Page 12 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

“You’re distracting me.” Her head falls back against my shoulder, and her hair tickles my nose.

“It’s payback,” I whisper. “You’ve been distracting me all week. You and your body and your teasing glances and winks.”

Her lips curl into a sexy smile. “So you noticed.”

“Of course I noticed. I notice everything about you.”

“Like what?” She lifts her head to finish plating our food.

I move my fingers to the ends of her golden curls, toying with them, as my other hand strokes her hip and thigh. “Like how you keep your hair this exact length all the time. Or how between productions you prefer your nails painted in shades of red.”

“What can I say? I’m a creature of habit.”

“Or how you’re more yourself when you’re around Haven and Maya and the other Crescent Lake members than you are with most of the dancers in the company.”

She freezes for a second, and I give myself a mental smack. So much for not pushing her. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way—like I’m digging and prying. I just meant that she lights up around her friends, that they bring out the best in her, and she’s even more radiant than usual when they’re around.

The stiffness of her body fades, and a smile returns to her face. She sets the takeout container on the counter before lifting a plate in each hand.

“Here you go.” She turns and hands me a plate, flashing me her bright grin.

I return the smile, bending to peck her lips, but her eyes widen.

“Oh my god.” She glances down at the plate. “Do you… do you eat?”

“Of course I eat.”

“I mean food. Do you eat food?”

I tilt my head back and laugh, taking the plate from her and pulling two forks out of the drawer before moving to the living room. “You’ve seen me eat food, Imogen,” I say as I sit on the dark-green couch.

Her eyes flick to the formal oval dining room table I never use before she makes her way to my couch, plopping down on the middle cushion. “Yes, but can’t you make us think we saw you eating when you really didn’t? Maya said vampires have some sort of ability like that.”

“I can compel others to forget things or to remember events differently than what actually happened, yes.” I phrase my next words carefully. “But I’ve never done that to you. I… can’t do that to you.” I glance at her out of the corner of my eye to see if she picked up on my wording, but she’s digging into her food, unfazed. “I eat food. I don’t need it. I can survive on just blood. But there are too many delicious dishes in the world that I enjoy the taste of and would miss if I stopped eating, so I indulge in human meals from time to time.”

She nods as she chews her food, mouth working overtime to break down each tiny bite she takes. I continue to eat, watching her from the corner of my eye. The sky twinkles with millions of stars, the moon is close to full, and the crisp night air with a hint of pine from the forest filters in through my open windows. The gas fire crackles on the wall in front of us. All of it sets the stage for a relaxing, romantic, cozy evening.

But Imogen is tense next to me—her back ramrod straight, her body perched on the edge of the couch instead of snuggling into the plush cushions, or better yet, into my side.

I exhale and shake my head, leaning forward to set my plate on the glass coffee table. This won’t do. This isn’t how our evening should play out—stiff and stilted and formal and unfamiliar. I’ve had several lifetimes of that. I want intimacy. I want to continue from where we left off on Monday.

I grab her legs and lift them so her feet settle into my lap. She squeaks in surprise mid-bite, her brows raising and her eyes widening.

“Relax.” I pluck her nude heels off her feet. “It’s just us here. Just me.”

Her blue eyes meet mine, and her face softens, the tension easing from her shoulders as she settles against the back of the couch before she continues eating. But I don’t pick my plate back up. I’m no longer interested in food.

My hand slides up the smooth skin of her leg, curling around her calf and giving it a squeeze, massaging the muscle she uses day in and day out in the studio and on the stage.

Imogen moans around her fork. She slides it between her lips as her head tilts back, and she shows me the long column of her neck. My dick twitches and hardens, and I don’t bother moving her feet to hide it.

When Imogen’s eyes meet mine again, they’re hooded, just like in my imaginings. A gorgeous pink flush spreads up her chest and across her cheeks, and her mouth parts as she catches her breath.

The sweet scent of her arousal fills my apartment, even more fragrant than in the theater, and I’m a goner. Hard as a rock. I’m one touch away from exploding like an inexperienced teenager, and I haven’t even explored all of her yet.

This is what I get for holding out for so long.

I slide my hand to the back of her thigh, lifting her dress, and she leans forward, placing her plate on the table before climbing into my lap. She cups my cheeks, and her lips find mine just as I palm her ass, her lace underwear the only barrier between my palms and her skin.