One
It was a little black book. Innocuous. Unremarkable. But it was the promise of it that held her still.
She should’ve turned. Walked out. Forgotten the whole thing.
But the bed was already made. Her panties already stripped from beneath her skirt.
All with intention.
Her fingers twitched at her sides. Involuntary.
Fuck it.
The cover was leather, worn with age. She opened it.
A Summons.
Cute. Cryptic. Very on brand.
A list of materials followed:
Salt—check.
Something worn close—panties. Check.
Mirror—placed dead center on the freshly smoothed bedspread. Check.
She’d kissed its surface in deep red. Scrawled two words across it: Try Me. A sprinkle of snark to cut through the ludicrous act.
She smeared her wrists in patchouli oil to mark herself as willing. Or maybe just to smell pretty if this didn’t work. (It probably wouldn’t.)
But it might make for an interesting story.
She lit the candle on the dresser behind her. Blood for the traditionalist. Wine for the decadent.
Two wine glasses. Half full. Set beside the flame. Check.
She took a breath. Sprinkled the salt in a circle around her bare feet.
And turned the page.
The steadiness of her voice surprised her:
Infernal powers, send me a beast—
Tall, dark, rude, and built like sin.
No love spells, no poetry.
Just rough hands and ruinous intent.
Take this summoning as a formal invitation
To do unspeakable things to me
In fluent infernal tongue.
To leave my soul is optional.
Leaving hickeys is required.
She waited. Watched the flame. Not so much as a flicker.
No shift in the air.
No sound other than the upstairs neighbors breaking another bed frame.
She wanted to break her bed frame.
With a sigh, she grabbed her wine glass, drained it, and began brushing the salt back into its container, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment coiling low in her chest.
Of course, it didn’t work.
That old hag in the mystic shoppe had her pegged the moment she’d walked in. She must’ve had Sucker emblazoned across her forehead.
Summoning a pleasure demon. An Incubus. She had to be out of her mind. Or maybe she was just that desperate.
Because she faded into the background, she always had. Maybe it was her size—small, mousy, forgettable. Maybe she was just… unremarkable.
She hadn’t been plowed in nearly a year. She was long overdue.
Magic, clearly, would not be the answer. Sparky—her cute little blue bullet vibe—could get her there.
And he would. Again.
She wandered back into the bedroom, blew out the candle still burning dutifully… and turned toward the mirror she’d set in the center of the bed.
And found him instead.
Skin as dark as the night sky. Street clothes. Lounging against the headboard, arms folded behind his head like he belonged there.
Her mouth fell open.
His eyes, golden like molten honey, swept over her with unrestrained hunger. “Well, well,” his voice wrapped around the words like silk, “aren’t you exquisite?”
He moved with practiced ease off the mattress and prowled toward her. “I’m glad you’re still clothed.”
He leaned close—close enough she could smell him.
Sandalwood—warm.
Cinnamon—spicy.
When he spoke again, his lips brushed the shell of her ear, “I like to unwrap my gifts.”
She blinked. Once. Twice.
He was still there.
Tail flicking lazily. Subtle horns rose like dark peaks through the shock of white hair. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to be rude.
She swallowed, “You’re… real.”
He smirked, flashing canines a little too sharp, “Flattered you thought me a fantasy. Most do. At first.”
His words coiled low, glowing like ember. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t step back.
“I expected sulfur. Dramatic hellfire.”
“Darling, if you wanted theatrical, you should’ve summoned a lesser demon. I prefer my entrances with a little mystery. And a lot less brimstone.”
He trailed a singular claw along her dresser, examining the candle, the wine glass, the scattered salt.
Picked up the glass, swirled it, sipped.
Decadent, she noted.
“You did well,” he said. “A little messy on the incantation—but your intention?” He offered the glass to her. “Delicious.”
His eyes burned incandescent against his dark skin.
“You were late.”
It sounded like an accusation because it was. She took the glass anyway.
He grinned. Oh, so she was sassy.
“I was savoring the wait. Anticipation sweetens the catch.” His gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, before returning to hers. “And you… You reek of want.”
She rolled her eyes and took a sip, hoping it would distract from the thrill that ran hot when he looked at her like that.
