocked visible sparks don't flame to life where he makes contact with her skin. She knows the humans in the room can feel the power of this ignition, the intensity of her flame pressing at them, caressing them, pulling at their own desires. The rhythm of the lively, innocent music wavers as her flame touches the musicians; people previously bouncing happily to the reels now grind sensuously, no matter how inappropriate the music is for filthy dancing.
"You have a pulse, sweet kitty." The vampire dips his head, skimming his nose lightly along her hairline, her temple. He inhales the scent of her, liquid honey and fire-hot spice, deep into his lungs. "The sweetest blood I've ever scented. I can hear it pounding in your veins." His mouth brushes the muscle of her jaw; a molten shiver drips like lava down her spine. "I smell how wet you are, that sweetness barely hidden up under this skirt." His hand tightens on her hip, fingers digging into the meat of her ass. "How can fire be so wet, my pretty? Explain it to me."
She can't, because she doesn't know. She knows what she is, but not how or why. The difference between her and the rest of the world, however, is that she really doesn't care. She doesn't need to know any more than she already does. "I'm just me," she says, turning her head and opening her lips to take the cool lobe of his ear between her teeth. She bites aggressively hard, knowing her demon can't hurt him. As with the wolves, it's a relief knowing she doesn't have to play gently for fear of harming her partner. "Can you handle that?"
He growls, a low animal sound that rumbles along his chest. Oh, that's sexy. The muscles deep in her abdomen clench down hard and a new rush of wetness leaks from her. Fuck, she wants him. In her mouth, in her pussy, however he wants. She's really, really not picky about the technicalities. "I think I can handle a kitten, even one as feisty as you." His hands shift to cup her ass, drawing her tight against him. She can feel the hard outline of his cock pressed between them, unyielding as granite, the chill of his hands seeping through the thin fabric of her dress and into the flesh of her ass. Fuck, yes. She wants this man, no matter the danger. "Scared, kitty?"
"No." The answer is immediate. No man scares her. Not Sam, not Edward, and not this feral vampire. She can feel the danger and she will succumb to this temptation every single time. Her fire feeds off the cold void within him.
He hisses in appreciation as her inner flame caresses him, glorying in the heat she gives off. A burst of pride fills her. Edward acts like she's going to burn him at the stake. This vampire revels in it. "You should be scared," he warns her.
"Who says?" Plenty of people have warned her, but she doesn't give a fuck.
"Your god?" he drawls as if this answer should be obvious. His grip tightens on her ass and he grinds against the firm muscle of her abdomen.
Bella dips her upper body back until she can meet his eyes squarely, trusting her weight to his possessive grip as her spine bends and flexes. "In a world where we exist, there is no god."
His beautiful, dangerous face creases in a smile she would almost call angelic if she didn't know full well the demon hiding within. "Couldn't have said it better myself, kitty."
She stares into those cold red eyes. Probably they should scare her, or if not them, then this man's calm, even demeanor, devoid of liveliness, of passion. That flat affect more than anything else is what she knows she should fear. This man wants, and his wants are dangerous. He's learned to hide them behind a mask of flat pleasantness like a psychopath but she can sense him in ways his human victims cannot. He wants her. And he wants to hurt her.
She's good on both counts.
"Are you alone?" She glances toward the door of the bar. There are too many people in here for what she wants, and she and James are already attracting too much attention, causing too much disruption. Her fire pulses around her and she can't control it. A man slides against her back despite James' possessive grip; the vampire snarls at him until he backs quickly away.
"Tonight, yes."
This answer is fine with her. She's not capable of thinking any further ahead than finding a dark corner where they can devour each other. James places two fingers under her chin and lifts her face to his, his touch deceptively gentle. He could break her with those fingers, and she knows it. His mouth hovers an inch from hers; he breathes in as she exhales a warm gust of honey-soaked fire. "Sweet kitty, do you want to play? Be my toy tonight?"
There will be consequences for this decision. She's old enough and experienced enough to know this, but also reckless enough not to give a fuck. The demon doesn't care and the masochist isn't capable of saying no right now. She's too hungry, wants too much. She very deliberately winds her palm around the back of his cold neck, pulling him to her mouth.
Oh, he's cold. Nothing but a vampire's touch has ever registered as cold to her body. This one is as sharp as Edward, but there's a different flavor to his kiss. Her moody Cullen is a hit of pure Christmas—spruce and snow and fresh wintergreen berries. This man is gunmetal, bleak as February, desolate as the Siberian tundra. Her fire flares hot and bright at the first taste of his tongue. It's not the flavor she wants, but if she wants gin and someone offers her top-shelf vodka instead, it's not like she's going to refuse.
