The Succubus' Starlight

The scent of old paper stuck to Professor Alistair Thorne like a second skin, but tonight the atmosphere in his lonely library shivered. It was not the shifting of air from the stained glass windows that looked down over gardens filled with the moon's light; it was a subtle shift in pressure, a warmth that bloomed where no flame smoldered, carrying with it the impossible aroma of shattered cinnamon and distant ozone.

Alistair lost his spectacles, the dusty treatise on pre-Celtic symbology forsaken, his pulse thudding now a heavy beat against his ribs.

Alistair had not seen her enter. One moment, the room had only the sigh of pages being turned and the mournful breath of the wind outside the ancient manor. The next, she was there. Leaning against the dark oak doorframe, bathed only by the single pool of light from his brass desk lamp.

She stood out of place. A dream plucked from a fevered nightmare and placed within his dusty sanctuary. Ink-dyed hair cascaded over shoulders bare under a dress that seemed fashioned from shadow and starlight. It wrapped itself around curves that defied geometry, a brash plunge of neckline revealing the swell of full breasts, fabric whispering over nipped-in waist and flaring hips before slipping high on powerful thighs. Her skin was lustrous, like polished moonstone, smooth and flawless.

But her eyes were the true shock. They didn’t look human. Wide-set, slanted, the colour of burning amber, with galaxies in their depths. They captured him, and a slow, knowing smile curved her red lips.

"Professor Thorne," her voice a low hum, purring in the silence, vibrated in his belly.

"Burning the midnight oil over dead languages? How terribly lonely."

Alistair rasped out. "Who are you? How did you get in?"

The logical questions felt flimsy against the sheer presence of her.

She moved from the doorframe, unfolding with an elegance that rippled the air ahead of her.

The faint smell intensified, cinnamon, ozone, and something very intoxicating. "Names are such confining things, don't you think? Mortal prisons for infinite ideas." She stopped just at the edge of the lamplight, a creature of twilight. "Call me Nyx. And as for how." She tilted her head, a cascade of dark silk tumbling over one shoulder. "I followed the scent. Not of ink, Professor. But of yearning. It seeps from you. A thirsty, famished hunger beneath all this." Her hand brushed over the books, the heavy furniture, his own carefully constructed wall of reserve. “….dry academia. Like a rose that withers for lack of rain."

He ought to have been afraid.

He ought to have screamed for help, seized the heavy brass letter opener on his desk. Rather, a strange warmth was accumulating low in his gut, seeping through his veins like warm honey. Her words hit him with a ghastly reality. The isolation lingered, a dull, hollow presence. The hunger, indeed. For contact, for sensation, for something beyond the frosty boundaries of his brain. He was utterly exposed, stripped not by brutality, but by the stark, irresistible power of her amber eyes. "You presume much," he fought, trying to cling to detachment. His fists clenched tightly on the arms of his leather chair.

Nyx laughed, a tearing sound like black velvet.

"I know a great deal, Alistair. May I call you Alistair?" She did not seek permission. Another step closer. He glimpsed the mere pulse at the base of her throat, caught the dizzily sweet scent of her skin in his nostrils. "I know the quiet of this big empty house. I know the cold of the sheets on your large bed. I know the running of your mind, looking for answers in books, while your body." Her gaze slid deliberately across his chest, stopping where his pants were constricting painfully. "….your body tells of neglect. Of hunger." She was close enough now that his skin could sense the heat radiating from her, a heat which was a complete contrast to the moon-white of her complexion.

It was not warmth of the human sort; it was warmer, more powerful, like standing near a furnace. She extended a slender hand but did not touch him. Not yet. Her fingers danced along the air an inch from his cheekbone. He felt the ghostly touch like a flash of flame. "Such passion trapped," she breathed, her eyes on his.

"All that intelligence, that locked-up passion, pent up. Would you not want to be alive, Alistair? Truly alive? To blaze, for one moment?"

Her voice was a turn of a key he'd never imagined. The flame in him caught fire, an automatic response that seared away sense. The fear melted away, replaced completely by a burning, mad hunger. He saw his own face reflected back in her burning eyes, not the weary scholar, but a hard man. His breath stopped, a harsh rasp in the sudden stillness of the room.