“I reek of patchouli and panic sweat.”
He chuckled, deep—like honey laced with smoke, “same thing, where I come from.”
He extended a hand, elegant and claw-tipped, palm up. An invitation. Not a command.
“You called to me. Let’s see if you’re brave enough to keep me.”
Her mind swam. Could be the wine. Or him. Or the heat blooming between her thighs.
She caught her lip between her teeth. Set the glass down. She reached, but didn’t commit. Hesitant. And… curious.
Then, with a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, she slid her hand into his.
Warm.
Silken heat without flame.
His smirk deepened. He said nothing at first. Just let her feel it—the weight of the moment, the pull of her choice, the way her skin sparked where he touched her.
The way her pulse gave her away.
“There she is.” He murmured, tone smooth, pleased.
He lifted her hand to his lips. Not to kiss. Just to breathe against it.
Slowly.
Intentionally.
“Such obedient little fingers. I wonder…” He turned her palm over, traced a lazy circle with the tip of his claw. “…will the rest of you follow so easily?”
She resisted the flutter of her lids. The touch on her palm was dangerously alluring.
“I’m not usually… obedient,” she managed, her voice smaller than intended.
He grinned like sin. “Oh, sweetheart. No one is—until they’re begging to be.”
He stepped forward, backing her toward the bed until the edge hit the backs of her knees.
And there he waited. Not pushing, waiting.
His words were honey-rich: “Last chance to tell me no. Say the word, and I’ll vanish like a dream. Say nothing—and I’ll make you forget how to speak.”
The words didn’t come. She didn’t nod. Didn’t whisper yes.
He expected hesitation. A flick of her gaze to defuse the tension, a breath to delay the inevitable.
Instead, she met his eyes and leaned in. Chin tilted. Throat bared. The most ancient kind of surrender.
That was all the invitation he needed.
His mouth ghosted over her neck—not kissing, not yet. Just hovering. Letting her feel the absence of touch.
Teasing her skin with breath, with heat, with that maddening control.
There was something beneath her scent. Beneath the slow burn of lust, concealed by mortal desperation.
Older. Far too familiar.
And maybe that should have bothered him.
It didn’t.
“Good girl,” he murmured, warm breath fanning across sensitized skin.
Her knees buckled at the sensation. Only slightly, but enough.
He caught her effortlessly, one hand at her lower back, the other still cradling her palm. Not to restrain, but to anchor.
“I want to hear you say it,” he murmured. “Just once. Let me hear you admit it—you’re not saying no, because your body is screaming yes.”
She opened her mouth to deny it. To defy him. To fight the heat that coiled sharp and low between her legs. She wanted to say something clever. Something biting.
Because she was not submissive, this was her summoning. Her command. But he compelled her like she already belonged to him. And gods help her— She wanted to.
“Please,” she whispered, barely audible.
One word—and he was molten.
The world around her tilted, and in a blink, she was beneath him.
He didn’t shove. He carried, lowering her onto the mattress like an offering already made.
He straddled her hips, trailing a claw along her collarbone. Not to break skin. He was testing. Exploring how furiously her heart would thrash against the cage of her ribs.
Reverent. Predatory. A storm in human form.
That claw trailed up her throat, her breath catching as it eased over her pulse, tracing the gentle line of her jaw.
A threat in shape, not in intent. He pressed the pad of his thumb to her lips, parting them just slightly. Enough to see the faint gleam of her set teeth.
“Such lovely manners you have.” He purred, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger and stooping toward her.
“We’re going to ruin them, you and I.”
And when he finally kissed her, it wasn’t rushed.
It was a slow, devastating unraveling.
He claimed her mouth with practiced decadence. Not a kiss. A lesson—in the measured burn of desire, in the tight pull of need coiling low in her belly. Lips coaxing, not consuming, like she was a forbidden delicacy finally ready to taste.
She tried to keep up. To match him. Overtake him, even.
But he wouldn’t let her.
His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face with unhurried authority.
The message was clear: Slow down. Follow my lead.
And gods help her—
She did.
He didn’t have to coax her lips apart. She did it for him. Breathless. Unthinking.
His tongue swept in—not greedy, but thorough.
