Page 19 of Watch Me Turn
"How...um...how was that?" I ask, chewing the inside of my cheek. "Was it everything you thought it would be?"
"No."
"Oh."
"It was more."
My face cracks into a smile. "I'm flattered. I've always been told I give good...neck."
His eyes flutter open as he eases himself up on his elbows. "I'm serious. I've never felt anything like it. That was unreal. I felt like I was high, or floating or something. I want to do it again, and again."
"You're only saying that because of the venom," I tease. I wink as I pull back to dismount his lap, but he reaches for the back of my neck and yanks me down to kiss him. Rough and desperate, clutching my curls in his fist.
"Fuck," he groans as he nips at my bottom lip. "I want more. I want you."
"I think you've had enough," I murmur.
He pulls my head back and desperately kisses my throat, coaxing my fangs to descend again. I turn away as he utters a single word against my skin.
"More."
A tingle creeps up my spine, and the ache in my gums becomes painful. I try to pull away, but his grip on the back of my neck tightens, and he holds me there. I could overpower him easily, but I don't.
"More."
"Angel, stop it."
"I need you, Sophia."
The hunger in his voice is unequivocal. He paws at me desperately, lips frantic against the underside of my jaw. He pushes his pelvis up and grinds against me as if he’s trying to get more body contact. Like he wants to mould every part of himself to a part of me.
I recognize that look in his eyes. I've seen it so many times before. It's the glossy, pleading gaze that comes right before they beg me not to stop. It's the purest form of need. A primal urge that goes against every natural survival instinct, like a clueless lamb skipping to the slaughterhouse. He has no idea how hard it is for me to stop and how foolish he is to beg for more.
"Enough," I warn, but there's nothing behind it. I want him just as much as he wants me.
He twists us, reversing our positions so I'm the one pinned beneath him, his forearm braced against the couch beside my head. His mouth crashes down on mine in a feverish kiss, the metallic taste of his own blood still fresh on my tongue.
The buttons of his shirt give way under my fingers, pinging across the floor as I wrench it open, and I slide my hands over the searing heat of his thick chest. The fabric hangs off him in tatters, so I tear off the remainder, throwing it on the groundand exposing the curves of his shoulders. He shudders as my cold fingertips make contact with his sternum, but he never stops kissing me.
I push him back and scooch up, yanking my vest over my head and letting it fall into the darkness beyond us. The room dissolves at the edges, blurring like a vignette until there's nothing left but the two of us.
His fingers find my zipper—the metallic rasp cuts through the quiet—and I lie back and lift my hips as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of my jeans. The denim drags down my thighs, slow and deliberate, the friction prickling against my skin as I sit naked beneath him.
His eyes, still wide and black, rake over every inch of me. He mouths something, but it's muffled, the ragged sound of his breath and the blood rushing through his veins the only thing I hear. The primal hunger that was in his voice when he asked for my bite is now blazing, uncontained, in the way he's looking at me.
This has to be crossing every professional boundary in the book, but I guess I'm screwed either way. I've already kissed him, drank from him, undressed for him. What's one more act of rebellion? Why dip a toe in the ocean when you can dive right in?
There's nothing left but a scrap of fabric between us. A thin pair of black boxers stretching at the apex, housing something desperate to escape. I glance down at it, and when he catches me, he smirks. It's an invitation. A dare, even.
So I tear them off his body, shredding them in the process, and the tattered pieces fall like cinders after a fire. The last remnants of the boundary between us burned away. He doesn't flinch, just gazes down at me in wonder.
I drag my finger down the center of his chest, stopping just below his belly button. I barely touch his skin as I circle it, and he swallows hard.
"I thought you wanted me dead," I tease.
A grin—mischievous, dangerous—breaks across his face. His chest heaves as he sucks in a few deep breaths, like he's trying to steady himself.
"And I thought you were supposed to watch me die," he counters, his voice catching on an exhale.
