Chapter 10 Eric
ERIC
Istuck close to Nate as we made our way to the kegs and mixed drinks table, one hand spanning the small of his back.
True north. My home base. He was flushed already, red at the tips of his ears and the slope of his throat—maybe from the crowd or maybe from the way I slid my pinky just beneath the waistband of his pants and whispered in his ear, threatening to turn him on and leave him begging until I decided he’d earned it.
I kept catching him stealing glances at my costume, too, which meant the leather pants were doing their job.
“Beer or something stronger?” Nate asked, reaching for a Solo cup. His ass brushed against me like a reminder, and I sensed a restless tension running through him like a current, telegraphing need.
“Whatever you’re having.” I eyed a group of stumbling zombies nearby, ready to pivot us both to safety if necessary.
Nate handed me my drink, grinning as he popped a mini umbrella in it, and I slipped my free hand into my pocket, finding the small remote I’d been carrying around like an erotic talisman all evening.
At the flick of a button, his next inhale went sharp, Adam’s apple jumping as the vibration kicked in.
His fingers tightened on his cup, pupils dilating.
He was so fucking obvious, but I pretended not to notice, even when he shuddered.
Fuck, he was gorgeous. My dick started chubbing just from watching him try to play it cool.
“You absolute bastard,” he hissed under his breath, shooting me a look that was a mix of murderous and desperate. His hips shifted subtly, trying to find a position that would either ease or intensify the sensation. I wasn’t sure which.
“Problem?” I asked innocently, then took a sip of my drink while watching the flush creep down his chest. The vibration was on the lowest setting, just enough to remind Nate what he was wearing under those period-appropriate breeches.
The surrounding crowd remained oblivious to his predicament, but I caught every micro-expression, every tiny tremor that ran through him as the plug did its work.
Just when he opened his mouth to respond, Amanda materialized beside us as if she’d been summoned by the mere presence of two guys in vampire costumes straight out of a homoerotic period drama.
She effectively hemmed us in while the vibrations continued their torment. The timing couldn’t have been better.
Her Poison Ivy costume was a riot of green leaves and glitter, and perfectly suited her. She gave us both an appreciative once-over. “Holy shit,” she said, one hand on an ivy-covered hip. “I hope you two are aware you look like the world’s sluttiest snack.”
“We were going more for ‘full meal’ than ‘snack,’ but whatever works.” I flashed her my fangs.
Amanda tipped her head, studying us as if she were contemplating a buffet. “Seriously, look at you two. It’s like you sprang fully formed from my most depraved fantasies.”
“You volunteering for something, Mand?” Nate grinned, sharp and teasing.
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the quickened pulse at her throat. “You better believe it, Sanders. If you two ever want to add a third to your vampire situation...” She waved a manicured hand between us. “You know where to find me.”
The suggestion hung in the air, and I wondered briefly if Nate ever missed being with women. We’d rarely discussed it. But when I glanced at him, ready to gauge his reaction, he was already shaking his head with an amused snort. I clicked off the vibrator, allowing him a brief reprieve.
“Noted,” he said simply, then shifted closer to me, his meaning clear.
I released an internal sigh of relief.
Amanda sighed dramatically. “God, why are all the hot ones either taken or fucking each other?”
“You don’t seem to have any trouble finding options.
” I arched a brow. Amanda was better at pulling ass than anyone else I’d ever met.
It was some combination of the fiery hair and free-spiritedness, I suspected.
“And I can’t imagine you’d have trouble pulling a plus-two tonight if you wanted to.
” I gestured around the room, and she grinned.
“I might. I spotted a crazy-tall guy in a Michael Myers costume earlier. He might be down. Maybe I could find a Jason to go along with him. Talk about perfect duos.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Think I could convince them to leave their masks on?”
“Ab-so-fucking-lutely,” Nate and I said at the same time.
“Hmmm,” she considered, tapping her chin, then shrugged. “I think I’ll go work on that. See what happens.”
“Report back tomorrow. You know I live for the details.” Which I would then promptly spill to Nate.
“I will. And if you change your minds about that threesome, I’ll bring the handcuffs.” She wasn’t serious—or maybe she was—but she knew we wouldn’t take her up on it. She and I had mutually friend-zoned each other from the start, quickly figuring out we were too alike for anything but friendship.