"Yes," the word was out of him, but in a whisper barely, and full of yielding.

Nyx's smile increased, leashed predator that it was, yet infinitely tempting.

"Good." Her hand found him at last.

Fingertips, marble-smooth and cool, caressed his cheek. The touch sent an electric spark through him, to his very core. It wasn't sensual; it was a connection fitting into place, a circuit closing.

A shimmering, luminous pattern, as if of starlight or iridescent scales, seemed to ripple beneath her skin where they were in contact with it, emitting a gentle, inner glow. "Let me show you what starlight tastes like, Professor."

Her lips brushed against his, and the universe dissolved.

It wasn't a kiss, it was an introduction. Her lips were soft, malleable, but persistent. She tasted like the darkest, richest wine and the clean shock of lightning. Her tongue danced around the crease of his lips, and when she swept in, a groan started deep in his chest, an incursion of raw, untainted joy.

She explored his mouth with languid, deliberate movements, each touch sending sheets of electric sensation crashing through him. Her scent overwhelmed him, cinnamon and ozone, completely erasing the smell of paper and dust.

Her hands were everywhere. One knotted in his hair, tugging his head back to deepen the kiss, the other draped down his chest, past the crisp front of his shirt, charting the muscles of his abdomen with familiar pressure.

He was paralyzed, overwhelmed, ablaze from within to without. His own hands, trembling, closed around her waist. The material of her gown felt like insubstantial air, but beneath it, her flesh was warm, soft silk. He pulled her close to him, needing to feel every inch of her.

Without much effort, she pushed him back into his chair, then perched on his lap, astride.

The position pressed the fiery, pulsating length of his erection against the crest of her thighs, only thin veils of clothing between them. The friction was sensual agony. She broke the kiss, pulling back, her molten eyes drinking in his flushed face, his wide-open eyes, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The shimmering patterns beneath her skin glowed more brightly. "Look at you," she said, grinding slowly on him, intentionally, and he gasped. "So eager. So deliciously responsive." Her fingers drummed at his buttons, popped open with unnatural haste. Cool air kissed his flushed skin, and then the burning heat of her palms glided over his chest, her own dress seemed to disintegrate on command, dissolving into shreds which vanished like smoke. She was revealed by the lamp, a picture of impossible, supernatural beauty.

Full, heavy breasts covered in dusky rose-colored nipples, a tiny waist fanning out into plump hips, the flat expanse of her belly curving down towards the dark, neat triangle of curls where her thighs met. The shimmering patterns had flowed further across her, curling around her shoulders, down her arms, across her ribs, pulsating with that soft, ethereal light.

Alistair's breathing was labored. All he could do was stare, amazement in his eyes, his hands lifted to cup the gorgeous weight of her breasts, thumbs stroking over the pinched crests.

She leaned into his hands, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Yes, touch me, Alistair. Take this gift."

Her hand slipped between them, fingers neatly unbuckling his trousers, releasing his throbbing cock. The cold air was a shock, quickly followed by the fiery burn of her tiny hand encircling him. He groaned, hips twitching uncontrollably. Her touch was firm, aware, her thumb stroking over the wet tip, distributing the drop of moisture that had beaded there.

"Such beautiful hunger," she whispered, her warm breath on his ear. She shifted, coming up to position his cock at her warm entrance, the hot, wet silk of her core rubbing against the head of his cock, slick and inviting.

Her hot gaze held him, ancient knowledge burning in it, pure carnal promise.

"Now," she commanded, her voice was a low vibration that hummed through his bones.

"Fill me. Burn with me."

She let herself down, enveloping him in one smooth, unbroken slide.

It was more than anything Alistair had ever imagined. She was wickedly tight, wickedly hot, and wetter than fantasy. Her internal muscles closed around him like a fist of silk, drawing him deeper with a strength that caused stars to explode behind his eyes. He jerked his head back on a feral yell, fists on her hips clamped hard enough to leave a mortal woman bruised.

Nyx threw back her head, a sound that was like shattered crystal shattering the air of the library.

