I’m holding myself over him, my hands on his wrists, my knees bracketing his hips. He works his wings around us, pulling me closer. Then he latches on to my collarbone, right through my shirt. “You smell so good,” he says, his mouth full of me.
Simon Snow smells like my aunt’s shampoo. He smells like iodine still. Like ham. And butter. Like PG Tips.
He smells like sleep—sour breath and too-warm skin.
He smells like blood, always. His blood. Salt and milk and something burnt. (It used to be fire, now it’s ashes.)
He smells like sex.
I can’t help knowing this. Any of it. It’s in the air I’m somehow still breathing. But I don’t know what todowith it. What he wants me to do with it, what I’m allowed to do with it, what will help . . . What will lead to something strong enoughto lean onbetween us.
I let him bite me. I let myself feel his teeth. I rub my face in the chaos of curls at the top of his head. “I’m right here, love, I’m yours.”
He growls, miserably, letting go of my collarbone, mashing his face into my chest again. “I don’t know how, Baz.”
“What, Simon.”
“To get enough.”
“You don’t have to get enough.” I push his wrists down. I pin his arms with my elbows. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His head falls back onto the pillow. I think he might be crying again. Maybe he wasn’t awake. Maybe this is all a bad dream for him.
My hair hangs in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Snow.”
“Come here,” he says. His wings are winding tighter around me. I can see the spikes curling over my shoulders. My knees give out, and my hips fall on him.
“Are you awake?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Are you crying?”
“Yeah. Baz . . . come here.”
“I’m here.”
“Come closer.”
“All right.” My elbows give out, too. I let go of his wrists, and he wraps his arms around my waist. Arms. Wings. Legs. Tail.
“Closer,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“Can.” He’s kissing my mouth with his teeth now, lips and tongue almost an afterthought.
I try to retract my fangs, but it’s hopeless, so I turn away and let him bite my face.
“Baz.” He’s biting my fangs through my cheek. “Baz . . .”
I’mawake. I’m thirsty. I’m dizzy. All the blood I have left has gone to my cock, and I’m running on fumes. On good manners and bad memories. “Simon,” I say, with my last measure of caution.
He’s all around me now. His heels are in my calves. His tail is around my ankle. I can feel the bones in his wings, like long fingers along my spine.
It isn’t enough.
“Simon,” I say, taking his head in my hands.
