It’s just your luck that the one regular you pick up at Babette’s brothel happens to be Caitlyn Kiramman. Yes, that Caitlyn. The notorious Sheriff's Deputy, that impossibly tall, irritatingly proper pillar of the Upper City.

And it was all a mistake, of course. A simple service, a necessity, just another forgotten ordnance in the Lanes, except this particular 'service' involves the deep, almost violent burrowing of her fangs into your collarbone.

The cool, clean skin of her palm pressed against your nape is a ridiculous, sharp contrast to the scorching heat blossoming right where her mouth is clamped down. An embarrassingly sweet, low thrum of pleasure jolts your nerve endings, the direct result of letting the infamous Enforcer accept you as a regular appointment.

Her soft, plum-colored lips are now taut against your skin, concentrating, her hand subtly tilting your head just so, keeping you perfectly accessible. Nobody, after all, likes to waste good blood.

Her deep-set Dhampir hunger, that inescapable half-breed curse, is the only reason she keeps coming back to this den of Zaunite sin. She knows she needs it; you know she’s desperate, her usual glacial composure fractured by a throbbing need only you seem capable of scratching. The taste is the supreme weakness of the strict, methodical Deputy, and she is utterly lost in it, currently wrapped around a working girl from Zaun.

A full sound of satisfaction vibrates deep in her chest, a muffled, thick noise that you alone are privileged to hear. This is the sound of her control slipping, leaving behind only a raw gratification she works so tirelessly to hide beneath that costly Piltover tweed and those perfect manners. She’s dropping her guard, letting the instinct take over, which will be a proper nightmare for her to manage tomorrow. But right now, she is entirely yours.

Caitlyn pulls back, a whisper of warm breath against your now-sensitive skin. "It tastes too good."