That’s easy. “Because I want to.”
“You remember I’m a vampire, right?” Simon asks. “I wanted to drink your blood last night.”
“But you didn’t,” Cody says, closing his hand around Simon’s. Because touching is allowed, now. “Even though I smell delicious.”
Simon is a vampire, sure. He’s also a fickle artist. A disorganized music collector. Equally fond of leather and cashmere. Thoughtful when scamming his way into human apartments. Good with a gun, even when poisoned.
He’s a creature without a pack. Just like Cody.
“What’ll it be?” Cody asks, pulling Simon closer. “Waltz? Polka? Can-can?”
“You’re exhausting,” Simon accuses.
And falling into each other is easy. Simon’s head rests on Cody’s chest, and their hands intertwine. Cody has danced with plenty of people before, but nobody who smells of cold blood. Nobody who’s sixteen times his age. Yet somehow, swaying to the violins with Simon feels perfectly right.
Last night would have been different. A laughing, rebellious performance, while Cody spent every second alert for danger.
This moment is for them alone.
Three songs later, Simon says, “I think I don’t mind having a babysitter after all.”
If Simon hadn’t said anything, Cody might have been content with the dance. But Simon’s voice is irresistible.
Cody leans away, enough to meet Simon’s gaze. “I want to do something very unprofessional right now.”
“You terrible brute,” Simon murmurs. His eyes are blue-green, but just as hungry as the night before.
Cody touches Simon’s cheek and bends down to kiss him. The world rocks, and resettles, and suddenly makes sense.
Chapter 17
Simon
Simon’s worries burn away with Cody’s touch. The kiss is a relief. A spark. Wonderfully wrong and terribly right. Simon grasps Cody’s thin t-shirt, straining the fabric with the force of his grip, and kisses back.
Cody’s hands settle at Simon’s waist, tugging him closer. Body heat surrounds him, as heady as the memory of blood. The music fades beneath the thud of Cody’s heartbeat, so much stronger and faster than Simon’s own.
They break apart an eon later. Cody pants for air, while Simon’s lungs are still. He takes only enough breath to say, “I’m going to turn off the music.”
They need to talk about this. Because as incredible as that kiss was, this isn’t how things went last night—when Cody hesitated, then fled. Simon doesn’t understand what changed.
Cody steps back, clearly nervous. “Was that okay?”
The symphony cuts off as Simon moves the needle. “It was fine,” he says loftily. “I’m sure you’ll get better with practice.”
“Haha,” Cody says, deadpan.
Simon perches on the nearest armchair. He wants to pace around, but his legs feel too weak. The wobbliness echoes his confusion. Would Francisco hate him for this? No. Tania would have scolded him, but Francisco was always so foolishly compassionate. Four and a half centuries, and Simon’s never met a werewolf like this before.
He hasn’t met many other people like this either.
“Sit,” Simon says, expecting Cody to pull up the nearest chair. Or insist on standing for mysterious bodyguard reasons.
Instead, Cody crouches right in front of Simon. Close enough to touch, but leaving space between them. His heartbeat still strikes quickly, and Simon’s hand moves without conscious thought. He traces the molten river of Cody’s veins, from jaw to collar bone.
“Why didn’t you kiss me last night?” Simon asks. There are more important questions, but that’s the one that presses most urgently. He had accepted the disappointment. Now he doesn’t have to—and he’s lost.
“I should say it’s because of my job, but that’s not all of it.” Cody stares up, intent. “I thought you seemed… drunk on bloodlust. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”
