Page 101 of Even Vampires Bleed
All the wood cutting isn’t, well… cutting it.
And I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin.
And now that?
I’m cursed. That is the only explanation.
I’m cursed to lust after the woman sharing my space when it’s not reciprocated.
And worse, the universe seems to do everything in its power to bring us closer.
Any closer and everything is going to explode.
Oh yes, I’m talking about my cock here.
I hear the sound of Cassiopé’s bedroom door opening—I hate those screechy hinges most of the time, but now they’re a blessing—and drop back on the couch.
I’m in a somewhat normal sitting position when she walks to the kitchen and grabs bacon and eggs from the cooler.
I would normally get up and help her cook our breakfast, but all I can do is stay as still as I can and keep myself from groaning. Because, in my haste, I sat on a spring and it’s trying to make a second asshole.
I really didn’t ask for that this early in the morning.
“Morning,” Cassiopé says as a yawn escapes her mouth.
She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping much better than me. Maybe the bed is bad, too?
She’s still walking… it can’t be worse than the couch. And to say you could be sleeping there…
The little insidious voice in my mind taunts me and I really want to listen to it, but I know this is a very, very bad idea.
“Good Morning,” I say to her and even to my ears I sound grumpier than usual.
I plaster a bright smile on my face and try to stretch.
Big mistake.
“What’s wrong?” Cassiopé asks.
Something on my face must have shown that stretching wasn’t the easiest thing for me this morning because there is concern on Cassiopé’s face when she asks her question.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her, trying to minimize the problem. “I think one of the springs just decided my ass was its punching bag.”
Here. Close enough.
Cassiopé still narrows her eyes and leaves the eggs and bacon next to the cooking plate before walking to the couch.
She sits on the armrest on my right, her legs on the inside.
She’s only wearing sleeping shorts and a loose shirt.
I hate those shorts.
I love them.
I hate that I love them.
Because they’re barely there. The smooth expanse of Cassiopé’s legs is right under my nose, and all I want is to tear those shorts to threads and wrap those legs around my head.
