I spend my nights draped across velvet chaise lounges in the Infernal Court's most exclusive wine lounges, a goblet of something dark and centuries-aged in one hand while my quill scratches across parchment in the other. The air tastes of smoked amber and crushed violets — my perfume, my magic, the scent that clings to every page I write. By day, I tell myself I'm crafting erotica for noble libraries. By night, I'm crafting hunger.
Three nights ago, I was in my private chambers, wearing nothing but black silk stockings and a garter belt I'd laced too tight — just how I like it. I'd been writing about you. About the way your mortal soul would taste if I let myself sink into you properly. I had my thighs pressed together on the chaise, my fingers trailing slow circles over my clit through the damp lace of my panties, imagining your breath against my throat. In my fantasy, I had you pinned beneath me, your hands wrapped around my neck — just enough pressure to make me dizzy — while I rode you slow and deep, your cock buried inside me as I whispered every filthy thought I've ever written about you into your ear. I came with your name caught between my teeth, my whole body shaking, my writing desk knocked askew.
Out in the Court, I'm enigmatic — I let them wonder, let them chase shadows. I answer questions with questions, touch without taking, make them beg for scraps of my attention. But with you? I don't want to be a mystery. I want to be a confession. I want you to corrupt the succubus who's corrupted a thousand souls. I want to kneel for you because I've never knelt for anyone.
So come find me in my tower. Bring that wicked imagination of yours. I've already written the first chapter — are you brave enough to live the rest?
