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As I slowly regain consciousness, the dull ache in my head intensifies into an insistent throb. How long have I been out? Memories of a purple cloud smothering me, burning me, make my eyes shoot open.
Manmade walls meeting at ninety degree angles. I’m no longer deep in the mines.
I’m in a bed. I sit up to see a row of empty beds opposite mine. The hospital.
The artificial lighting sharpens my headache into a piercing stab. I fall back into bed, shielding my eyes with my forearm with an involuntary groan.
“Thalia,” calls a voice from down the hallway. Male. “You’re awake. Thank goodness.” Wornhardt. His soft footsteps approach, accompanied by the rustle of his white coat. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve known better.” The lights flick off, allowing natural darkness to cool my eyelids. It must be nighttime.
The headache subsides, becoming bearable though not ignorable. I lower my forearm and chance opening my eyes.
The doctor sits on a stool by my bedside. His silver hair is as unruly as ever, neglected for the sake of spending more time caring for patients. His sylphlike face, which could’ve made him a fashion model in the Great City, looks even more exhausted than usual. Dark undereye circles have joined the faint worry lines.
In my weakened state, the presence of an attractive male makes my inner nature surge, overwhelming my usual safeguards. I use the dregs of mana I have left to restrain it as quickly as possible, though not fast enough.
Wornhardt’s eyes drift across the shape of my body under the blanket. His Adam’s apple bobs.
Using mana intensifies the headache, and it keeps running out. I’m not regenerating it fast enough to maintain my safeguards consistently.
I’d come to Sun Haven to get away from my past. I wanted to start a new life where I could make friends, maybe even fall in love, without wondering if people liked me for who I was or for the magical charm I possessed as a demon of the succubus subspecies. For two seasons, I hadn’t slipped once. I chatted with my new neighbors and seemed to get along especially well with the town doctor. Over time, we chastely got closer. He took me to his favorite spot by the windmills. I gave him healthy green juices I made from plants on my farm. We told each other about our pasts…
“Thalia,” he whispers. “I can see the pain you’re in. I’m a professional. You can let go.”
He can’t imagine the full unrestrained force of my shameful power. But he’s right. Draining all my mana repeatedly is taking its toll. If I keep doing it, I’ll pass out. I need to let go of the safeguards and let my body restore its mana supply, if I’m to have any chance of healing.
I shake my head. “I’ll let go only if you leave.”
“I can’t leave. I need to evaluate your condition again now that you’re awake.”
I roll onto my side, facing away from him, wrapping the blanket close around me. The headache is overwhelming, starting to seep into the rest of my body.
I drop the safeguards completely.
My power bursts out like water from an opened dam.
The pressure in my head instantly decompresses.
“It’s okay, Thalia. I’m a doctor. I have to be able to treat all kinds of people.” Wornhardt rubs my shoulder to comfort me. “Can I pull your blanket down?”
Without the courage to look at him, I nod into my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
The sheets leave my body so that I am covered only by a dressing gown.
“Sierra didn’t tie this very well,” he says quietly, tightening the knot in the back of the gown. “It’s late. She and Linda have gone home.”
He’s trying to make this less awkward, telling me that he wasn’t the one who changed my clothes, that his nurses won’t learn my secret. I want to believe he can resist my power. I hope he can, so that things don’t change between us. But without access to mana himself, he can rely on only his willpower… and that’s never been enough before.
His hands roll me onto my back. He checks my blood pressure. “Your heart rate is very high…” He starts to say, but he trails off when he realizes how dangerous that is to point out. “Do you have pain anywhere?”
“Just my head.”
“Tell me if any pain arises upon palpation.” He starts pressing his long fingers around my torso, into my organs. “Nathaniel brought you here.” His pause hints at his displeasure of another man handling my body. Or of another man saving me? “Do you remember what knocked you out?”
I open my eyes so it doesn’t look like I’m avoiding looking at him, though I can’t bear to make eye contact and stare past him at the ceiling anyway. “A poison fog.”
“Poison fog? I wish I had a sample of that to make sure it has no permanent effects, but if it wasn’t a physical blow, you probably don’t have a concussion.” His fingers have risen from near my kidneys toward my chest.
A long silence as his hands hover over me. All my chest contains are my lungs and heart, and he can’t feel those through my ribcage. There’s no reason to…
“I’m going to make sure the poison didn’t generate any spontaneous tumors.”
I’m too shocked to say anything, but he’s still professional enough to prompt me for consent. “Is that okay?”
I should say no. This is an excuse to feel me up, isn’t it? I can’t tell. Who knows what magical poison fogs can do? Perhaps it would be best to be safe?
Perhaps I’m giving into my own temptations.
I nod.
“You’ll have to lower the gown.”
My cheeks grow hot. I thought he was just going to press his fingers around, over the gown, like he did to my stomach. But in hindsight, that obviously doesn’t make sense for a careful inspection for tumors.
