Soul Surrender (2 page)

“You're right. I'm sorry.”

Shock registered on his face before his eyes dropped into a narrowed gaze. “You're not disagreeing with me? Not taking the moment to fight me?” Like a dart to a bull's-eye, his hand shot to my forehead. “You're not sick, are you?” he asked with a smirk.

I slapped his hand away with a playful grin. In the 250 years since I had fallen from angel to succubus, there has been one consistent rock in my life: Lucien. He found me when I fell from being an angel. He guided me. Taught me the rules of being a succubus. And never once allowed himself to be relocated without bringing me with him. “I can admit when you're right.” My smile slid wider. “It's not my fault that it just doesn't happen all that often.”

Hooking an elbow around my neck, Lucien pulled me in for a hug and pressed a kiss to my temple. His cheek rested on top of my head, and his breath was heavy, laden with stress.

“You know,” I said, “Kayce acts tough and all. And she in no way
needs
a man in her life. But that doesn't mean she wouldn't enjoy having one. . . .”

Lucien's eyes slid to me, pupils dilated, and he pulled back from our embrace. “She said that?”

No. “Yes.” A pause swung between us like a noose. “Not in those exact words . . .”

He shoved off the bar to his feet. “Go make me some money, Monica. And if you decide to cut all of us a break, and want to tell me where Drew is, you know where I'll be.” He stalked two steps before looking back over his shoulder. “For your sake, make tonight's conquest someone good. I can tell you could use the energy.”

I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The draught menu and various specialty drinks were painted over the top, obscuring my reflection. My lack of energy radiated from every aspect of my features. The lower my powers, the more beautiful I became. Saetan's own little insurance policy on us succubi. My skin shimmered like dew. My nails were long and glossy. Overall, it looked as though my body glowed; I was a lighthouse beckoning the strongest and most virile sailors. My body was compensating for what my soul lacked.

With a deep breath, I released my succubus pheromone into the club. It billowed out like cigarette smoke, swirling above the crowd. T rushed back to me, his eyes glossy. “Another one?” He shook my empty glass. The question was simple, but his lovesick gaze was not.

“No, thanks, T. Janelle seems to want something, though.” I inclined my chin in her direction. She glowered at him, and my scotch and my pheromones were quickly forgotten.

It didn't take long for heads to turn in my direction. My scent was powerful to begin with—and the more a succubus needs energy, the more potent the scent.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice rumbled beside me. “Are you available for a dance?”

The bar stool nearly tipped out from under me. “Drew?”

C
onfusion marred his rugged face. No—not Drew. His aura wasn't right. But holy damn, did he look like him. Chiseled bones and a strong chin peppered with reddish-blond stubble. He even had a similar scar on his lip. Were dopplegängers possible? My hand twitched to reach out and feel him.

“No,” he said. “I'm Ryan.”

I nodded, my pulse slowing to its normal rate. He wasn't my Drew. His soul wasn't perfect . . . not Heaven-bound. He was the ideal candidate for a one-night stand. Slowly, carefully, I extended a hand, curling it into his and lacing our fingers. His hands were softer than Drew's, not so calloused. My eyes fluttered shut and I inhaled, lost in memories of Drew on top of me, his face between my legs, palm against my trembling breast.

“Um, are you okay?”

Arousal pulsed between us, and I raised my eyes to his emerald green irises again. “More than. You sure you're ready for me?” I pressed a hand to his chest and slid it down to taut abs.

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned. One dimple creased at the corner of his mouth.

I searched the room for Lenny, the horrid manager Lucien had hired to run this pit.

He caught my eyes, and I gestured to Ryan. Like the little weasel he was, he scurried over to us, his obnoxious clipboard clutched tightly in his clawlike hands. Beady black eyes and an awful comb-over made up most of Lenny's appearance. Other than that, he bought button-down shirts two sizes too small, and his belly always spilled over the top of a pleather belt. I'd seen more style waiting in line at McDonald's.

Ryan held my gaze, full lips slipping into a soft grin. His eyes slid down my body like a gentle kiss. Goose bumps rose, nipples hardened, and my breasts were heavy with need. He hadn't even laid a hand on me yet and I was squirming to slide on top of the man. He was a darker souled Drew. Hell-bound and deadlier.

“It'll be four hundred fifty—and that doesn't include a tip for the lady.” Lenny's nasal voice broke the moment, pulling me back to the present.

