INCUBUS

CHAPTER 2

He had long fingernails.

She couldn't see them in the dark, couldn't even seem to open her eyes, but she knew they were long. He was using them on her, lightly tickling her nipples with them.

She couldn't move. She couldn't stop him, she assured herself. But it was just the tips, the very tips of her nipples that he touched with those nails, flicking them again and again until she squirmed. Her belly tightened, and a fluttering feeling began in her abdomen, stirring up a liquid heat that seeped between her thighs.

And still he grazed just the peaks, even when she lifted her breasts in offering, even when she crossed her legs and tightened the muscles to keep the heat from possessing her. It was frustratingly delicious, like a drop of water on the tongue during a fever, and just as unsatisfactory.

It was driving her insane.

She rolled onto her back, giving him full access to her, and felt the heavy weight of his body against hers, pinning her to the bed.

And still those maddening fingernails played just the nipples, faster and faster now, refusing to touch any other part of her.

"It's not enough," she ground out, her hips beginning a slow, helpless gyration. "I want ..."

"Yes, Serafina," he whispered above her, his deep voice urging her on. "Tell me what you want."

"I want ..."

She was nearly breathless now, tingling with an energy that made her afraid, that settled and burned at the apex of her thighs, that made her ache to be touched. "I want ... MORE!"

His huge hands abruptly seized her sensitized breasts, grabbing them with a possessive strength that made her gasp and sit...

... Straight up in the bed.

She stumbled into the bathroom, clicking on the blinding light and shoveling cold water onto her face with shaking hands.

Something was wrong here, terribly, terribly wrong. This was not like her. She wasn't a particularly sex-oriented being. Oh, she had her occasional fantasies, her brief dreams of faceless men with useful, non-threatening genitalia.

But nothing like this. Never like this.

She didn't have dreams that left her trembling and wet, thirsting for more. She'd never been that kind of girl, and sex had never been the earth-shattering experience it was reputed to be.

She stared at the haunted face in the mirror. She'd always thought it plain. "High-yellow," her father had called it. "You couldn't possibly belong to me." She agreed. She'd always felt that, too. She didn't belong to anyone, anywhere.

"A nice mix of coffee and cream," Steve always said.

"Exquisite." Gabriel had called her "exquisite."

Sera didn't feel exquisite. She felt tired and ill-used, and shadowy crescents had formed under her eyes. She had stayed up the night before, packing and preparing for the trip. The death of Steven's cousin had been sudden and violent and, naturally, he was upset. Serafina had even driven for most of the ten-hour trip. She wanted to be a comfort to him. But twenty-four-plus hours of no sleep had taken its toll.

She apprehensively peeled back the plunging neckline of her gown and examined her breasts. The crests seemed unusually dark and taut, the skin sensitive, but there were no scratches, no abrasions.

What had she expected? It was just a dream, after all.

She quickly showered and dressed, leaving her hair to air-dry into dangling corkscrew curls. It was nearly noon. She had to get out of this house. Slipping into a good pair of denims and walking shoes, she considered making the bed, decided against it, and hurried out into the crisp afternoon air.