He moved like a man with all the time in the world, savoring every inch of her.
He hummed, a sound like thunder beneath his breath, lips brushing hers as he murmured,
“You burn so beautifully.”
One hand drifted over her chest, fingers tracing the soft curve of her through her shirt.
Not groping.
Just circling.
Claiming.
“Clothes. On or off, darling?” He asked softly.
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
He smiled, teeth sharp and dazzling. “You summoned a demon. I ask only once.”
Heat flushed through her. “Off.”
His hands were rough, reverent. But he didn’t tear. Didn’t rip. He unbuttoned. Unzipped. Undressed her with devastating patience, like he was unwrapping a secret meant only for him.
She choked on her own breath when he reached bare skin, palms gliding up her ribs, thumbs grazing just beneath her breasts.
He paused.
“I want to worship,” he murmured. “Not just fuck.”
She shuddered softly—almost a tremble.
He lowered his mouth to her sternum, kissing the space between her breasts. His hands moved—one up, one down.
One cupped her breast, fingers curling around the softness. Then his mouth found her lips, closing over a pebbled peak, drawing it in with slow, deliberate hunger.
A press of teeth. The warmth of his tongue. The steady pull of his mouth.
Her back arched into him, a gasp tearing from her lips before she could stop it.
His lips blazed a path downward, over her midriff, heaving with each ragged inhale. Slow enough to torment.
He looked up. His eyes no longer glowed. They smoldered.
“This is your chance to stop me.” His breath skimmed her skin like a whisper made flesh. “Or let me ruin you.”
Clawed fingertips drifted below her navel. Lower.
Her lungs were barely keeping pace. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.
He descended on her like smoke—slow, heavy, everywhere at once. His mouth followed the path his fingers had mapped, kissing along the cradle of her hips. Each brush of his lips struck like a live wire—electric. Pulsing.
She gasped.
He grinned against her, voice rough, like velvet dragged through coals. “That’s it. Deep breaths, darling.”
He parted her thighs with patience that bordered on cruel, letting the weight of her own anticipation steep until it ached in her bones. No rush. No hunger he couldn’t control.
Only intent.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then lower. Then lower still—each a silent command: Feel this. Only this. Nothing else exists but the places I touch.
She bit back a whimper, lips pressed in a tight line, fingers twisting in the bedcovers.
His hands slid low on her thighs. He paused at her center. And exhaled, slow and hot, against the slickness waiting for him.
The sound that bled from her was one she didn’t recognize. Dark. Animalistic.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Just let the heat of his breath fan across her weeping sex, watching her squirm beneath the weight of her own need.
Her thighs trembled gently against his palms. She smelled of hunger unabated. Primal.
“You’re trembling,” he said, dark amusement threading through his voice. “You want this. You’re desperate. And that frightens you.”
Her exhale was a hiss through her teeth. “And you’re smug.”
He chuckled—deep, decadent. “I’ve been called worse. Usually right before they come apart.”
And then he did touch her. With mouth. With tongue. With the kind of focus that didn’t feel human.
Because it wasn’t.
No fumbling. No guessing. Just steady rhythm. Slow enough to keep her on the edge. Skilled enough that she begged him to end the torment.
When her hips bucked, he gripped her thighs. Firm. Commanding.
“No darling,” he murmured against her. “You’ll stay right here. Right where I want you. You called me. Now you’ll take me.”
Her moan cracked—raw, broken.
And still he didn’t stop. Not harder. Not faster. But deeper. Pulling her open with every stroke.
His tongue pressed against her entrance, just enough to push inside, tasting her nectar straight from the source.
And when he moved up, it was with precision, flicking against her swollen clit with the kind of expertise she’d only dared dream of.
He worshiped her like he meant it. Every flick. Every press of his tongue, deliberate. Practiced. Patient.
Her hands coiled through his hair. The grip that held her still finally loosened. He let her roll her hips against his mouth.
But it was his tempo she followed.
And when she came—gods, when she broke—she said his name without knowing she knew it.
A name not spoken in this realm for centuries. A name that burned the air when it passed her lips.
Vael.
He stilled. Mouth pressed to her. Reverent. And smiled.
“Well. That certainly changes things.”