The luminescent patterns on her skin flashed to life, casting dancing, glimmering light across the bookshelves.

"Yessss," she said, moving. She rode him with brutally beautiful motion, rising and falling, guiding her hips in close circles that drew his cock against every nerve in her. Every descent enveloped him completely in her burning heat; every rise risked drawing him out before the sweet glide back in.

The rhythm was dizzy, inducing a pressure deep within Alistair that was both painful and thrilling.

Her breasts bobbed with her movement, her skin glowing brighter, her moans and sighs providing a symphony of pleasure to those around them. He met her thrusts, forcing up into her yielding warmth, drowning in the sensory explosion, the wet noises of their joining, her breathing, the intoxicating smell of their lust blending with her special perfume, the mind-blowing heat and tightness closing in around him, the sight of this heavenly being shattering above him. He pulled one hand from the sweep of her hip, fingers tracing the swollen bud hidden in her wet hair. She screamed out, her rhythm stumbling for a moment as he stroked her clit in hard, measured circles. "There! Oh, yes, there! Right there!" Her inner muscles contracted around him, milking his length. He felt her orgasm crash through her, shuddering and tangible and then a searing flash of light from her markings. Her scream was raw, unadulterated bliss.

His own orgasm was released by her climax.

The coiled tension at the base of his spine unseated.

White, burning pleasure exploded through him in shuddering waves. He pushed himself to the bottom of her pounding heat as his release tormented him, a raw cry ripped from his throat. He pulsed within her, jet upon jet of his essence succumbing to her insatiable heat, the sensation so intense it hung precariously on the precipice of pain, but was completely rapturous. Nyx fell forward against his chest, her body convulsing with aftershocks. Her skin continued to glow softly, the patterns retreating slowly. She buried her face in his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He wrapped his arms around her, shaking, his own body completely drained yet exquisitely alive.

The air reeked of sex, cinnamon, ozone, and fulfilled desire.

Minutes ticked by, or maybe hours.

Time didn't matter. Alistair's racing heart leveled out, his breathing regulated. Nyx stretched bonelessly against him, her weight somehow comforting. He could feel a curious warmth, an easing energy, radiating from where they were still linked, through his limbs, dispelling the fatigue he hadn't even realized he carried. It wasn't draining; it was filling. A soothing exchange.

She finally came to life, raising her head. Her molten amber eyes, now less fierce, met his. A gentle, pleased smile brushed her lips.

She touched a finger to his jawline. "Starlight," she breathed, her voice a throaty whisper.

"Congratulations, Professor," he said, his lips close to her ear. "You taste of deep thought and quiet fire, Professor. Delicious."

She shifted, rising fluidly from his lap. His deflating cock slipped out, carrying a thread of their combined fluids. She remained standing, naked and unembarrassed under the beam of the lamp.

She stretched, a lazy, cat-like movement that revealed her impossible curves.

Alistair sat, frozen, his body still resonating with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Nyx folded, picking up her dress where the darkness had gathered it around her feet. Nodding, the shadow-like material glued back onto her skin, reforming the impossibly lovely gown, so she was as clean as when she arrived. Only the kiss-swollen mouth and the smug glint in her eyes gave away what had transpired.

She crossed to the library door, then stood, her back to him. Alistair sat, his attire disheveled, his shirt open, his mind reeling, but filled with a profound feeling of peace and contentment he hadn't experienced in years.

"Keep in mind the taste of life, Alistair Thorne," Nyx spoke softly, but a trifle hollowly, in the quiet room. "Don't bury it so deep this time."

Her amber eyes held his for one last, fierce glance. "The night holds more wonders than your texts ever can contain." And, in a whisper of shadow and a scent of cinnamon and ozone, she was gone.

Alistair sat alone in the lamplight, the aroma of sex and supernatural lust still lingering in the air, the warm specter of her touch still on his skin.

He touched his lips, still trembling from her kiss. He was renewed. Not drained, but revitalized. The solitude of the manor seemed less oppressive, the silence less emptiness. He looked at the discarded papers on his desk and smiled, a slow, genuine smile.