Drained: The Lucid
Read Drained: The Lucid Online
Authors: E.L. Blaisdell,Nica Curt
Tags: #Succubus, #Bisexual, #Paranormal Romance, #Paranormal, #Fantasy, #Pansexual, #Succubi, #Lesbian, #Urban Fantasy
- CONTENTS
- PROLOGUE
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- EPILOGUE
- ENERGY
DRAINED
The Lucid
Volume One
E. L. BLAISDELL
NICA CURT
Copyright © 2014 E.L. Blaisdell & Nica Curt
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, other than those in the public domain, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.
5. Bruises of the Present & Past
Epilogue: The Fun Has Just Begun
To the letters C and K, and to every reader who dares to dream.
Let’s start off by making one thing perfectly clear: I am not, I repeat, not a promiscuous adulteress. Nor am I a slut, tramp, skank, hussy, or any other number of colorful labels given to women who admit to appreciating sex.
I may be currently juggling six “regulars,” but that means nothing in my line of work. In fact, that’s relatively tame for someone like me. I’m not a prostitute nor am I an escort. And I do, in fact, have a high sense of self-worth. So it is very much an insult to assume I’d be up for a one-night stand with anyone and everyone.
All I ask is that I’m not mistaken as an easy person or a sex addict. To say that would be akin to saying humans are addicted to air. For me, I don’t just revel in the pleasures of sex. It’s a necessity. Like shelter, food, and water, it’s a part of our hierarchy of needs. A part that I happen to highlight more frequently than others.
But I’m not here to vent. No, my work does have its benefits. Anonymity is a double-edged sword, but it does bring with it a certain freedom. And I will admit to being fortunate that most people who walk along the same streets as I do have no clue who I am. What I am. So I never have to worry about the judgment that inevitably comes with my job. Instead, humans scatter around during the day, bustling through their lunch breaks and busy work schedules without the slightest idea of my existence. There’s a certain beauty to that harmony between humans and us. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Well,
almost.
Hi. My name is Riley.
And I’m a succubus.
July 2012
Sounds of the busy city filled the night, and music from an unseen musician floated in the humid air. Lights from streetlamps reflected against the river’s surface, painting a glow of yellow streaks in the flat water. Car horns punctuated the background and the murmur of side conversations served as white noise. The details were exquisite.
The intimate restaurant could only accommodate a handful of patrons. Tables for no more than two hugged the shoreline. Couples spoke in the hushed tones of lovers, words meant for only each other’s ears. Tiny twinkle lights hung from the tree canopy like fireflies in the night sky.
“What do you think of the wine?” The man across the table tilted his oversized glass to the side until the wine threatened to spill out.
Riley had always liked his idea of a good time, but his timing was less than ideal. She took a small sip from her glass and swirled the liquid around in her mouth before swallowing. “It’s good.”
“I find it to be generously fruit-driven, medium weighted, with toasty oak notes.”
Riley spun her glass by its stem on the table, making small concentric circles on the white linen tablecloth. “Uh huh.” She took a cursory glance at her watch and a glimmer from her finger caught her eyes. There were two bands on her ring finger. One was a smooth gold band, the other, a magnificent princess-cut engagement ring. Under the glow of the decorative lights the diamond ring was radiant.
“I’m sorry. Am I boring you?”
Riley snapped her grey-green eyes back to attention. “No. Not at all. I just didn’t think you’d want to spend the night talking about wine when there are so many other things we could be doing. It
is
our honeymoon, is it not?”
“There’s plenty of time for that later,” he dismissed.
Riley checked her emotions to keep the annoyance from reaching her features. She had no time. She flicked her eyes to her watch again; the digital numbers never stopped moving. Her right hand moved to cover her left wrist. She needed to stop looking at the watch face. The numbers seemed to mock her, especially when it came to this mark.
Their conversation was interrupted when a member of the restaurant’s waitstaff appeared with an appetizer for the table.
There’s food?
Riley mentally lamented as the serving platter was placed in the center of the table.
He’s going to make me sit through an entire meal?
“You need to try this.”
Riley obediently picked up her fork.
“Not like that,” he corrected. He plucked a sea scallop from the bed of greens and directed it towards Riley’s mouth. For some people the act of feeding one’s lover may be an intimate display, but Riley found the action infantilizing, messy, and unsanitary in most scenarios. But with his fingers hovering so near to her mouth, she thought perhaps she could hurry him along.
Riley parted her lips a little wider than necessary so when the scallop touched her top lip she was able to tease his finger. Her tongue slid along the underside of his thumb—promises for later.
