“That was a risky move, cucciolo,” I warned.
You didn’t answer, only tilted your head back against the door and waited for me to remove my finger. Your naked throat tempted me. Silky ribbons of skin, tendon, and vein. You had far too much faith in me. I slowly moved my hand away, taking the time to lick the blood from my finger. I shuddered from the exquisite flavor.
“Do I taste good?” you asked with a mischievous smile.
“Divine.” I was dizzy from lack of oxygen. When I was in a state such as this—focused so narrowly on quenching my thirst—I forgot even to breathe.
Your lower lip was plump and turning a purplish hue. You must have bitten down hard for it to swell up like that. Your eyes were at half-mast as you slowly teased the cut with your tongue to open it up again. A crimson thread flowed from the torn flesh, and you stared at me with a hunger that matched my own.
“Take it, Henri. It’s yours.”
It had been a long time since I’d tasted human blood, and even longer since it had been offered as a gift.
I tilted your chin as though your face was made of glass and came for you again, gentler this time. I caressed your bottom lip and flicked it with the tip of my tongue to catch every last droplet. It mellowed on my taste buds and mingled with my saliva before I slowly sucked it down. My tasting morphed into another long, leisurely kiss as we learned each other’s unique rhythms.
“Thank you for this.” I drew my finger along the shape of your face.
“I wanted our first kiss to be special.” You snaked your hand under my shirt and rested it against the small of my back. Your fingers splayed across my skin, and I leaned into you. My chest trapped you against the door as your smaller frame molded to mine.
“Will you come home with me later?” you asked and ground your pelvis against me.
“Yes,” I whispered. I hadn’t expected a kiss like that, and my bloodlust was running high. Your lingering flavor and scent fueled my bodily cravings for your flesh and blood.
You swallowed and dragged your gaze from my mouth to my eyes. I kissed the curve of your neck, then the underside of your jaw, that hollow space where your pulse called to me like a siren’s song. I pressed my thumb against your bruised lip. “It’s swollen. Does it hurt you?”
You shrugged. “It was only a pinch.”
I squeezed the sparse flesh of your side and you squirmed a little in my arms, thrilling me even more.
“We’d better get back.” I didn’t want to leave this intimate enclosure, but I feared what little caution remained wouldn’t hold out much longer. “Your friends might think that I kidnapped you.”
“I wish you would.”
I’m ashamed to admit I considered it—stealing you away, hiding you on my islands where you would exist only to serve and pleasure me. I would bestow upon you any gift you could possibly want, including my worship and undying attentions. My desire to possess you was fierce and irrational, and I had to remind myself that your future awaited you—bright, shining, and full of promise.
I’d not be so selfish as to take that from you.
I experienced morefirsts that day—my first Slurpee (blue raspberry flavored), my first loss at laser tag, followed by my first win, and my first slice of ice cream cake. Your mother provided the cake. Several of the dancers complained about the calories but devoured their share, nonetheless. When our sweet cravings were satisfied, you introduced me to your mother by name along with a few others. She tilted her head as if remembering something.
“You had an imaginary friend when you were little, Orlando. I think his name was Henri.”
“Really?” you said as if you didn’t remember. I snuck a glance at Tyrell and Bruno, both of whom sat up and paid closer attention.
“Yes, it was right around the time that Roger…” She shook her head and seemed truly grieved by the loss. Your eyes hardened at the mention of him. Names have power, and Roger, even in death, held power over you. My arm reached out to pull you closer. I whispered a seduction and your mother snapped out of her reverie.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Henri,” she said and shook my hand vigorously.
“You as well, Ms. Bell.”
“Oh, Bell was Orlando’s father’s name. You can just call me Shelly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After one last rousing game of foosball, the dancers left, and the four of us—Tyrell, Bruno, you and I—smoked a celebratory blunt in Tyrell’s car. Only I didn’t partake. I sensed Bobby’s resistance to the drug, so I abstained for both of us. That didn’t, however, prevent me from laughing at your silly antics or working up an appetite from the fumes. Much to my delight, we ended up at a restaurant known for its greasy American cuisine, where you ordered me a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a root beer float.
At one point toward the end of our meal, I sat back in the booth we shared and said, “I feel so deeply satisfied.”
You licked your lips, careful with the bit that was swollen. You couldn’t close your mouth all the way because of it. That visual reminder of our encounter in the broom closet aroused me greatly. I could still taste you on my tongue.