He kisses her hard, sucking her tongue, tasting the sweet heat she spills like rivulets of flame, flickers of temptation and need. He's controlling the demon inside for now, but she can feel it clawing at the edges of his command just as she felt it with Edward. Will he snap? Give in voluntarily? She's not sure she cares.
Sweet fire burns in her blood as she swallows his desire, tasting it lightning-cold on her tongue. Like alcohol it burns in her veins and she can feel the answering surge of her inner flame flaring hot. She bites his lip hard, desperate for more. Hunger goads her to do things she knows are not wise.
He growls again, the deep, feral noise of a predator. She feels it rumbling down the length of her body. "Play nice, little kitty. You're not the one in charge here."
"Who says?" She breathes the words into his mouth, licks her tongue along the flat face of his teeth, knowing his venom is swiftly making her tipsy and reckless. Provoking his dominant, predatory nature isn't smart.
He leans close as she stares into the bloody darkness of his eyes. "The bigger demon always wins, baby. I don't know what you are, but I know I'm stronger."
"Are you?" Physically, she knows he is. But there are other kinds of power, and she's mistress of manipulating them all.
"Yes." He's implacable; he believes it with everything he is. "Come outside and find out." He removes one hand from her ass, sliding around the slim curve of her thigh to reach between them, rumbling appreciatively when he finds she's wearing nothing underneath. Cold fingertips glide through her liquid heat; she can't part her legs far in this dress but she whines softly and lets him take, watches with dilated pupils as he brings his dripping fingers to his mouth and sucks her sweetness. "More," he grates, swallowing hard. "I want a better taste. Be a good little puss and obey."
Oh, she's more than willing to be that. "Hungry, demon?"
"Starving." He cups her chin in his big, cold hand and drags his thumb across her full lower lip. "You are, too. Like calls to like, huntress."
This much they can agree on. He's bigger and badder than her, the cruel truth to her own demon's gentler nightmare, but she's not convinced he's stronger in every way. She is willing to find out.
"Hungry," she breathes, her lips parting to let her tongue flick out and lick his thumb. She wants so badly to suck him dry, to lick him like a popsicle, like she begged Edward to let her. This one isn't so sweet, but at least he won't deny her.
"I'll feed you," he chuckles. "Be my bloody little fucktoy and I'll feed you until you can't take any more."
No one has ever managed that feat, though plenty have boasted they could. She meets his eyes, knowing she's willingly stepping into a nightmare and not giving a shit. He kisses her again, slow and unhurried, completely at odds with the demon she can sense roaring within him, begging to use her, to hurt her, to open her legs, open a vein, slake these twin lusts. Her fire flares and she pushes at it very deliberately, surrounding him in heat, testing his control.
"Outside," he snaps, wrenching his mouth from hers and spinning her around. She wheels like a top, tipsy off his venom, his desire, the steel of his grip on her hips holding her steady. "Now."
He's pressed to her back as they move through the crowd, the throng melting to the sides to let them pass. She's reasonably aware of the looks cast her way—most are envious of one or both of the beautiful creatures walking among them. A few women sense the danger rolling off of James and send her worried glances; she dismisses them irritably. She knows perfectly well what she's doing. She's about to go fuck a feral vampire in a dark alley, with all the unspoken danger that brings. He's not the vampire she really wants, but she's starving and he'll do for now. Breaking Edward Cullen will take time. James wants her tonight, and she has to feed.
Cool marine air off the Sound ruffles her hair as they leave the bar, sending tendrils of scent and invisible flame into the night. If there are any wolves nearby, they'll be able to sense her presence easily. She hopes they don't, all of her being focused on the man drawing her down a side street and then into an alley between two buildings. Her heart beats like the wings of a caged bird against her ribs, her pulse high and hard in her throat. She's sure he can practically taste the red wetness. It's a twin pulse to the ache between her legs, deep inside where she seeps, liquid-sweet and hot as hellfire. This is a very, very bad idea and she embraces it willingly, partially because it's her nature and partially to spite the men who keep thinking they know what's best for her.
James presses her hard into the rough brick wall. It's going to ruin her dress and she doesn't give a fuck. His mouth finds hers in the darkness without fumbling, hungry and hard. She shoves at his jacket, peeling the worn leather from his shoulders. She doesn't need him fully undressed for what she wants, but she craves the sensation of cold skin, something to slake the fire burning within.
"Sexy kitten," he groans, leaving her mouth to lick at her skin, trailing cold fire wherever he touches. "So warm. I fuck humans to remember what life feels like, but they break so easily. They'd never survive, even if I didn't drain them dry in the process." He pulls away far enough to give her a cold smile. "You're stronger, aren't you? Hotter—fiercer. I never thought a vampire could capture a flame without burning in hell. Shall we see if you're strong enough to survive?"
