Page 102 of Even Robots Die
When I finally look at the room that she claimed as her own, my eyes are directly pulled to the wings enthroning the middle of her U-shaped desk.
Why did it have to be bird’s wings?
“I didn’t know you when I built them,” she tells me, arching an eyebrow as if daring me to disagree with her. She doesn’t give me a chance to do so, though. “Bat or dragon wings wouldn’t have worked with what I had in mind, anyway.”
I move past her in the direction of the wings as she keeps talking.
“Each of the feathers are individually made like tiny plane’s wings: curved at the front and thinner at the back, but that’s not all. Take a closer look.”
I come closer and I see what she means, but I don’t really see what she wants me to see in addition to what she just told me.
I feel her walking up to me and the heat of her body warms my own when she stops just next to me.
“Don’t touch the back of the feathers, they …”
I don’t let her finish before my finger graces the back of a bigger feather like she calls them. Before I know it, blood pools at my fingertip and drips to her table.
“Shit,” I hear her say at my back.
She runs to the table that’s piled with the biggest mess I’ve ever seen and moves a few things to the side before coming back to my side.
I don’t know what makes her so frantic, but I let her do her thing as I watch her open the box and shuffle things inside.
I see her get antiseptic out and tweezers. I think there is anti-burn balm in there too, but it’s obviously not what she’s looking for.
When I understand what she’s looking for, I don’t have time to tell her that we don’t need compresses and that I’m going to heal in a matter of minutes, that she should try to find something to clean the blood I’m dripping on the table instead when my thoughts are cut short.
And her lips wrap around my finger.
My whole body goes still.
I’d like to understand what her thought process was for it to end up with my finger inside her mouth and my blood dripping inside of her.
There is some primal part of me that doesn’t care at all about what made her think it was a good idea.
That primal part only cares that her lips are wrapped around my finger and that the tip of her tongue is right against the skin of it.
That primal part only thinks that it would feel so much better if those lips were wrapped around my cock instead.
It takes her a second to realize what she just did and start being self conscious, but I don't let her.
I don’t let her, because I’m losing the battle against the primal part that wants to be buried inside of her, and right this instant, it wants to taste her blood too.
All I can do is wrench enough control so that I don’t tear her clothes off and take her here on her worktable.
Still, I corner her against the table and grab her hips so I can sit her next to her wings. She drops my finger as she gasps, and I take the opportunity to slide between her legs and pull her to me by the back of her knees.
Before I know it, my face is buried at the crook of her neck and I’m nuzzling her wild red curls, my lips trailing on the side of her throat. Then my lips are replaced with my fangs and in the next second, I let them sink just enough for two drops of blood to bloom on her skin.
My tongue darts out and laps at the blood slowly running down the side of her throat.
I’m lost to the taste of her—blackcurrant and jasmine with a hint of vanilla that I’ve never smelled on her before—when her hand reaches for my belt and I hear the moan coming from her.
Shit.
Aphrodisiac bite.
I should have seen it coming.
