It helped that most of Kit and Quin’s waking hours were consumed by fucking now that the floodgates had opened. There was less time to worry when Quin was focused on sucking bruises into Kit’s pale skin, or eating his arse until he cried with pleasure, or bouncing him up and down on his cock, or?—
Quin glanced down at his hardening dick in his sweatpants. He had several loads of laundry and a food shop to be getting onwith, as well as catching up on some work, and being horny wasnotconducive to his productivity. How he could even get it up again, he didn’t know. With a sigh, he closed the door and made his way back upstairs.
Kit’s vampire healing and strength had to play a part in his insatiability. No matter how often or in which position Quin took him, Kit always wanted more. It was like Kit had developed some sort of addiction to Quin’s cock. Which was fair, because Quin was equally unrepentant in his obsession with Kit.
Everything about Kit drew Quin in. His prickly exterior wasn’t even the deterrent that Kit intended it to be. Quin hadn’t envisioned himself as the type of person to be attracted to sarcasm and bitchy put-downs, but when he thought about it, that had been what drew him to Lark. Of course, where Lark proved to be nothingbutsarcasm and bitchy put-downs, beneath it all, Kit was sensitive and caring and sweet.
Most people would never see beyond the image that Kit projected, and Quin knew Kit was okay with that. But there was a part of Quin that hoped everyone would view Kit how he did, that they would appreciate how special he was.
After stripping the bed—and taking an unashamed whiff of their shared scents on the sheets—he sent his cousin a text to check up on how he was doing. Sage would like Kit. Once the vampires had visited, he’d invite Sage up.
Quin wandered downstairs to put the washing on and to give Mabel some attention. She seemed to have understood to avoid the bedroom in the past few days, so he resolved to take her out to the dog park in the morning to get a good run around. She looked content enough, lying in her doggy bed chewing on a beef knuckle that Kit ordered for her. Quin gave her some fresh water and asked if she wanted to go outside. Her ears pricked up, but she stayed in bed, so he took it as a no.
He needed another shower, so spent some time going through his minimal routine. His mind strayed to when Kit had dropped to his knees in the tub and proceeded to give Quin the best blowjob of his life. Turns out that not having to breathe improved your head game.
And Quin was hard again. He was pretty sure that if he jacked off, he’d end up with a chafed dick, which wasn’t something he fancied experiencing. Besides, it would prevent him from being able to fuck Kit again when he returned, which Kit had specifically demanded. Quin had no intention of letting his boy down.
Freshly showered, Quin waited for the steam to dissipate before giving his beard a tidy-up with the razor. “Shit,” he muttered as the blade slipped, slicing into his neck. Blood bubbled up from the tiny wound.
He pressed a scrap of toilet paper to his skin, the blood absorbing into the tissue like a drop of ink. He took more care as he finished. Not like he could afford to be spilling blood; Kit had fed on him a few times over the past few days, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could spare.
He towelled himself off before getting dressed in actual clothes for the first time in days, his jeans constricting. It was akin to how it took him a while to get used to being civilised after the full moon—the return to reality hitting him like a jackhammer.
Quin ran through the list of items he needed to pick up. Dog food. Human food. Iron supplements. He’d have to drive further to get to the closest supermarket that stayed open late, but that’s what he got for living in a tiny town.
Before leaving, he paused in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, poking at the fresh cut. It’d stopped bleeding, thankfully. Funny how he didn’t so much as blink when Kit bit him all over, and yet this cut bothered him. Small punctures dotted the otherside of his neck and along his shoulders, but he wore the marks with pride.
A dark shape, tall and unmoving, appeared behind him in the space of a blink. Quin jerked his head around, seeing nothing there. He studied the empty space, his stomach twisting with unease as he recalled the shape that had loomed over Kit the other morning.
Quin turned again to the mirror.
The face that stared back at him was not his own.
Quin stumbled backwards. Something filled his mouth as he opened it in shock, slithering down his throat and blocking his airway. He clutched and clawed at his neck, desperate to dislodge the intrusion, but it slipped further into his body. It spread from his lungs and into his veins, cold and insidious as it infected his insides. His fingers went numb; his feet felt disconnected from his legs when he tried to move them.
He fell onto the unmade bed, unable to hold himself upright. He tried to shout but only let loose a strangled whimper. Quin’s chest moved, but air didn’t seem to reach his lungs. Black bled into the corners of his vision.
As suddenly as it started, Quin let out a hacking cough as the intrusion disappeared. He retched over the side of the bed, but nothing came out. Drawing in a ragged breath, he got up and staggered to the bathroom.
With one hand on the sink to stay upright, he ran the water and leaned down to drink from the tap. He drank and drank, the cool water sitting heavy in his stomach. Even then, thirst plagued him.
He stayed bent over the sink with his eyes screwed shut. He didn’t want to look in the mirror, but he needed to know what he would see. His fingers ached from gripping the porcelain so hard.
Unwillingly, Quin raised his head.
He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of his face. Red filled his eyes, the contrast stark against his blue irises. He’d burst a blood vessel once after a rough tackle when playing rugby, but this was as if every vessel had exploded. He blinked, and the red faded, ebbing away like the tide.
Bile rose in his throat. He didn’t know if what he saw was real, but the red receded and he could look into his own eyes once more.
Quin flexed his fingers as they shook, his body wracked with the aftereffects from whatever had just come over him. Perhaps it was some sort of seizure. He ought to check the NHS website or Google his symptoms to find out.
But then he thought about the face he’d seen in the mirror. Only a split second—not long enough to commit it to memory—and yet the image had seared into his retinas.
A masculine face, clean-shaven, with eyes a different colour of blue than Quin’s. Blond hair, pushed back from the forehead in a neat style. A proud mouth under an aristocratic nose. Sharp cheekbones.
The face had beenhandsome. Startlingly so.
Whoever it was didn’t appear again as Quin stared at his own reflection, studying it and comparing himself to the other man. Quin looked rougher around the edges; there were a couple of nicks in his skin from childhood mishaps, his eyebrows needed a tweeze, and he had the beginnings of crow’s feet forming at the sides of his eyes. The other face appeared unblemished and uncannily perfect.
