His eyes go hazy, his jaw slack. He takes one step, then another. I’ve cast a reel, and he’s hooked behind the ribs. His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breath heavy.
He’s so ripe with bitterness and need I can smell it—whiskey and want, sweat and grief, arousal tangled up in fury.
I back up until I’m against the wall, and he follows, crowding me, giving the illusion he is the pursuer.
I lean in close, just enough for his breath to catch. Just enough for my presence to wrap around his neck.
“Hi,” I whisper, letting the sound kiss the space between us.
He shudders.
He’s already mine.
My hand rises slowly. I trail two fingers down the center of his chest, over the tight pull of his shirt, the beat of his racing heart. Lower. Lower.
His cock stiffens instantly. Aggressively. I feel it straining at his zipper with a twitch that makes my thighs clench.
He groans, low and needy, his body strung so tight it might snap in half.
I flatten my palm just below his navel. My lips hover at the edge of his. And then I lean in—not all the way. Just enough for contact. Just enough for extraction.
I take a bite.
Not a full feed. Not even close.
A tiny, harmless nibble.
Just a flick of energy, a tap of power, a sip of the ache blooming behind his sternum.
And it’sdelicious.
Soaked in grief and bravado, sexual frustration laced with fresh heartbreak, his energy floods my tongue, hot and biting, laced with the sweetness of regret.
I don’t even kiss him. My lips brush his skin at the hinge of his jaw as I pull. It’s so good, a shuddering noise slips free.
His breath hitches. His hands fist at his sides. His entire body jerks once, then twice.
And he comes.
Fully clothed. Right there.
A strangled cry rips free as he stumbles, hand flying to the wall to steady himself. His cock visibly pulses in his jeans, damp spreading beneath his zipper.
When he opens his eyes, he blinks at me, stunned and glassy.
I blink back.
And for a second, I almost do it again.
I almost sink my teeth into all that anger and heartbreak and suck it straight from his booze coated mouth until he’s truly empty and shaking and grateful and…dead.
He’d be dead.
I bolt. Heart hammering, breath ragged, I practically sprint through the throng of dancers, race around behind the bar, and plant my hands on the counter.
It’s safer here. With polished wood between me and everyone else.
I try to steady my breath. My thighs are slick. My mouth is dry. My hunger claws at the walls of my chest, howling for more.
