Page 39 of Bite
Everywhere he touches, goosebumps rise like sparks along dry tinder. My eyes track the movement of his long fingers, his touch terrifyingly gentle, and when my gaze finally drags upward, I find his eyes already fixed on mine.
“How are you settling in?” he asks, voice low and coaxing.
“F-fine,” I manage, swallowing thickly. “I met the kitchen staff today. You really didn’t have to do all that just for me, I know how to cook for myself.”
“Who says it’s just for you?” His mouth curves faintly, amusement evident in his expression.
I tilt my head. “Do you have other humans living here?”
His shoulder lifts in a casual shrug. “The staff. But I entertain often, and I also dine when I’m in the mood for it.”
My brows knit together. “Youeat?” I blurt.
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “You don’t know much about my kind, do you, darling?”
Heat flares in my face. “No,” I admit. “But my last job was waitressing the graveyard shift at a diner. Vamps came in sometimes, and they never ate.”
“I’d speculate that had more to do with the menu.” His thumb traces lazily along the inside of my wrist, right over the fragile blue vein there. “We don’t require food for sustenance, but many of us indulge on occasion for the taste.” His gaze flicks up, colliding with mine. “Only when it’s worth it.”
It isn’t until then that I realize how close he’s standing; how his touch has lingered on my skin. His scent slips around me– cedarwood and snow, crisp and cold, yet edged with a dark sort of warmth. It’s intoxicating enough to make me sway toward him, my body reacting before my brain can catch up.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” His voice rumbles low, eyes locked on mine like he already knows the answer. “I’ve had the chefs prepare a beef wellington with filet mignon.”
I don’t even know what that is, but my mouth waters anyway. It sounds expensive. Fancy. The kind of thing you’d see on some TV show about rich people and assume tastes like heaven.
“Sure, okay,” I whisper, nodding stiffly. My hand lifts to sweep my hair aside again, exposing my throat. “Do you still need to…?” The words dry up, but the tilt of my chin says the rest.
His fingers catch a loose strand of my hair, rubbing it between them like he’s testing the softness. “So accommodating,” he remarks, smile curving in satisfaction. “But as I said, I’d prefer a different vein.”
Before I can ask what he means, his palm settles against the small of my back, guiding me toward a velvet low-backed sofa. He directs me down until I’m stretched sideways across the cushions, laid out like a feast to be devoured.
“Wha…?” I start to ask, but my throat tightens so much I can barely breathe when his fingers skim up the length of my legs, urging my thighs apart.
My knees snap together on instinct. “What are you doing?” I choke.
He doesn’t answer; doesn’t even acknowledge the panic sparking in my chest. One knee sinks onto the couch beside me as his hand pushes the hem of my sweater dress higher up my thighs.
My pulse pounds frantically in my ears as I realize where this is heading.Too soon. Too fast.I signed the contract, I agreed, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for this.
“You want…?” My voice breaks on the question.
“A different vein,” he replies calmly, nudging my thighs further apart with deliberate pressure until he can settle between them. “Something richer.”
I swallow hard, my whole body trembling as he drags his knuckles along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, tapping lightly against the pulsing artery near the apex.
“Yes?” he asks, cocking a brow.
The question hangs between us, the air charged with tension.
And suddenly, it clicks. This isn’t about sex, it’s about blood.Of course.It was foolish– presumptuous– for me to think otherwise.
“Okay,” I breathe, cheeks burning with embarrassment. I push up on my elbows, jerking a stiff nod. “Okay.”
The smile he gives me in return should come with a warning label. He’s too much– impossibly gorgeous, downright lethal in his beauty. That smile could talk me into hell itself, and I’d follow willingly.
I sink back against the cushions, thighs parted, skirt rucked indecently high. One more inch and he’ll see my panties.And the worst part?Some reckless part of mewantshim to; wants this whole exchange to be about more than blood. But now I’m beginning to wonder whether that damn ‘secondary services’ addendum was merely a power play, a test to see how far I could be pushed.
Am I just a glorified blood bag?