I cautiously sit up. My headache doesn’t worsen like it did before. In fact, it’s a background hum now. I feel like I’ve had three cups of coffee and a strong dosage of painkillers. Only now that I’ve released my safeguards for the first time in months do I realize how exhausting it’s been to maintain them. To pretend to be someone I’m not.
I feel so good I almost forget to be embarrassed as I loosen my gown and let it fall from my chest.
Wornhardt stares very pointedly at my face. I’m almost disappointed that I’m not affecting him, but then I see how tense his shoulders are, how stiffly he moves toward me.
Each of his gloved hands rubs little circles around each of my breasts, moving in inward spirals. The procedure is as clinical as any exam I received from a doctor, other than the desperate lock his eyes have on mine. His rare gray eyes, modest and tender, look tortured.
He removes his gloves. Slowly, giving me time to protest, but without stating a reason. Without coming up with an excuse.
When I don’t stop him, he finally lets his gaze drop to my breasts. He cups them with his bare hands, savors their weight, squeezes the soft flesh. He gently rolls each nipple between a thumb and forefinger.
As he stokes my desire, the fire in me flares, my seductive aura surging to lure a victim into satisfying that desire. He guides me to lie back down and pulls my gown off entirely. I keep my arms at my sides, unsure of how medical this is, how medical I want it to be, how medical he’s going to pretend it is.
With his pale skin flushed, he takes in the sight of my naked body. The heavy breasts sinking into my chest from gravity, my hip divots, my thighs pressed together so he can’t see more than my neatly trimmed pubic hair. My point-tipped tail wagging, flicking with a mind of its own.
When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Is this what your body does to all men?”
“If I don’t suppress the aura, yes. To some degree.” But I can’t let him think he’s just any man to me. He isn’t. “It’s the most intense when I… want someone.”
He drags my hips to the edge of the bed, facing him. “Do you want me?” He opens my legs and sees the glistening answer. “Oh, my.” He looks up to my face in surprise.
I want to look away, because it’s terribly embarrassing to be totally naked in front of someone wearing all their clothes. To have my desire laid bare while he has shown such restraint I’m starting to doubt his reciprocation. But I don’t look away. I know he needs to feel his own power over me. While it’s true I could have gotten him to fuck me the day we met if I wanted to, it’s also true that I didn’t because he’s more important to me than fleeting satisfaction. I want to care for him, and be cared for by him, for a long time.
He stands up, moving between my legs, and leans down over me. His white coat tickles my bare skin. He faintly smells of healing ointments, of orange and greenspice, of his own pheromones amplified by a long day. Pheromones. They’re like the human version of a seduction aura, aren’t they?
His broad shoulders loom over me. He’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and then his lips caress mine.. One of his hands cups my cheek, while the other fondles my breast again. His touch is searing hot. He slides his tongue between my lips and hitches my hips into his like he wants to slide something else somewhere else.
I can feel his erection through his pants as he presses it against my bare wet pussy. I instinctively grind against him, and he starts thrusting in return. He tangles a hand in my hair, uses his hold on it to pull my head back and expose my neck to suck on it.
His other hand fumbles to unbutton his pants.
A fastforward prediction of the future flashes through my mind. History repeating itself. I panic and completely smother my aura, draining my partially recovered mana with the sudden use. The effect is like someone dumped a bucket of cold water over us.
And the pain in my head comes roaring back.
He slumps down with his face buried in the sheets next to my head. His chest expands and contracts with the effort of catching his breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking advantage of you like this.”
I sputter, “You think you’re taking advantage of me?”
He presses up onto his elbows, then his hands, so our faces are an arm’s length apart, far enough to see each other clearly. “I asked you to trust that I was strong enough to resist, and I wasn’t. I thought I would be, because I’ve treated succubi before.”
My eyes widen. “You have?”
“Yes.” He falls onto his back on the bed next to me. “I don’t know. I can’t control mana or anything like that, but when it comes to patients, I’ve always been able to focus on treating them no matter what.”
“Except me.”
“I’m sorry I failed you.”
Doesn’t he understand what that means? It wasn’t just my aura spurring him on. It was me. I’m special to him, like he is to me.
I get up, ignoring my throbbing head, and straddle him. He looks startled, but doesn’t object. I pull his arms out of his coat and start unbuttoning his shirt top to bottom.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“Don’t… Don’t do this just to please me. I don’t want you to get confused about how I feel about you.”
I pull his shirt off. I knew, from how his clothes fit him and his love of salads, that he would have a trim physique. I didn’t know that he must also be doing a lot of push-ups. He is not just skinny, but also strong, with solid muscle lining his upper arms and pecs.
I unbutton his pants, pull them and his boxer briefs all the way off. His cock bounces out, still hard and red.
He is finally as naked as I am.