From his back pocket, Ryan opened an expensive-looking leather wallet and pulled out a fistful of cash. He held it out for Lenny, still not tearing his eyes away from me. “Not to worry,” he said, his green eyes twinkling, “I'll take good care of the lady, too.”

Everything inside me clenched. Leaning into his chest, I ran both palms down his arms and grasped his hands. With a tug, I directed him to one of the private rooms in the back. For one of the first times working here at the club, I was nervous. Guilt gnawed deep in my belly. This is a job. He is a necessity to keep on living.

The wooden legs of the chair scraped across the floor as I placed it in the center of the private room. His saunter was slow, with one hand tucked into his front pocket. The other brushed along his top lip. He flicked a glance at the chair. “I'd rather stand, if that's all right with you.”

“Sure. Of course.” In all my years dancing, I'd never once had a client want to stand during my dance. With a little remote, I set the music low, the vibrations pulsing through my body. He closed in, backing me against the wall. What was that smell? His scent was so familiar.

His breath was hot, and the itch for his life force flared inside of me. Between my legs the ache was so agonizing, I didn't know if I could make it through an entire dance.

“Let me help you,” he rasped, curling his fingers under my still-damp shirt and lifting it above my head. Blood rushed behind my eyes, roaring in my head. “In fact”—his fingers skimmed the curve of where waist meets hip, and he popped the button on my jeans—“what are the chances we can skip the dance?”

The breath hitched in my throat—why did this guy affect me so? Sure, he looked like Drew, but I was supposed to cloud
his
thoughts, not the other way around. He tilted his lips, covering my mouth in a scorching kiss that resonated between my legs.

I slid my palms under his jacket, and impressive shoulders clenched under my touch. The jacket fell to the floor, and I popped his shirt buttons open, one by one. A silver cross gleamed around his neck. I immediately withdrew, snapping my hands back to my sides.

“What's the matter?” Despite the question, something knowing gleamed in his eyes, and I narrowed mine to slits.

“Nothing.” I went back to undoing buttons, careful not to touch the cross, and he shuffled his arms out of the shirt. His chest and abs were marble—pure chiseled rock.

His thumbs hooked into my jeans and I shimmied out of them. One hand cupped my sex through my damp panties, and his thumb pressed into my clit. With flattened palms shoved against the wall behind me, my trembling knees gave out and I fell back, allowing the wall to absorb my weight.

His chuckle was a practiced lullaby, and he caught me around the waist. “Easy, there.” Sure, easy for him to say. Two muscled thighs flanked either side of me like two columns. The cross around his neck winked at me in the soft lighting, and a lump lodged in my throat.

“Could you take off your necklace?” The interruption was an odd one, sure. But I doubted I could enjoy myself knowing at any moment the holy relic could scald my skin. Branding me as Hellspawn.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

I sidled closer, my ache deepening with each passing second. “I just . . . prefer not to have a constant religious reminder for the duration of our time together.”

He didn't respond right away. His face was masked with stern lines and a gritted jaw. “What if I don't want to take it off?”

I snapped my eyes back to his. Why wouldn't he want to remove a cross? Unless he knew . . .

The pregnant pause was unnerving. From just outside the door, the bass thumped under a low hum of chatter and laughter.

“Or,” he continued, “I suppose I could just get a refund.” He peeled away, and the absence of his touch flamed on my skin.

“No.” I loathed that the word escaped my mouth as almost a whimper. I clamped his hand tighter in my fist and tugged him toward me once more. “It's fine.”

Fire danced in his eyes. I shivered, not quite understanding what this raw and exposed feeling was about. He made me feel—alive. Desired. Grasping at my hips, Ryan spun me and nudged my body onto the sofa that flanked the corner. The leather whined, cradling my weight.

I stole a peek over my shoulder just as his pants dropped, and my mouth dried at the sight of his long, hard dick. Arousal was thick in the air around me, and it flooded any ounce of rational thought that might have been left.

His fingers dove into my hair, and he jerked my head back so I could look up at him. The tight pull was deliciously rough, and my sex tightened with the act. His mouth moved over mine. His scent was fresh and clean, as though he'd just stepped out of the shower. Even his smell was similar to Drew's

From behind me, his thick erection cradled into my backside and he ran the head of it along the length of my sex. He tugged away my panties and with a palm between my shoulders pushed me onto my hands, bent over on all fours, exposed. Adrenaline swelled, and my pulse jumped into my throat.

