I swallow, pulling my gaze back up to his face. His dark eyes glint with humor and heat, like he’s reading my mind.
“I’ll, um…I’ll show you where you can put it. The delivery, I mean.”Fuck.
I head back inside, hearing the scrape of wood as he hoists one of the crates out of the truck, the scuff of his steps as he follows me into the gloom of the storage space. I don’t turn on the lights; there’s enough light from the double doors.
“Here’s good.” I point to an empty pallet.
He moves past me, leans over to set down the crate, and sends a spicy rush of amber and sandalwood and male sweat flooding my senses.
My skin, my nerves, my whole body isscreaming, aching.
Using sex to ease my tension and soothe some of my worst symptoms isn’t new for me. I’ve fucked a lot of guys in my desperation to feel better. I usually pick the ones who are just passing through—guys I’m pretty sure I’ll never see again. That way Dad won’t find out and literally murder me.
It’s not like I have a choice. Physical pleasure is necessary if I want to stay halfway sane in the hours leading up to an episode. Masturbating doesn’t do the trick; I need the rush of someone else’s body, the crush of their lips on mine, the rapid thump of their heart, their living soul printed onto my bones. That throb of life is what I need—the heat of blood under skin, a balm to soothe the scratching claws of Death. I need the flavor of cum on my tongue to erase the cloying, sick taste of decay.
The delivery guy straightens, looks me in the eyes. Licks his lips. “Is the little vampire strong enough to help me with unloading? I got another run after this one, so the quicker I finish, the better.”
The quicker I finish…
God, I thought overseeing a delivery would be less dangerous than dealing with the tomato woman. Guess I was wrong.
I can’t fuck some random delivery guy. Can I?
“I’m strong,” I tell him.
His eyes crinkle a little at the corners. Not exactly a smile but close. “Of course you are.”
I follow him back to the truck, trying to ignore the furnace roaring through my body, the softening heat between my legs.
He grabs another crate, holds it until I’ve got my arms under it.Our fingers brush momentarily—his are thick, callused, dirty.
“Got it?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
It’s heavy. I’m thinner than I’d like to be because of days spent mourning and wandering with no chance to eat, but I’m tough. I can do this.
I stagger to the pallet and set the crate on top of the first one. It’s crooked, and as I grab the edges to straighten it, a splinter jabs into my flesh.
“Shit,” I hiss.
“Splinter?” He sets down his box and grabs my wrist, peering at the sliver of wood. “Hold still.”
I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I’m galvanized to the spot, rendered motionless by the curl of those thick, warm fingers around my wrist, the press of roughened fingertips against my sensitive skin. He lifts my palm to his mouth, clamps white teeth around the splinter, and tugs. With a pinch of pain, the splinter pulls free, and he spits it aside. “There.”
A bead of blood wells up on my skin. We both stare at it…and then, as if by agreement, we look at each other.
My skin is on fire, my nerves shriveling and screaming in the blaze. My heart pounds faster, faster, terrifyingly fast.
He’s still holding my wrist. Large, dirt-stained fingers wrapped around it, fingertips pressing the thin skin where my pulse flutters.
His eyes are dark brown, almost black, deep as a nighttime forest and rimmed with thick lashes—the kind any girl would be jealous of. He has a strong nose, not quite straight. Jaw like an anvil, sharp-edged, rock-hard.
My muscles tighten against my bones, and my nerves quiver. The person I’m supposed to mourn isn’t dead, not yet, but it’s goingto happen soon, and I’ll be damned if I endure this misery until then. I need, Ineed—
I leap for him, clasping my hands at the back of his neck, hauling his mouth down to mine. He tastes like hot sun and salted almonds and beer.
His hands immediately slide across the small of my back, urging my hips against him. He’s hard because of course he is. I’m Cathy fucking Earnshaw. I’m a walking wet dream in a miniskirt and a cutoff tank top that hugs my tits. Long legs, full lips, big eyes, a cascade of curly dark brown hair, a huge smile. The quintessential Southern “hot girl.” This is the persona I cultivate as carefully as the displays in Aunt Nellie’s store. It’s my Dr. Jekyll. No one ever gets to see Mr. Hyde.