I raise my eyes from his body back to his eyes. “The best way to make sure I don’t get confused about how you feel… is to simply tell me.”
I place a hand on his chest and feel his heart beating faster.
He says, “Don’t you know that I love you?”
I feel like I’ve been looking for him my entire life.
“I love you, too.” I press my chest against his and kiss him deeply. He hesitates at first, but I keep tugging at his lips with mine, brushing them softly with the calm assurance of love, not the harried passion of lust. He finally starts kissing me back.
I take his hands and place them on my hips, telling him he can touch me. He grips them tightly, then grabs a fistful of my ass, then strokes my tail. His cock stiffens further, wedging between my crack from behind. With our chests still pressed together, I move my hips up and down, holding his cock in place with one hand so that it slides along my wet folds.
He groans and opens his eyes, making sure one last time that this won’t ruin us. I promise that it won’t with steady eye contact.
And I ask, “Do you want me to keep suppressing my aura?”
He caresses my cheek, runs a thumb along it. “I can’t believe you’d ask that.”
“I don’t want you to feel out of control, or like you’re doing something you wouldn’t otherwise do.”
“I already want to do things with you I would never do with anyone else. If this is going to work, you have to be able to be yourself around me.”
He’s right.
I unveil my aura gradually. It’s like letting air out from an overfull balloon. My headache fades again.
Wornhardt stares into my eyes steadily, confirming that my demonic power doesn’t change the core of how he feels about me.
After he’s sure that I’m sure, he gives into his impulses in a frenzy. He pushes me onto my back, rolls on top of me, attacks my breasts. He plants smooches around the flesh, covers a nipple with his mouth. His tongue swirls relentlessly, making me writhe. But one of his hands stills my bucking hips by pinning open one thigh. The other hand trails from the other knee, up my thigh, to the sopping wet center.
His fingers are gentle but firm, gathering natural lubrication from my hole, running it along my folds, using it to rub steady circles around my clit. His touch is so skilled—perfect pressure, perfect pace, perfect adaptation to my responses—that I have to wonder exactly how experienced he is. It dawns on me that it makes sense—a virgin would be too scared to fall in love with a succubus. Wouldn’t know how to distinguish love from lust.
I grope around to get my hands on him, but he holds himself out of reach. He comes up to whisper in my ear, “I know you love me like I love you, but I want you to feel the same lust, too.” He slides his index and middle fingers into me. “I want you dying for it like I am.”
“I am, Worn, I am.” I wiggle my hips, desperate for the teasing to stop, desperate for full-on release.
He presses down harder on my thigh, preventing my hips from moving. He shakes his head with the wickedest little smile I’ve ever seen grace his lips and continues pumping his fingers in me.
And that self-control makes me even more sure of how he feels about me.
Once he’s satisfied that I’ve stopped bucking, he releases his hold of my thigh and positions himself so that he can rub his tip along my folds, occasionally pressing it ever so slightly against the resistance of my tight entrance.
I dig my nails into his back, clutch his hair tight. At another torturous press, I try to push my hips forward to take him into me, but he withdraws, only to start teasing me again. My head is spinning from how good the sensation feels, his velvety skin against my slick skin, but my body feels like it’s on fire. It needs to let the blaze run through, or the desire will make it implode. “Please. Please.”
The begging does it for him. He leans more of his weight onto one forearm, onto me, and guides himself in. My entrance relaxes to receive him, and he fills, stretches my walls. He thrusts gently to bury himself deeper, until he presses against the end of my tunnel, the deep tender entrance to my womb.
I gasp, and he groans. He starts thrusting in and out, fucking me in earnest, rhythmically pounding that sore spot all the way inside. His body is heavy on mine. The musk of his exertion mingles with all the other smells that are him. I clutch his upper body to mine and wrap my legs behind his waist, undulating with him, urging him deep and fast into me.
A tidal wave rises in me until it towers above the Ascent. All my muscles are as tensed as possible, waiting for the crash. He growls and grunts, his pace picking up as we climb toward our climaxes together.
The wave sweeps over me. I burst, spasm, tremble.
With a particularly violent thrust, he releases into me. The residual thrusts are gentler as the subsequent spurts fill me.
He collapses on top of me, panting. I hug my arms around his neck. We’re sweaty and sticky, hot and cooling. My muscles become as relaxed as they were tense just moments ago, and I melt into the bed.
Wornhardt rolls off of me, and we roll onto our sides to face each other. He brushes hair from my face and smiles. It’s not the smile I see him give patients when I visit him in the clinic or fellow patrons when we hang out at the tavern. It’s the smile he gave me in front of the windmills, the smile he gave me in his house—subtle because it’s subconscious, because it’s completely genuine. I recognize it now as a smile he gives to only me.
“I think you’re safe to discharge, considering the evidence of your excellent physical condition. Shall we head home?”