Page 66 of Taste of Blood
His voice sounds husky, like he just woke up. I settle back on the bed and glare down at my mutinous erection. So much for falling asleep now.
“We sat on the warehouse all night, finally got enough activity for Dante to greenlight us going in.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment and I almost think he might have dozed off, then he sighs, his voice pitched low when he asks, “Do you remember the first time we were together?”
What the hell kind of question is that at a time like this? As much as I might want to ignore it, it’s now seeped into mythoughts. How do you ignore something that’s imprinted on your soul?
Two days in solitary. That was the punishment for my undisciplined actions. In my defense, I did try to follow the rules, but I was just so damned hungry. At least I didn’t kill anyone.
There’s no way to tell how long I’ve been in the cell, but I know it’s less than the sentence when the lock clicks and the door swings open.
He’s standing in the dim shaft of light from the hallway, his hair disheveled, his normally neat clothes wrinkled.
“What are you doing here, Ash?”
“Looking for you.”
He steps inside and closes the door, plunging us back into near darkness, then crosses the tiny room to lower himself beside me on the narrow cot.
“I was worried about you.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Of course not. I was careful. I stole the key from Oscar when he went to feed.”
I shake my head. “I’m a bad influence on you.”
“That’s not all you are.”
His hand closes over mine and I look up, meeting his eyes. In the dim light their normally emerald depths appear black. I’ve been fighting it for months, this unnatural attraction. Chalking it up to side effects from the transition. Does he feel it, too?
He leans closer, his velvety voice brushing against my ear. “Cord?”
“Yes?”
“Would you hate me if I kissed you?”
I think I would hate myself if I stopped him. Rather than answer, I turn my head into his, bringing our lips together.
The effect is like lighting a match to kindling. He moans in my mouth and that gives me all the encouragement I need. I press closer, marveling at the pillowy softness of his lips. At the desperate hunger of his mouth as it seeks mine, his tongue first testing, then burrowing inside, tangling with mine. He tastes like honey and that rich meatiness of fresh blood from his recent feeding, and I can’t get enough of him.
My hand wanders up to his chest, hovering over his heart where his life pulses steady and strong. He leans closer, encouraging my explorations, then grabs my hand and pulls it down to rub against his stiffening bulge.
I want him. More than the maddening lust for blood that landed me in this cell. I want Asher Winston inside me. Around me. Consuming me.
Since the first day we met, there’s never been anyone else. And this godforsaken transition has made that craving even more pronounced. I would gladly starve if I could have him.
“I want you,” he breathes in my ear, echoing my own thoughts.
Fuck yes.
There’s no artistry to the way we undress each other. It’s pure manic lust. Clothes are ripped and thrown around the cell.
My only regret is that there isn’t more light so I can see his salacious body. I want to commit every inch of him to memory in case this all turns out to be another fevered dream.