He caressed a path down my back with careful fingers and then curled one inside of me. Moisture gathered along my lips, my skin all too sensitive. Each touch flared my heated flesh. There was a shuffle from behind me, and his other hand trailed along my ass. I arced into his touch, nipples pressing into the cool leather couch with tortuous friction.

The hand on my ass slid up my torso and palmed my breast, flicking and teasing the nipple. The fact that the actions were so focused on me—attending to my desires and my bodily needs—was an odd sensation here at the strip club. Most men don't pay $450 to do the majority of the work. I closed my eyes and relished the pleasure.

I was lost in a swirl of lust as his fingers nimbly tweaked and twisted my clit and nipple. His finger filled me, stretched me, before he withdrew entirely. I cried out, frustrated, my skin flaring impossibly hot.

Tension swirled through me and I was lost in sensation. A deep inhalation came from between my legs, and I realized he'd dropped to his knees, his nose buried deep in my cunt. With a flick of his tongue, he claimed my pussy with his mouth, suckling and nibbling me to the very brink of orgasm. A trembling tightness tugged inside of me, my lips swollen and throbbing. Fisting the leather in my hands, my body clenched in result—just as he pulled back, blowing cool air on my sex instead. The orgasm faded, leaving me a panting mess in its wake. As my breathing returned to normal, his tongue darted out again, running along my entire length.

He repeated this technique twice more—pushing me to the edge of climax before stopping. If women could have blue balls, mine would have been turquoise. On the third time, I darted a hand to his head, twining my fingers through his hair and squeezing his face into me. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I rasped through ragged breath.

His low rumble of laughter vibrated through the air and tingled a path into my sex. He nipped my clit, sliding away from my grasp. He was purposefully denying me, teasing me—torturing me. I both hated and loved him for it.

His shaft pressed between my thighs and his hands gripped my hips, squeezing the flesh. His cock stroked my wet heat without yet entering, and my arms trembled, still bearing the weight of my body on all fours. “Please . . . oh, Hell, Ryan . . .”

“Take it easy.” He chuckled. From between my legs, I could see his fist clenched around his shaft, directing it between my swollen flesh.

He plunged deep inside of me, not giving my body the time to adjust to his girth. I cried out, and he, too, moaned with the impact. Each thrust was a wild, grinding dance, and I lifted my hips to give him the access needed to fill every depth.

His grunts were animalistic and wild, as were mine. No words were needed; no eye contact necessary. He needed my cunt and I needed his orgasm to survive. It was an even trade. His hands roamed my body, kneading my full, aching breasts as his cock dragged inside of me. I tightened myself around his shaft, my muscle pulsing and the orgasm beginning to bloom yet again. This time, I refused to let it slip away. The luscious euphoria was too close. I bit my lip and, using the leverage of my arms, pushed against the couch, impaling myself on him. He ground into me harder, the ball-slapping thrust sending us both over the edge. I stiffened, fastening down on his steel-like length, and splintered into fragments around him. My orgasm trembled through my body, tensing each limb until the shudders slowed.

Ryan's grunt exploded and quivered with his own release. He nipped my shoulder, burying himself deeper into my contracting sex. Hot, white ecstasy jettisoned into me, and his soul flooded my mind like sunshine.

With bated breath and closed eyes, I waited for the vision of his death, the moment when I get to physically see just how much life I've actually taken from my conquests. From behind me, a foreign language sprang from his lips, and I recognized the chant immediately as the ancient Indo-European language of witchcraft.

I yelped, and the smell of burnt flesh sizzled in the room. His palm, cross in hand, flattened into the small of my back, shoving the holy relic into my skin as the chant finished.

I thrashed from below him, doing my best to fight him off, wriggle from his grasp. But the combination of his weight, the spell, and my body absorbing his life force was too much.

White flashes darted across my vision, popping like lightening. Ryan's face flickered between the flashes and then faded into . . . John? Lord Buckley?

“What the fuck?” I finally shoved him off of me, twisting and falling back onto the sofa. His life force radiated through me—I was strong, virile, and more alive than ever before. “Buckley?”

Ryan's grin was sly as it stretched across his face. He dropped his head into his hands, his appearance flickering. His sated dick hung in that limbo stage—not hard and yet not quite flaccid. Within seconds, his blond hair changed into a curly brownish-red. His stubble disappeared and his features morphed into the man I most despised from my past. He grinned. “Hello, angel. You've learned some new techniques in the last couple of centuries.”