"I can take whatever you're man enough to give." It's a promise she's given every man who attempts to dominate her, and she's never once been wrong.
"Careful, kitty." His hand closes around her throat—just a warning, but she can feel the strength he's holding back, the way his fingers flex around her windpipe, toying with choking off her air. She's not a big fan of this as she's told Sam repeatedly, but the masochist in her reflexively goes very, very still, obedient to his whim. "It's not the man you have to worry about. It's the demon."
Oh, she knows. She definitely knows, and she wants both.
She lifts her chin defiantly, staring him straight in his blood-red eyes. "I know that. I know what you are, and I don't care. I can be your greatest fantasy, if you let me." Edward wouldn't, but Edward isn't here. She lifts a hand to James' mouth and slips her delicate index finger past his lips. He lets her, his eyes never leaving hers as she very deliberately presses the pad of her finger to the point of his human-looking canine tooth. Flesh gives as if she touched a hot knife to butter, a tiny pinprick of pain and pulse of heat. A trickle of blood enters his mouth.
He snarls, the demon within rushing to the fore, begging to be set free. His hand leaves her throat but locks around her wrist, holding her in place as his lips close convulsively around her finger, sucking hard. He draws the blood from her with desperate hunger, the red of his eyes turning flat black with need. Bella's seen that color before, the half-crazed expression of bleak desire. Edward wore it during the storm, except Edward also looked as if she damned his soul with every heartbeat. The man before her? He has no soul to damn.
Finally he yanks her hand from his mouth, panting deeply, and she can't quite tell whether he's angry or just overwhelmed. Either way, she knows she's in for it. "Play with fire and you get burned, little girl," he warns, slamming her hard against the wall and peeling her tight skirt up over her hips, baring her soft, swollen pussy to the night. He grabs her thighs, lifting her effortlessly as she fumbles his fly open, seeking the hard cock he's been grinding against her. "You're sweeter than sin, and you're all mine."
"I am sin," she counters, stroking the hard length she's freed. He's not big like a wolf, but he's freezing cold and she desperately wants to know what that will feel like buried deep in her body. "I'm the fucking definition of it. And how do you know you're not mine?" She guides the leaking tip of him to her aching slit, where her needy little cunt urgently wants him.
"Because that's not how this game ends. If you know what I am, you must have figured that out by now."
She can't think about any sort of endgame; that's not how her mind functions when her inner fire takes control. All she can do is mewl piteously, flexing her abs and tilting her pelvis. Her liquid heat envelops the head of his cock, and he presses ever so slightly into her. She tosses her head back against the wall and whimpers, unable to move much with brick behind her and granite arms holding her in place. "Fuck me," she pleads, digging her fingers into his shoulders. If she had long nails, they'd break on his impenetrable skin.
"I will. And then you're going to explain to me exactly what you are—what this is." He runs his nose along her cheek. "How you warm me to the core, when not even the desert sun can do that."
Is he warm? It doesn't feel like it to her. All she knows is that prickly-sweet sensation the Cullens have told her is cold, the sensation she's only ever felt from a vampire's touch, and she can't get enough of it. Venom swirls in her mind, fire in her vision, and she has no hope of answering any question with more than a whimper.
"Then," he says, "I'll know what to do with you next. I'm tempted to drain you dry, little flame." Not a hint of emotion flickers in his flat black eyes. "Do you think if I do, it will keep me warm permanently? Take into me whatever makes you burn?" He licks her mouth and glides his cold length along her folds, teasing her entrance again without any deeper penetration. She whines, her need soaring and her fire surging dangerously out of control. "This heat is too sweet to ever let go. I'm willing to do whatever I have to to keep it."
She's past caring, past listening to his words—they patter like raindrops around her, deceptively soft and with as little meaning, her mind unable to follow one syllable to the next. She's too hungry, and teasing a succubus as he is, gliding along the slick heat between her legs without giving her what she needs, isn't wise. Edging is fine for humans; not for her. She'd never open a vein and then hold it just under this demon's nose, refusing to let him latch on and drink, but that's exactly what he's doing to her. "F-f-fu—" she stutters, but she can't even manage the desperate plea for him to fuck her already, take her, give her what she needs to calm this fire. She's past caring what he'll do to her afterwards, as long as he does this first.
"I'm not sure you're food," James says playfully as he licks the tightly corded tendons in her throat, every inch of her frame hard with tension. She sobs at the pleasure held just out of reach, the cock drawing slowly through her folds with icy precision without spearing her. "But whatever you are, I'm sure I can handle it." His mouth unerringly finds her fluttering pulse point, and she feels his cold lips draw back in preparation to bite deep.