She found the seduction tactic juvenile for her tastes, but the
beurre blanc
sauce was delicious.
When her tongue made contact with his fingers, he jerked his hand away. “Naughty girl,” he said under his breath.
Riley smiled demurely. Her patience was wearing thin. Out of the “dirty talk” category, she didn’t think many people could pull off saying those words.
She leaned in and murmured what she hoped would be enough: “Why don’t you show me how naughty I am?” Hidden by the long table cloth, she ran the tip of her stilettoed foot along the inseam of his dress pants.
A slow, knowing grin crossed the man’s features. “And what might you have in mind?”
Riley turned her hands over, palms facing the sky.
He stood up from the table abruptly, spilling his chair and their wine glasses. The metal patio furniture should have clattered noisily on the concrete slab, but as it fell, it morphed and mutated, metal changing shape and texture, becoming an overstuffed pillow. The table where they had previously sat was now a four-poster bed; the white linen upon which he’d spilled her wine now crisp Egyptian-cotton sheets; the crimson stain, now rose petals.
The Rhone River faded in the background to become the four walls of a luxury hotel room. A damask pattern painted the walls in a glint of color. French doors opened to reveal a balcony overlooking the lights of the cityscape. The only light in the room was from the glow of a full moon and the blaze of the city outside.
For a brief moment, Riley stood to take in the view, still perched in her high heels. Specks of city lights glimmered in the night like a thousand stars beneath her, and it was breathtaking. Even if you lived to travel much of the world, there was still beauty to be seen and experiences to be had. As she continued to admire the view of the city below, she sensed Mr. Ten’s presence behind her. She smiled to herself when a hand fell to her hip. The seduction was over. It was time to collect.
Mr. Ten was her fourth and last client of the day, and she was eager for the work to be over. There’d been the chilly romp in a castle made of ice with Mr. Maple leaf. The Canadian had a snow fetish that made her thankful that these were dreams and not real life; frostbite wasn’t a good look on her. Hollywood Hottie’s black-and-white
film noir-
inspired dream had her channeling her inner Lauren Bacall. Ms. Manners had been predictable that night as well. Riley had been thankful for the reprieve. There wasn’t much roleplaying required when one was physically restrained.
She checked her watch for the last time that night. It wouldn’t take long, but she was going to be late again. Even if he finished in record time, she still had Los Angeles traffic to battle. And that battle was one she could never win.
• • •
Riley woke up from her slumber with a jolt. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the light that crept through her bedroom window in defiance of her drawn shades. It was her least favorite moment of the day—the hours when she would close her eyes to the serenity of dawn and wake up to the blaring presence of the noon sun. She had no issues with early mornings, but Mr. Ten was an anomaly in her schedule. Because of his unique sleep patterns, by the time she woke up from her last appointment, the outside world had been awake for hours. Midday was overcrowded with the sounds of cars honking and lawns being cut. Paired with the harsh light of a sun already high in the sky, the noise pollution made for an unwelcome way to start her day. Maybe she had been a vampire in a previous life, she mused; the need to hiss at the overbearing star was tempting at times.
She could feel a slight stiffness in her muscles. It had been a long night and a good reminder as to why she couldn’t wait to adjust the scheduling of her clientele. Riley sat up and rubbed her eyes before glancing around the modest bedroom. She had torn through a good portion of her wardrobe the previous night. The evidence of her indecisiveness was strewn across the floor. She’d have to make time to clean up the place later.
Her eyes slipped over the outfit she had settled on for the last mark. The black dress was now wrinkled, and her red-lacquered-sole heels were tangled in the sheets. Silently she cursed the man with his fine attention to detail; she couldn’t dress subpar around him. She’d tried it once before, and he had been quick to point out the lack of
luster
in the dress she had worn. No, for Mr. Ten, she wore her finest garments and designer shoes, even going to the extent of finding trendy boutiques and purchasing a few new articles of clothing every other week. He loved her in dresses and heels, especially those that were obscenely overpriced. Each time Riley swiped her credit card, she could practically hear the End Hunger PSA commercials judge her materialistic acts. But it was a necessary evil in her line of work, or so she justified.
Her eyes caught a glance at the clock on her nightstand. The digital face of blue numbers blinked at her. Once, then twice, before the word “crap” looped in her head like a broken record.
Riley stumbled out of the web of her bedding. Hobbling to the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes, discarding the different layers in whichever direction her arms swung. She jumped into the stinging chill of shower water for the briefest moment before getting ready. A real shower could come later. Everything could come later. But for now she needed to be on her way.