Summon a succubus (1)

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I adjusted my position. My knees were starting to ache against the hardwood, but I didn't move. I couldn't. The circle of salt and chalk was messy, jagged in some places where my hand had shaken, but it didn't matter. Perfection wasn't the point; intent was. And God, I was drowning in intent. My apartment felt smaller than usual, the air thick with the scent of cheap black candles and my own sweat. I was wearing a silk slip that clung to my skin, damp from the humidity of a New York summer night. No bra, no panties. If I was going to do this, I wanted there to be zero barriers.

I stared at the ancient, leather-bound book I’d spent six months' salary on. The ink on the pages looked like dried blood. My pulse was a physical thrumming in my throat as I began to speak the words. The Latin was clunky on my tongue, sharp and guttural. I didn't care about the grammar; I cared about the heat building in the pit of my stomach. Every syllable felt like a spark hitting dry kindling.

"Azrael," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Azrael, I call you."

The flame of the center candle didn't just flicker; it died. Then, one by one, the other four followed. The darkness that rushed in wasn't empty. It was heavy. It felt like someone had draped a lead blanket over my shoulders. My skin prickled, the fine hairs on my arms standing up. Then came the smell. It wasn't sulfur, like the movies say. It was rich, masculine, and intoxicating—like expensive tobacco, rain-soaked earth, and a musk that made my thighs ache instantly.

"A little messy for a ritual, don't you think, Claire?"

The voice didn't come from my ears; it vibrated in my bones. It was deep, rasping, like stones grinding together. I looked up. In the corner of the room, the shadows were shifting, knitting themselves together into a shape that was far too large for the space. He stepped forward, and the moonlight through the window finally hit him.

Azrael was a god carved out of nightmare and desire. He was easily six-foot-five, his body a map of hard muscle and scarred bronze skin. He was buck naked, and he didn't give a damn. His cock was heavy and semi-erect, swaying slightly as he walked toward the edge of my chalk circle. His face was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes that were nothing but glowing, molten gold.

"You're real," I managed to breathe out, my hands clutching my thighs.

"As real as the hunger that kept you awake until three in the morning drawing circles on your floor," he countered. He stopped at the very edge of the salt. He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped over the line as if it were nothing more than a suggestion.

He was in front of me in a heartbeat. The heat radiating off him was like standing next to a furnace. He reached down, his hand—massive and calloused—grabbing my hair at the base of my neck and yanking my head back. I let out a sharp gasp, my mouth falling open. He didn't look at me with tenderness. He looked at me like I was a meal.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he growled, leaning down so his lips were an inch from mine. "You think this is a game? You think you can just call a Prince of the Pit because you’re bored and lonely?"

"I'm not bored," I hissed, finding a spark of defiance despite the way my heart was hammering against my ribs. "And I'm definitely not looking for a conversation."

Azrael’s eyes flared. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face, revealing teeth that were just a bit too white and a bit too sharp. He let go of my hair, only to slide that same hand down my throat, his thumb pressing firmly against my windpipe. Not enough to stop my breath, but enough to make me feel his power. His other hand went to the hem of my slip, bunching the silk upward.

"Good," he whispered against my ear, his tongue darting out to lick the shell of it. "Because I don't plan on saying another word."

He shoved me back. My spine hit the floor, the hard wood a jarring contrast to the heat of his body as he crawled over me, pinning my wrists above my head with a single hand. He was heavy—beautifully, terrifyingly heavy. I felt the rough texture of his thighs against mine, the friction of his skin sending jolts of electricity straight to my core. I was already dripping, the silk of my slip ruined, and he knew it. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, and bit me. Hard.

I screamed, but it wasn't from pain. It was the release of every tension I’d carried for years. Azrael didn't stop. He moved like a man starved, his hands exploring every inch of me with a brutal honesty that no human man had ever dared.

The sting of his teeth on my neck was the spark that set the whole room on fire. I didn't want gentle. I didn't want a "lover." I wanted exactly what Azrael was: a force of nature that didn't give a damn about my comfort. My breath came in ragged, shallow hitches as he ground his hips into mine. The sheer weight of him was crushing, pinning me into the hardwood floor, and I loved it. I arched my back, trying to get closer to the heat radiating off his skin.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice vibrating against my collarbone. "Trembling like a leaf in a storm. You called for the devil, Claire, and now you’re realizing the devil doesn't play by your rules."

His hand let go of my wrists, but I didn't move them. I was paralyzed by the sensation of his rough palms sliding down my sides, bunching the silk of my slip until it was nothing more than a wrinkled rag around my waist. He didn't care about the expensive fabric. He didn't care about being careful. He reached down and gripped my thighs, forcing them apart with a strength that left no room for argument.

I looked up at him, my vision blurred by the sweat stinging my eyes. The moonlight caught the golden glow in his, making him look less like a man and more like a predator staring at its kill. He wasn't smiling anymore. His face was a mask of pure, concentrated lust.

"You're so small," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw before sliding into my mouth. He tasted like copper and smoke. I bit down on him, a desperate, feral sound escaping my throat, and his eyes flashed. "And so hungry. I can taste it on you. You've been starving for this, haven't you?"

I couldn't answer. I could only move my hips against his, a silent plea that he understood perfectly. He chuckled—a dark, low sound—and moved his hand down, his fingers finding the center of my heat. I cried out, my head slamming back against the floor as he found exactly what he was looking for. He wasn't teasing. He was demanding.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. It was just us, the smell of burnt wax, and the wet, rhythmic sound of his touch. Every nerve in my body was screaming, pulled taut like a wire about to snap. I felt the rough texture of the floorboards against my bare ass, the cold wood a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of his hand.

"Please," I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my nails drawing thin red lines across his bronze skin. "Azrael, please."

"Please what, Claire?" he teased, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from mine. "Say it. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. No metaphors. No poetic bullshit. Just the truth."

"I want you inside me," I hissed, the words feeling heavy and dirty on my tongue. "Now. I want to feel how much of a monster you really are."

He didn't need to be told twice. He shifted, his heavy weight settling between my legs. I felt him—thick, hot, and unforgiving—pressing against me. There was no hesitation. He pushed forward, a slow, deliberate invasion that felt like he was reclaiming territory that had always belonged to him. I felt my body stretch, my breath hitching in my lungs as he filled the void I’d been carrying for a lifetime.

It was too much. It was perfect. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to disappear into the sheer intensity of the sensation. He started to move, a rhythmic, punishing pace that had me clawing at his back. Every thrust felt like it was shaking the very foundations of the building. The world outside New York, the neighbors, my job—it all ceased to exist.

The pleasure wasn't sweet. It was sharp. It was a physical ache that built in my chest until I thought I would shatter. I watched his face as he moved, seeing the way his golden eyes stayed fixed on mine, never letting me look away, never letting me hide. He wanted me to see him. He wanted me to know exactly who was taking me.

"You’re mine now, Claire," he grunted, his pace quickening, his breath hot and heavy against my ear. "You signed the contract in chalk and salt, and you're paying the price in skin."

The tension in my body reached a breaking point. I felt the first wave of the climax hit me, a violent, shaking release that had me sobbing into his shoulder. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. I just felt him, solid and real, as he let out a guttural roar and followed me over the edge.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thud of our hearts and our ragged breathing. Azrael didn't pull away. He stayed heavy on top of me, his sweat mingling with mine, his skin still radiating that unnatural heat.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what had just happened. The candles were long gone, the ritual circle was ruined, and my life was never going to be the same.

"Round one," Azrael whispered into the darkness, his voice dripping with a terrifying promise. "And the night is still very, very young."