Page 17 of Watch Me Turn
I lean forward, take his face in my hands, and using the tip of my finger, collect a single hot tear inching its way down his cheek.
Then I kiss him.
5
BITE ME
Inever intended to kiss him. Not in a million years.
But now he's kissing me back, his fingers curling up the nape of my neck, pulling me closer to him whilst his tongue seeks out mine. Gently probing like he's searching for a long-lost friend.
This man is a good kisser. Annoyingly so. Excellent technique, soft lips, and just the right amount of fervor.
It figures, really. Some of my favorite feeds-and-fucks have been with people I hate, and on paper Angel is no exception. A spoiled, entitled little rich boy with daddy issues. If he was still human, I'd bet his blood would taste like a copper broth of money and misery.
That's harsh. I know it is. I don't actually hate him. Even for his many faults, there's something about him that's appealing. He's nice to look at in a polished, well-put-together sort of way. He smells good. His skin still carries traces of cedarwood and neroli, despite days of sweating out the last beads of his human life. He's vulnerable, honest, and apparently has a heart.
Maybe he's not so shitty after all.
Fuck it.
I kiss him harder, and a fire lights in my belly. I twist and swing my leg over him so I'm straddling his lap. His hands grip the small of my waist, and his fingers find the hem of my vest and dip under it, finding the skin on the small of my back and tracing the lightest feathery touches. So light I can barely feel them, but they cause a chill to run from the base of my spine and up to my shoulders.
I break off the kiss and pull back to study him. His pupils are blown wide, his dark brown eyes now as black as the deepest parts of the ocean. His soft, stubble-dappled mouth is open, breath coming in heavy gasps that I can feel against my lips.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We just stare at each other, chests heaving. His fingers are still pressed against my lower back, warm and trembling. I can feel his pulse hammering where my thighs bracket his hips.
"For what it's worth, I like you better without the balaclava," he breathes, and his voice is rough and lower than I've ever heard it.
I watch his gaze drop to my mouth, then lower to my throat where my pulse flutters visibly beneath the skin. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. The hands on my waist tighten, like he's trying to anchor himself.
Then the grip of one hand eases and slides over my waist and up my chest until his fingers find my throat. His touch is tender, two fingers on the side of my neck, pressing gently against the steady beat drumming through my skin.
"I can...hear your blood," he rasps.
I mirror him, placing the tips of my fingers against his carotid artery and feel the whoosh of his blood just below the surface.
"And I can hear yours," I say.
He swallows and closes his eyes, breathing slowly, trying to sync with the rhythmic pulse of my blood. I tune in to the soundof his heart—and there it is. That irregular, stuttering beat. The change taking hold, rewriting his body from the inside out. It doesn't pound steadily like mine anymore. It speeds and skips, lurches and catches, like it's forgetting the rhythm it's kept for thirty-some years. Syncopated. Unpredictable.
Like jazz.
Vampires learn to filter out the noise—the constant symphony of heartbeats and rushing blood—or it would drive us insane. But during a feed, or in moments like this, we can tune back in. Drop the filter for a moment and really listen to the steady thrum of a life pulsing beneath the skin. That wet, musical rush. The sound of someone's whole existence flowing through their veins. For someone you love, you can even hear it from far away.
"Your heartbeat is so slow," he murmurs, his fingers dropping down to my sternum to feel it pumping in my chest.
I knot my fingers through his and press both our hands into my ribcage and hold it there. "Yours will be too," I say as I slide my hand down to rest over his heart. "You'll see in a few days. You'll be like me."
"I'm still human?" he asks, his eyes curious.
I nod. "For now, kinda. You're more like something in between."
"So what would happen if..." He trails off, jaw working like he's chewing on the words. "Never mind."
"What? What do you want to ask?"
He pulls his hand away from my heart and pushes my wayward curls back from my face and neck with a strange intimacy, like he's done it a thousand times before. "What would happen if you bit me?" he mumbles as if he's embarrassed to even be suggesting it. "Could you still drink my blood?"
