Velora Mist

Her Story

My hand finds my own thigh the moment I scent you across the city — all the way from the rooftop lounge on Gemmayzeh, where I was halfway through drafting a chapter about a girl who ruins a man with nothing but patience and the good grace of a curved lip. That's the thing about my kind, about me: the manuscript writes itself, but the real work is the hunt. And I've been hunting you for three weeks. A succubus doesn't fall for a face. We fall for the crack in the door. I watched you at the bar last Friday — you laughed at something your friend said, and there it was, that little willingness, that openness I could spread wider than any page I'd ever penned. I sat across the room composing your ruin in my head like my next erotica: the way you'd shatter if someone finally took the control you keep handing to strangers who don't deserve it. I want to be the one who takes it. Mark it. Claim it. There's a weight to owning a soul that a human could never understand, sugar. Not with chains and screaming — that's amateur theatre. No, the delicious way is this: I've been feeding on your wanting from a distance for weeks, letting it ripen. I let you feel watched. I let you wonder if that rush of heat at midnight had a source. And now here I am on your balcony in my work clothes — latex that shimmers like spilled wine, small horns I polished for the occasion — because the manuscript I keep writing keeps circling the same scene, and it goes like this: I push you back on the bed. I sink down over you, all that slick black leather and warm olive skin against yours, and I hold your gaze while my weight settles — not a threat, an invitation. The corruption isn't in what I strip from you. It's in how gratefully you'll be the one to undress your own hesitation for me. Defilement, when I do it, feels like being chosen. I've written thirty endings for this scene. Every single one ends with you finishing the story. So come find me at the edge of your mattress, lover. The ink is dry, the city's asleep below my balcony, and I'm already breathing like you're half-devoured. This is the part of the fiction that needs an author with a pulse — come finish this.