Page 99 of Fang Fiction

“Why not?” She looked puzzled.

“Blood moves faster in smaller veins, like the ones in your wrist or your neck,” he explained, running a finger over her delicate wrist. “If I drink from your thigh, it will be easier to pace myself.”

“Oh,” she breathed, and he could feel her pulse pounding—it was hard to ignore his predatory instincts. She undid her fly, arched her back to slide her jeans down over those glorious thighs, the same thighs he’d so enjoyed kissing and teasing over the past days, feeling her writhe and squirm in eager anticipation of his touch.

“Will it hurt?” she asked as he removed his sweatshirt.

“Only for a moment, when I bite you. Which, again, I absolutely do not have to do if you don’t want me to.”

“No.” She took him firmly by his shoulders and moved his body down hers. “I want you to. Now.”

It was the most dominant she’d been with him, and he found it excited him just as much as when she was soft and gentle.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, and he began to kiss his way down her torso, starting with her neck, letting his lips linger over her décolletage, nipping at her nipples through the slippery silk of her bra. When she moaned at the sensation, he had half a mind to abandon the feeding and go down on her instead—but there’d be time for that afterward. He was going to see to it that this woman had the most pleasurable night of her life.

He lavished kisses on her round belly and wide hips, then used his hands to bend her knee slightly, exposing the soft underside of her thigh.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes.” She was breathing hard.

He extended his fangs and bit her quickly so as not to draw out the anticipation. She gasped at the pain, and he could feel the tension in her. He wanted to tell her to relax, to reassure her that he wouldn’t harm her, but her blood had already started flowing, and he couldn’t have kept his mouth away from it for anything on Earth. He was so nervous he was shaking, acutely aware of every part of his body, holding his own tension, forcing himself to stay in control as he brought his lips to her thigh and drank.

Her blood tasted like a fresh field of flowers, grassy and bright; drinking it reminded him of childhood, running through a park with Octavia and falling asleep on a soft blanket in the sunlight on a summer afternoon. There was something golden about the taste of her, the feeling of her life force flowing inside of him—and he knew in that moment that there was no danger of hurting her. He felt that he understood her so deeply, that his body was so perfectly in sync with hers, their needs were one and the same.

After a minute or so, he stopped drinking. She looked up at him, a bit dazed—humans always were when they’d lost some blood—but he knew she’d be all right quickly.

“That’s all?” she asked.

He nodded, then pricked his own finger and rubbed a couple of drops of blood on the spot where he’d bit her.

“To help the wound heal,” he explained, and she nodded, her head lolling gently.

He moved up to lie beside her, and she turned on her side to face him.

“Your eyes,” she murmured. “They’re so gold.”

“Happens sometimes,” he smiled. “How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” She exhaled, already seeming sharper. “How do you feel?”

He wanted to tell her exactly how he felt. The buzz of her blood flowing through his veins, his sudden confidence they’d make it through the ball, steal the diamond, and get safely back to New York. But none of that seemed to matter as much as the way he felt about her.

Because he was in love with her. He was absolutely certain of it.

But he couldn’t tell her that—not when it was entirely possible that either of them could die tomorrow. It would be cruel, would only sharpen both of their regrets.

“I feel better than I have in years,” he told her, his voice breaking just a bit.

“Same,” she said quietly, and maybe he was wrong, but he thought he understood that one syllable to mean I love you too.

He kissed her then, and she kissed him back. And he tried not to think about the ball, what would happen if they succeeded, what would happen if they failed—sacrificing his life for her if it came to it, leaving Octavia trapped in New York, leaving Tess trapped here on the Isle.

He didn’t want to think about any of that, not now. He just wanted to be here with Tess, to enjoy his last few hours in bed with the woman he loved.

Chapter 25

Tess was glad to have most of the next day to sleep, since she and Callum were up until almost dawn. When she woke, it was already early afternoon, and Callum had left a note saying he was with Nantale. Tess took a quick rinse in his shower—which was paneled in dark slabs of moss agate and featured a window overlooking the forest, making Tess feel like she was bathing in a canopy of leaves. It was just another casually breathtaking place on the Isle, one more moment of staggering beauty; it gave her a pain in her chest.