Page 75 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

I smirk as I sink further into the tub, my neck resting on the edge as water wets the hair at the back of my head. Unruly pieces of hair have fallen down from the messy bun, but I don’t have the energy to wash it today.

Instead, I pull the cap off my pen with my teeth, writing just below Thatcher’s neat script.

You flatter yourself far too much. Not every quote I like ties into you.—L.

Thatcher’s reannotation of some of my favorite books is quickly becoming one of my favorite ways to pass the time. The constant back-and-forth along empty spaces of book pages, his snippy little remarks beneath my own private thoughts, or his own highlighted lines.

When he’d finish reading a book I’d already annotated, he’d slip it beneath my door, like a secret message, and when I was done defending all my favorite quotes or my reasoning, I’d place it on his nightstand.

“The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.”

“To be seen as ivory and gold”

—that’s what I’d written on the page years ago in this copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

The world is changed because you are made of midnights and crimson. The curves of your lips rewrite my purpose.—T.

My toes wiggle beneath the water, the smell of my cherry blossom bubble bath wafting into my nose. I blame the aromatic scent on the reason my eyes sting with tears.

It feels like we’re strangers who’d picked up the same novel, unalike and unknowing of each other’s faces but connected so deeply through these little notes we’d written between the lines. I’d found out so many new things about him, things he probably never noticed he was sharing.

The kind of thoughts I never would have known by simply watching him. Knowing Thatcher at this depth is unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and I never wanted to stop living it.

“I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.”

I’d left little hearts around the quote.

This is a novel about a narcissist whose self-obsession killed him. And this is what you underline? You’re an incurable romantic, darling. How did I become your fixation?—T.

I snort unattractively. It would have been much easier to fall in love with literally anyone else. But I don’t want easy. I’ve never wanted easy.

I want a love that’s worth the fight. Consumption, unhealthy entanglement. The kind where you can’t really tell where one person ends and the other begins. I want love that hurts because it’s real.

I’d always known Thatcher would be the only person who’d give that to me.

Careful, this annotation battle feels very romantic. I might be turning you, angel.—L.

“Do you ever sleep?”

I jump a little, looking at the door to see Thatcher there. His mussed, messy hair tells me he just woke up, and I’ve never seen anything more adorable.

“Were you born a nocturnal creature?” A yawn takes over his body before he runs a hand down his face. “Should I worry about you sprouting wings and turning into a bat?”

I look over from my bath, tilting the book over my mouth to hide my smile.

His shoulder is pressed into the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his bare chest. Thatcher is only wearing a pair of tight black boxers, the material stretched across his strong thighs. My eyes practically lick the contours of his abs.

My heart soars at the pretty, purplish-red bruises that decorate his collarbone and chest. I feel a little guilty for tainting someone so perfect, but I love that they show the world he’s mine.

The sleepy look on his face seems so vulnerable.

My nipples harden beneath the warm water, stomach tingling with desire.

I’m insatiable.

Before he touched me, I wouldn’t have considered myself a sexual person. I mean, I’d never been kissed before Thatch. But now that I know what he feels like, how he makes me feel, I’ll never be able to get enough.

“Did you have a nightmare?” I ask, closing the book after putting the pen between the pages to keep my place. I sit up a little further, the cold air brushing across the top of my breasts as I reach forward to sit the book on the lid of the toilet.

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