Page 25 of Craving Her Vampire

I scoot closer and lean in between his thighs, tracing the design of a pocket watch on his ribs.

“What does this mean to you?” I ask. I know every tattoo can mean numerous things, depending on the person.

He looks at where my hand rests. “The passage of time,” he whispers. “Being a vampire, time passes slowly, yet fast. It reminds me to live every minute how I want to.”

I nod. “I can’t imagine the things you have seen.” I rub my palms over his pecks.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he says, his voice filled with experience.

“How about this?” I touch my fingertip to a red moon.

“This is a dangerous game,” he grits out.

“Why?” I look up quickly.

“You might not like the answers you get.”

“Tell me,” I demand. He looks at me and then at my finger.

“There was a red moon the night I killed a man,” he says.

“Why did you kill him?”

“I was hungry,” he states calmly, but his body tensed. I am aware he hasn’t been a saint.

“Do you regret it?”

“I was learning my limits. I failed to recognize his.”

“You remember him years later,” I guess.

“Yes,” he admits softly. “It’s a reminder to remember.”

“That’s admirable.” I shrug as he looks at me, shocked. “We all have things we regret.” Micah is my mate, and I will accept him, even the questionable parts.

“You need to stop,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Why?” I caress back down his chest.

“If you don’t, I’m going to drink your blood,” he rasps.

“If you do, does it turn me?”

“No. I can control my venom.”“Did you drink from a bag while I was sleeping?” I fold my hands over his stomach.

“I did.”

“But you are still thirsty?” The thought of feeding him is tempting and causes an ache deep inside.

“It didn’t satisfy me. When a vampire is mated, the mate will be the only one they drink from. Your blood is all I can smell.” He closes his eyes, breathing deep, his voice carnal. “I have never smelled anything like it. When you agree to be mine, I will turn you, and you will feed on me.”

“I want you to,” I decide, and his eyes snap open. I want to supply him with nutrients, knowing my blood is the only thing he wants. It would kill me if he drank from another woman and I dislike the idea of him drinking from an unknown donor.

“You have to be sure,” he hisses. “There is always a chance I won’t be able to stop, and then I would have to turn you.”

“I trust you,” I say. I do not trust easily, but every part of me desires to feed him.

“Once I taste you, I won’t want to go back,” he warns.

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