Amanda disappeared into the crowd, hips swinging as she went on the prowl for her own Halloween disaster.
I eyed Nate as he watched her go, then caught him licking at his fake fangs as he turned his gaze toward me.
The gesture sent heat storming through me that set up camp in my groin.
I’d helped him with his makeup earlier, lined his eyes with kohl, fitted the fangs just right.
The memory of having him stand still while I worked, my fingers on his face, made me itch to touch him again.
From the way he kept glancing at my mouth, I knew he was thinking along the same lines.
I fought the urge to just shove him into the nearest closet and have him right there: teeth, hands, tongue, until he was limp and ruined.
But the party pressed in around us. Every time I thought about pulling him into a corner, another group would crash by, or someone would grab Nate for a photo or conversation, or those damned ruffles on our shirts would catch another wandering hand.
He kept touching me too, every chance he could. Casual brushes of his knuckles against my wrist, fingers fidgeting with the black ribbon. The contact was electric, ramping my arousal higher and limning me with tension that the crowd made impossible to release.
“I’ll be back,” I murmured against his ear, letting my lips barely brush his earlobe. “Don’t let anyone else eat you.”
He gave me a look that was hungry and knowing, like he was barely holding himself together.
Good. That was exactly the state I wanted him in.
Time to go hunting.
One thing I noticed as I started my trek was that frat house parties always smelled the same, regardless of which Greek letters decorated the houses: stale light beer, too much cologne, the faint tang of bodies even the strongest cleaning supplies couldn’t hide.
Sweat and restlessness. Sexual frustration and bravado.
It was intoxicating in its own unique way.
I pushed past glow-in-the-dark skeletons, dodged someone dressed as a traffic cone, and ignored the bathroom line that snaked down the hall.
Up the stairs, past couples grinding against the banister, I moved down the hallway, peeking inside half-open doors.
One revealed someone hurling into a trashcan.
Another showcased a witch giving an enthusiastic lap dance.
I needed something better. Something empty and private and dark.
I found another bathroom, which met the qualification of being empty, but Nate deserved better than a toilet tank digging into his spine—at least for tonight.
As I roamed, it turned into a game, finding the spot where I could wreck Nate, let him wreck me, make him forget about his drink, his costume, everything but my hands on him. I came upon a coat closet, but it was packed with coats and some dude passed out in a unicorn onesie. Decidedly not sexy.
I turned down another hall and encountered more closed doors. It was quieter here, though I still felt the bass from downstairs thumping through the floor.
At the far end of the hall was a heavy old door with a discolored patch where a plaque once hung. Janitor closet? Library? I wasn’t sure.
I twisted the knob to find it locked. Of course.
Dropping to a crouch, I examined the lock and grinned. I pulled the little paper umbrella from my drink, flipped it around, and stuck it into the hole beside the lock, pushing until I heard the mechanism release. It was so effortless I almost felt bad. Almost.
Had to love frat house logic: their locks always seemed more decorative than functional.
I twisted the knob again, and this time the door opened. I fumbled to the right of the frame until I found a light switch, then flipped it.
I was in a storage room that smelled of dust, old wood polish, and a hint of mildew.
The two can lights with working bulbs hummed low and tired.
The place was packed with leftover decor: boxes labeled Winter Formal, a cracked disco ball, a fake palm tree, a gold spray-painted throne—probably from Greek Week.
And leaning against one wall, an enormous mirror in a chipped gilt frame.
I crossed to the throne and dropped onto it, testing its stability.
The thing creaked but held. I sprawled on top of it, one boot hooked on a nearby box, the half-warm drink still in my hand.
The mirror threw back my reflection in cloudy pieces: white shirt open at the throat, fake blood on my collar, hair mussed from the heat of the party.
Lestat in a frat house storage room—there was something fitting about it.
I pulled out my phone, angling it to capture both myself on the throne and my reflection in the mirror. The ornate frame added an aesthetic touch as I shifted to show off how my leather pants hugged my thighs and emphasized the bulge between them.
ERIC: 2nd floor, end of second hallway. I’m hungry.
I hit send and waited. My reflection stared back at me, patient and predatory, while bass from the party thrummed through the floor and soaked into my bones.