Page 37 of Shifted Desire

He grunts, and his release splatters onto the floor as he obediently licks me even as he comes, and that pushes me over the edge again into a limb-shaking orgasm.

A rush of energy thrums through my body, the heady mix of post-orgasm relaxation mingling with the invigoration that only good sex can give someone with succubus blood. It’s like the best hit of weed and eating my favorite dessert, but exponentially better.

A laugh bubbles out of me as I release my grip on Nathan’s head, and he looks almost drunk as he sits back on his heels, face glistening.

“Damn, you’re really good at that,” I sigh, enjoying the debauched sight of his still half-hard dick, his flushed wet face, and his rumpled clothes.

“Hard not to be when you taste so fucking good,” he rasps.

And just like that, I could go again.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to get addicted to him, but I can’t find it in me to care right now. I deserve some fun in my life.

“Then why did you stop?”

“I thought you were done,” he murmurs, and I watch as his dick twitches back to life. Impressive for a man his age, but I guess that’s part of what he’s struggling with as an unfulfilled werewolf. He’s almost as insatiable as I am.

I tug down the strap of my dress to bare my tits, palming one lazily. “Do I look done?”

“No.” His eyes flare and I let out a squeal of delight as he dives back between my thighs.

14

Today’s the day.

Samantha’s first day as my assistant.

It’s embarrassing how much I’ve been looking forward to it these past five days, time going by far too slowly as I went through the motions, praying for Monday to arrive.

I’ve never wanted it to be Monday before in my life. But now I’m at the office earlier than usual, pretending to check my emails while I anxiously wait for Samantha to arrive.

I texted her last night, the first time I’d allowed myself to since our impromptu visit to The Vault. It felt strange to spend over an hour going down on her and come twice at her feet, then go no contact, but this isn’t a relationship. She doesn’t want to chat with me in her free time, especially not when she’ll be seeing me for hours every day.

It’s not her fault that I’m lonely. I’ve managed that on my own for many, many years.

My eyes glaze over at the miasma of emails from my week without an assistant, and when I hear the faint sound of voices down the hall, I pop up from my desk chair, almost spilling the two to-go cups of coffee I got at the cafe a few blocks away.

Calm down.

I force myself back into my chair, reminding myself it’d be inappropriate to go rushing out into the hall every time I hear something. HR is confused enough about the salary request I strong-armed them into using my family name—something I’m loath to do considering they already hate me because of said name. If I bound out to greet Samantha like an eager puppy, they’d know something was up for sure. Other than the classic nepotism of hiring your best friend’s daughter, that is.

Gods, I’m getting more and more like my father with each passing year. What a depressing thought.

Made even more depressing since I can’t blame it on genetics. I used to get a kick out of the double-take people would make when I introduced myself as Nathan Dubois, yes that Dubois, but the amusement wore off after years of people only treating me with respect once they learned who my adoptive parents are.

For a while, I resented my parents, as spoiled as that sounds given the immense privilege they’ve given me. It’s hard to ignore that they undoubtedly chose me for the optics. Adopted a Black baby from an impoverished area to reinforce their “charitable, good rich people” aesthetic they’ve worked hard to cultivate. Sometimes I feel more like an asset in their social portfolio than their son.

My relationship with them is complicated at its root, and only made worse by the decisions they’ve pushed me into over the years, wielding obligation and guilt against me with expert precision.

So yes, I’m not thrilled to see any aspects of my father in me.

A sharp rap on the door has me sitting up straighter, then a second later, relaxing my posture into one of nonchalance as I tell whoever is out there to come in.

Francine, one of our receptionists, enters, giving me a wary look as if she expects me to snap at her for daring to disturb me. I’ve barely spoken more than a handful of words to her, but my family name is enough to make her nervous.

“Mr. Dubois, your new assistant is here.”

I nod, hoping she can’t see how my pulse jumps. “Alright. Please send her back.”