Baz reaches a hand up and pets my chest. I don’t have much hair there, not like him—he’s got a proper spread across his pecs and a black stripe down his belly. Now that I’ve got fat, I look like a baby when I’m bare-chested.
“You don’t have to wear a shirt on my account,” he says, still petting me. “If you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
“I mean . . . you should feel at ease in your own home.” He pinches the chub over my ribs.
I grab his wrist. “Thanks,” I say, watching him laugh. And then, because I’m holding his wrist, I kiss it—it feels especially cool on my lips. “Are you cold?”
He shakes his head. “You’re the one who’s half undressed.”
“I’m fine, it’s warm in here. But you’re cold.” I kiss his wrist again. Then chafe it with my thumb.
“I don’t reallygetcold . . .”
“Like you can’t feel the cold?”
“No, I can. It just doesn’t usually bother me.” Baz looks troubled for a second. “Unless I’m sick.”
“When do you get sick?”
“Almost never. But . . . I was sick after the numpties. I was cold then.”
I kiss his wrist, harder. Then his palm. I hold his hand over my face, kissing it—it isn’t enough. I bring his hand up around my neck and lean over him, rubbing my face in his cheek. “I should have found you,” I say. “Your aunt should have told me you’d been kidnapped.”
“Snow, you hated me then.” He’s stroking the back of my hair. “You probably would have sent the numpties a thank-you note.”
I pull back. I find his grey eyes. “I would haveslaughteredthem. I was out of my head with worry.”
“You hated me,” he says again, more softly.
“Yeah . . . but I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.”
“I’m hard to hurt,” he whispers. “You said so yourself.”
“No.” I move closer. Our noses bump when I shake my head. “I said you were hard to kill.”
Baz closes his eyes and pulls my forehead down to his. His mouth is open for me when I kiss him. His tongue is cold.
Is this what people do? Do they just keep talking? And touching?
I get lost fast when we’re kissing. I want more of it. All of it. I want the lethal dose.
My hands are on Baz’s arms. Then they’re on his shoulders. Then they’re, I don’t know where, everywhere. It isn’t enough—I need his skin. And then I need more. He doesn’t have enough skin for my hands. I don’t have enough room in my lungs for the way his hair smells . . .
I’m holding Baz now, tight enough to bruise.
I’m biting him hard enough to break.
It’s only okay because he isn’t human—he isn’t, and I am. And my hands are on his neck now. My hands are on his stomach. He’s cold, and it isn’t enough.Where is this going? What’s it all for?I want to kiss him. I want to come on him. But it won’t be enough. It won’t be enough,and then what? My hands are—
My hands are in the air. Baz is holding my wrists.
“Simon,” he hisses.
I try to kiss him, I’m lost. (I’m lost, I’m lost, nothing is enough.)
“Simon,” he says. “Stop.”
