He hesitated. “No. I can drink from the wrist, the shoulder, anywhere blood flows close to the surface.”
My cheeks warmed atanywhere.“Okay. And what if you lose control?”
He met my gaze evenly. “I will not.”
“That’s a pretty confident answer for someone who just drank from my delivery guy.”
He smiled faintly. “You have my word. I will not lose control with you.”
The room was quiet again.
Finally, I nodded. “All right. But only a little. Like… a snack.”
He inclined his head, solemn as a priest. “A small portion, then.”
I rolled my eyes. “God, you make it sound like charcuterie.”
He didn’t laugh. He looked at me for a long, unnerving moment—so calm, so dangerously composed.
I was curious. Because maybe it wasn’t only him who was hungry.
I fidgeted with the hem of my shorts, bouncing one knee because that was what my body did when my brain was screamingbad idea, bad idea, bad idea.
“Okay,” I said, again, trying to sound chill and failing spectacularly. “Just a little snack. No buffet behavior.”
Cristian inclined his head with that aggravating old-world grace that made him look like he’d invented manners. “You have my word.”
He looked calm. Too calm. Like a man about to sip wine, not… me. God help me, that weird confidence of his was doingsomethingto my already scrambled brain.
“I am no longer ravenous,” he said evenly. “Since feeding from the peasant earlier, I am… tempered. But a small taste will strengthen me. It is… practical.”
“Practical,” I repeated. “Right. Nothing says ‘normal summer house-sitting experience’ liketopping offyour vampire roommate.”
He waited. Patient. Predictably composed.
I turned around before I could psych myself out and lifted my hair off my neck. “I’ve only seen it done this way,” I said quickly. “So—neck. Let’s do neck.”
He moved closer, the air shifting around us. His body radiated warmth—or maybe it was my nerves pretending. Either way, it scrambled every coherent thought.
“You are trembling,” he murmured.
“No,” I said too fast. “I’m vibrating with confidence.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Your sarcasm is a thin veil for your fear.”
I glared at him from over my shoulder. “Okay, therapy with fangs is not on the menu. Just do it before I change my mind.”
His hands landed lightly on my waist. The contact sent a ridiculous jolt straight through me. Then his mouth brushed the base of my neck.
Every muscle in me went lax, like someone had flipped a switch. The sensation wasn’t sharp or cold like I’d imagined—it was heat. A slow, curling warmth that unfurled through me, down my spine, pooling low in my stomach. I wasn’t afraid. I wasmelting.
“Did you… bite me already?” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
He made a low sound in response—more felt than heard—and my pulse stuttered.
The warmth deepened, spreading like honey. My hands twitched uselessly at my sides before one found his wrist. I didn’t even know if I was asking him to stop or holding him there.
His mouth moved again, tongue tracing lightly against my skin as if he was savoring me. The sound that left me was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
