Page 21 of The Blood we Crave

I dart my eyes around the space, wondering if anyone saw it happen, and when I’m sure all the runners near me are unaware, I make a split-second decision, one I barely think twice about.

I allow the group to pass me, slowing down to a stroll. Thatcher’s body moves farther and farther from my view as I take a hurried look around before bending down on one knee.

To passersby, I’m simply tying my shoe. No one can see me scooping up the material on the ground with agile fingers, my palms buzzing at the soft shirt scraping against me.

With sore feet, I promptly shift towards an area swamped by trees off to the right of the path. It’s private enough that no one would see me unless they came looking, and if Thatcher comes back, searching for his missing shirt, he’ll never find me.

Branches crack beneath my feet, and sweat trickles down my lower back as I advance farther into the woods until I reach a point that I feel is far enough from the public that I’m safe from prying eyes.

My back collapses against the trunk of a nearby tree. Bark digs into my skin, and I welcome the relief off my soles. The wobble in my knees tells me I desperately need a break, anyway. The thick foliage in front of me shields anyone visiting the park from my view.

For the next several minutes, I level out my breathing, gently rubbing the fabric of his shirt between the pads of my fingers, letting it soothe me. I hardly notice when my eyes close at the comfort or when I gradually draw the material upwards towards my nose.

The aromatic scent of Thatcher’s cologne curls around me as I hold my face against the black shirt, burying my nose into the cotton saturated in his smell.

Acqua Di Giò Absolu by Giorgio Armani.

He’s worn the same cologne since he turned sixteen, and it has stuck inside my brain since I first smelled it. It’s a little like citrus at first, the smell of freshly dried linen with a hint of lemon. But I can also smell the woods, an earthy sort of spice that reminds me of the forest just after it rains.

So clean yet with an edge that is so perfect for him.

My stomach twists, and a dull throb pulses between my thighs when I think about him getting ready this morning and slipping this shirt over his shoulders. I bet he meticulously thumbed through his drawer, picking this one out of hundreds.

And since he showers after his workout, the essence of him is mixed with sleep. The leftover smell that clings to his skin had rubbed off onto the shirt as he pulled it on.

Both of my hands ball up the material, penetrating my fingers into the softness, as I ponder how hard his body would feel beneath it. I usually do this with the few sweaters I’ve borrowed from his dorm closet without his knowledge. At night, when I’m curled in my bed and alone.

Knowing I’m outside where anyone can see me should cool off my desire, but it’s only making it worse. All I can think about is, what if he knows I’m here?

Did he not feel the fabric slip from the band of his shorts? He didn’t even turn around to glance, just kept moving. Did he know I was there, and he dropped it on purpose? Was this some kind of gift? Does he know what I do with his clothes in the shadows of my room?

I yank the shirt down my face, snagging my bottom lip in the process. My tongue swipes against the cloth, nipping at it delicately. I keep tugging it down, across my throat and chest, pushing into my skin hard.

I know Thatcher’s touch would be vicious. Rough and pressured in all the right areas. Fingers curling into my skin and burying inside, bringing blood to the surface. Gods, to feel his lean body, solid and rigid, forced against my own, towering over me with wild lust in his icy blue eyes.

I feel like some animal, marking my body with his scent, hoping if I rub it against me hard enough, it will sink into my skin where it won’t ever leave.

My right hand slides beneath the front of my elastic shorts while the other brings his shirt back to my face, keeping it against my face where I can inhale him. The pad of my fingers brush against my core, finding me soaked and pulling a gasp from my lungs.

The shock that ripples through my stomach makes my toes curl. My body is on edge, desperate as it thinks about its favorite fantasy. Desire is an emotion I rarely feel, and when I do, it’s always for him.

I crave him. Every part of him. Even the tortured parts of himself others run away from. I want to let his demons out of their shackles just so they can play with mine. To feel his body, to have his fingers be the ones rubbing fiercely at my clit, driving me towards a release.

The things I would let him do, the way I would let him treat my body—it tugs at the spring that is coiled in my belly. Flashes of red flick behind my eyes, images of him knelt at my feet while the tip of a blade slices into my inner thigh.

“Thatcher.” I say his name like a prayer, imagining what his knife on my flesh would feel like.

I know the only reason he touches people is to cut. The blades are extensions of his hands. I would let him cut me, slice me up, and happily bleed out for him.

I can practically feel the stream of blood pouring down my leg and the heat of his mouth as he catches every single drop of red leaking out of my wound, licking and cleaning the wound with his tongue, peering up at me with detached eyes. My orgasm takes over my body, yanking pleasure from my core with no warning and leaving me with one parting image.

Thatcher looking up at me with a grin tinted red with my blood, gripping my shaking thighs as I convulse from the shocks of my release. It rolls through my body and soothes my achy limbs.

My teeth sink into the material of his shirt, tasting the spicy cologne on my tongue. The backs of my thighs sting as I lift towards my hand, seeking more pressure. More speed. More him. More everything.

Unsettled breaths stumble past my lips, and when my eyes pop open, my delusion is gone. And the adrenaline from my climax is fizzling out like a deflated balloon.

Everything leaves me. The images and the feeling I was chasing. It disappears, and I’m left mercilessly lonely again. The girl who floats through doors and hallways without a second glance.

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