Chapter One
“Would you like a glass of wine?” his voice is smokey. His apartment is dark, but welcoming in its own way. A relic of an older academic, much older than he appears. No, he’s the quintessential young, dreamy professor, with his dark brown tousled hair that he can’t seem to stop running his hands through. His eyes a warm chocolate brown, his skin almost pallid it’s so pale. A smattering of facial hair that never seems to grow beyond that, and that half smirk that must melt the co-eds.
Fortunately for me, I was not one of those swoony co-eds, not that he knew that. That is the point, afterall.
I nod as I look up at him through my eyelashes. Apparently that’s sexy, and that’s what I’m doing here, being sexy as fuck. Squelching the almost insurmountable urge to gag at myself I say, “I’d like that, professor.”
“Now, now, Veronica, didn’t I ask you to call me James? Tsk tsk.” His sole dimple reveals itself as he smiles then heads to the kitchen. And yes, he legitimately said “tsk tsk.” Jesus this guy was a douche, and he’s supposed to be the good one.
I roll my eyes behind his back and follow him in then change my demeanor back to the flirtatious co-ed. “But what if I like calling you professor?” I look at him through my eyelashes, using the smolder that makes them all believe that I’m lusting for them. Why are men so easy?
He half smirks, that dimple peeking out. He was a genuinely attractive man, if only he wasn’t also certifiably insane and a menace.He’s pulled out two wine glasses and a bottle of Syrah. At least he has good taste in wine.
Then again, he is utterly brilliant. No, he really is. He has two PhDs, an MD, and his JD. Genuinely brilliant. It’s just that he can’t control the other guy. And nothing he’s done in his demented labs has done anything to correct his “issue.” I have wondered if he’s not trying to fix it as much as control it so he can still use the other guy, as he wishes it. Regardless, they have to go. Both of them. I need to figure out how to make it happen. So often I wish I had different skills, but I don’t. My mother swore to me that the remnants of what our family did is out of our blood, but that’s impossible. If it was, I would be able to handle business the old fashioned way. Alas, here I am, attempting to seduce a super genius with massive issues.
He led me to a dark brown leather couch. His apartment screamed dark academia; bookshelves lined every wall packed full, with additional books laying down on each shelf. The only light was a dimmed lamp in the corner above a comfortable looking red-brown chair with a plaid blanket folded over the top. It was the quintessential professor pad. He nailed it for sure.
I sat down on the couch, which was more comfortable than anticipated, and he sat a little too closely to me. That actually helps me with my plan, but it’s irksome. I keep almost losing my game face. Just because he looks normal. Doesn’t mean I can treat him as such.
He begins prattling on about the art show we saw. I lightly begin tracing circles on his knee with my fingernails, holding his eye contact. His eyes darken at the touch and I know I’ve got him, it’s just a matter of time.
I lick my lips and see his eyes flash down to them. I can almost see the difficulty he’s having with keeping his eyes on mine. It’s adorable. When my fingertips graze higher on his thigh his breath hitches. I bite my lip while dragging it closer to the hardness stretching his pants. Looking down at my fingers position I watch my nail lightly trace the outline of his now very hard cock.
Only then did I notice he had stopped talking so I slowly raised my eyes to his. The heat rose inside me, I could feel his arousal inside my own chest.
Our chests began to rise and fall in sync more rapidly. This is good. He’s more susceptible than I thought he’d be. Much more like a human than a supernatural.
I throw my leg over his lap to straddle him, never breaking eye-contact, our breath becoming slower and deeper. In time with our breathing I begin to rock my hips slowly over his lap, feeling down the soft, fine fabric of his dress shirt, easily opening each button down his torso. Sliding my hips down and feeling his hardness against my own center. People think that when it’s a job then you no longer get aroused. Let me tell you, those people are wrong, well for me at least. I sometimes think it only works when I do become hot and bothered. It’s not a horrible job. And say what you will about the supernaturals, they have loads of sex appeal, even the hideous ones. I can’t explain it. Something to do with the blood I’d wager.
Slowly rolling my hips on his surprisingly sizeable bulge, I’m desperate to stoke my own desire and make that achingly delicious climb over the summit of an orgasm. Oh I’ll get there, but he has to take me over the hill. One of the biggest pains in the ass about my ability, I can’t be the one to make it happen – my victim has to. It has a certain poetic irony or tragedy to it.
Finding my groove I focus intention in my eyes and it begins to pull him in to me, not so much physically, but his soul was being drawn from his core.Pushing out my own to meet his soul, the searing heat that explodes inside me always takes my breath away, but I focus on the heat not the pain. It’s the heat that speaks to me. The way it ebbs and flows in concert with our shared breath. Linking us, our breath, and our souls allows me to reach inside him.
The sheer intimacy of soul-touching is painful, almost too painful to maintain for longer than a second. Supernaturals can hold it longer than humans. I can hold it for longer, despite my humanity. From what I got out of my ancestor’s journals, our blood has been altered and we can withstand a great deal more than most humans. So I held his, feeling the colors and emotions that flowed between us both. You could know a person better than anything alive through this process; their darkest desires, their deepest regrets, their fantasies, and their joys.
This one I knew would be different. I can taste his age, smell his power, and it’s making my arousal heighten. Breathing more deeply, I reached in to touch the enormous darkness he had pressed deep. It was made of chaos and anger, consumed with pain and rejection.
It felt like a hand gripped my throat, slowly applying pressure. It wasn’t trying to choke me or harm me. No, it felt exploratory, like this hand was doing what my mind was doing – searching for something. I felt digits move up my jaw, stroking up my cheek, and then combing through my hair, though it felt like wind blowing it back.
In an instant it was gone and I was left with a desperate need for glory, for recognition for all of my work, all my deeds. I needed someone to acknowledge me. This feeling was closing in on me, making my heart rake spike and my breathing to falter, which broke the soul-touch.
The immediate release of a soul-touch feels like a catapult hit you center mass with a sharp and painful blow to the chest.
I gasped and sputtered, still straddling the professor’s lap. He shook his head and looked at me in confused surprise. “L – let me g – get you some water.” He stammered while removing me from his lap.
Damnit. That didn’t go as planned.
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