Not just about a human.
I’ve never felt this way.Period.
About anyone.
I’m drunk. That’s it.
I’m drunk and I should stop.
I wrench myself away from her, stumbling backward against the wall, knocking my left arm into her bookshelf.
A shelf which, now that I notice, is covered in an array of books featuring very shirtless, very fit men.
Ha! Is that what she likes?
I pull one out, flicking through the pages with a smirk. A smirk that grows when I realize what I’m reading.
It’s avampireromance.
And it’s steamy. Oh, damn. Probably more steamy than anything I’ve ever read.
But before I can read a single word out loud, she jumps up from the bed, wrenching it out of my hand.
“What’s the matter, human?” I ask as she shoves it quickly back onto the shelf. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.”
She folds her arms, glaring up at me in the most adorable way.
Dammit.
I have to stop thinking like this.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“You should have told me you were into vampires.” I grin, leaning in close to her neck until her breath stills, like she’s anticipating. Lowering my voice, I say, “You know, I can make that scene come true.”
She blushes so hot, I can feel the heat rushing through her neck, hear the blood pounding beneath her skin.
And, oh hell, now I want her even more.
But she just grumbles, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to go snooping around other people’s bookshelves without their permission?”
“Is that what I was doing?” I fold my arms, gazing lazily at her as I lean back against the wall. Still smirking. Still craving her more than anything I’ve ever wanted.
She’s somehow even cuter when she’s embarrassed.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she says abruptly, blushing as she turns away. Blushing madly.
I stand still. Watching her go.
I’m not a creep.
Or at least, I aim not to be.
If she doesn’t want to continue this, I sure ain’t gonna push it. I run one hand back through my hair, letting out a heavy breath. I need to clear my head.
Damn.
As soon as she’s more than five feet away, a little of my clarity already returns. Followed by the familiar taste of self-loathing.
