“Harvest” was one of the few times I wrote a story where the sex was the story rather than just a consequence of it. It’s rough and raw and unapologetically carnal, with a succubus who has no apologies for what she is nor any patience for fools who underestimate her.
Jera thought that the days of being summoned by horny power-hungry wizards had ended with Industrial Revolution. Spirits, demons, magic … these were mere fantasies from a superstitious age. And that was how the spirits, demons, and other magical entities liked it. No more interruptions, no more barred gateways. The world was a succulent garden of desperate, depressed men to consume, and no one ever suspected that their dream lover was real. She and her sisters and brothers could steal the gasping breath of their victims’ satisfaction with impunity and move on without being hunted.
However, now she was dragged from one side of the world to the other for the whims of whatever wizard called her.
She stepped from the light and braced herself for magic to collar and claim her.
But there was no wizard kneeling on the floor – only a boy. A young man who had barely filled out his shoulders and whose dark brown eyes were guileless. He stared up at her with mouth wet and pupils huge, and he did not quell her.
The tension that yoked her shoulders subsided. Jera was called, but she was not snared – suddenly her evening seemed much more promising.