He shakes his head. “Not just. But even so, that’s enough. Wind is powerful. That’s why I gotta go far away. Far away, where I can’t hurt anyone.”
“Can’t you at least, like…get a phone?”
He laughs. “I’d only break it. But I’ll stay with you tonight. I’m too intoxicated to leave, anyway.”
“I thought you said you weren’t drunk.”
“Not drunk, just poisoned. And…” he pulls back, eyes dark, voice lowering. “Damn. I want more of your blood. I want it so bad.”
“Then take it,” you say without even thinking.
“I refuse,” he growls, pinning you down. Pressing the points of his fangs to the base of your neck. “I refuse,” he says, louder, his hands at your wrists as he pushes you back on the bed, straddling you.
“Dammit, human,” he murmurs, groaning as the points of his fangs pierce your skin, making you gasp softly, a sound that melts into a moan. He pulls away only long enough to say, “Who the hell am I kidding? I can’t refuse you.”
Heat rushes through your body as you curve against him, relishing the sharp, delicious feeling of his fangs as he leans in deeper, the feeling of being needed and enjoyed.
It’s a strange, amazing pleasure, and it spreads through every inch of you.
He rakes one hand behind your head, through your hair, down the curve of your body before finally pulling away from your neck, groaning hard.
He wipes his mouth on the back of one hand, shoving off the bed.
“That’s enough,” he growls, staggering to his feet. “Goddamn, you taste so damn good.”
“You don’t have to stop,” you say, but your head spins when you move, and you let out a soft, “Oh,” as the darkness pulls you under.
Oops.
You wake an unknown amount of time later, strong arms wrapped around your shoulders and under your legs, rocking you gently against a broad, warm chest.
“Ziros?” You ask groggily, and he lets out a low growl when he sees you’re awake. “How long was I out?”
“Way too damn long,” he says. “More than a minute.”
“That’s all?” You laugh, relief washing over you. That means you’ve still got a lot of the night left.
“Don’t act like it’s no big deal,” he says, tweaking your jaw with two fingers. “You passed out.”
“I suppose that means no more sexy blood-drinking for me tonight?”
“Unfortunately not,” he says, and you’re relieved to see the hint of a smile at one corner of his lips, some of the humor coming back into his eyes. “Let me get you something to eat.”
You lean against the pillows, listening to the pleasant sounds of dishes clinking as he cooks you dinner—or a snack, or whatever kind of meal a person has in the middle of the night like this.
Your body is confused. Groggy, tired. Drained—literally—and yet, yet you’ve never felt happier.
Until you remember what day it is.
And how little time you have to make up for your missing rent before it’s due.
With a groan, you cover your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Ziros asks as he brings you a bowl of steaming porridge, setting it gently on the bed beside you. “Don’t like oatmeal?”
“Does anybody like oatmeal?”
“Drained, hungry people who need sustenance before they pass out again.”
