Twenty #3
Carefully, I pulled away. It was at once the hardest and easiest thing I’d ever done.
Mason made a noise of protest, trying to pull me back to him.
I only licked over the wound. My mouth ached with deprivation, but it was a good ache.
Mason shuddered again, his body wound tight, then sagged against me.
I smoothed my hands over his cheeks. He opened his eyes slowly. A dopey smile spread over his face.
“Sorry,” I said. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and he was breathing heavily. I tried not to panic. He was okay. It was okay. “I got carried away.”
Mason still looked hazy, but his arms around me were strong. “I’m good. Hey,” he said, turning my face when I began to drift. “Do you hear me? I’m fine.”
I jerked away from his hand on my chin, realizing what I must have looked like.
Fangs out, pupils dilated, mouth dripping blood.
I scrambled back and turned around, hating that he’d seen me like this.
Why had I thought this was a good idea? Mason wasn’t okay, and I looked every bit the monster. I scrubbed harshly at my mouth.
“Whoa, whoa, hey, don’t do that.” He pulled my arm down, guiding me back around.
“I’m right here. Can’t you see me?” I didn’t resist when he bumped my chin upward.
My eyes scanned his face, unsure for a moment.
I nodded, yes. “Okay. Can you feel me? Can you hear me?” Yes, yes.
“Then I’m still here. You could have hurt me, but you didn’t. I’m glad we did it. Are you?”
“You enjoyed it?” I asked.
Mason didn’t hesitate. “Every moment. I don’t even know how to describe it.”
“You don’t have to,” I murmured. “I felt it too.”
I leaned forward with caution to kiss the puncture marks on his neck.
Mason hummed, sliding a hand upward to keep me there.
Nothing happened. My teeth stayed in their rightful place.
I laved over the spot, biting gently, thrilled to find that I could do that without breaking skin. Mason jolted under my ministrations.
“I’m so glad,” he said again, then a couple more times. “I like feeling so close to you. I like knowing that I’m inside of you.”
I paused. Mason spluttered.
“That’s not—! That came out so wrong.” I could feel his cheek flaming beneath my hand. “I didn’t mean—not that I wouldn’t mean it, just not—I’m done speaking.”
I laughed and kissed his cheek, weightless. I felt stupid. I felt free enough to say, “I would like that too.”
Unashamed. I was learning that from him.
Mason froze, eyes dark and saucer-wide.
“Just, um.” He swallowed. “Just to be clear, when you say that, do you mean . . .” He let it hang, uncharacteristically shy. “We’re not talking about blood anymore, are we?”
I shook my head. We were nose to nose.
Mason jerked forward. He kissed me before I could stop him, silencing my shriek with his mouth.
“Wait!” I turned my cheek. Mason seemed happy to kiss that too. “I taste like blood,” I said.
He ignored me, already kissing his way back to my mouth with tremulous lips, twisting his fingers harder in my hair to hold me in place. “You taste like you,” he said into the corner of my mouth. “And I love you.”
My resistance crumbled. Mason took my mouth again, and I welcomed him. He had a way of doing that: prying me open. He hummed in his throat, appreciative, and I let him kiss me however he wanted, which was thorough, like he was proving he didn’t mind the taste. He relished it.
I pulled him out of his jacket. He shed the sweater underneath. I touched the gnarly raised scar on his side where the trap had cut him.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, and Mason shook his head, kissing me hungrily.
“You keep me warm.” He said it like it was a simple fact, not an impossibility. When I laid my hands on his shoulders, his skin was burning.
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s not the cold,” he said, and when my eyes leapt anxiously to the fresh bite, “Not that, either; it’s just . . .” He pressed his face into my neck. “This. Us. Right now. You smell so good, and I feel so . . . C’mon,” he urged, sliding beneath my shirt. “Come warm me up.”
We crashed together. Mason pushed and I went easily, dragging him down with me on top of the sleeping bag, one of his thighs nudging between my legs. I heard rustling somewhere past my head, then the tear of Velcro.
“What are you—?” I snapped, annoyed, when he sat up between my legs. Mason lifted something from the pocket of the sleeping bag. “Oh, you’re such a jerk.”
He was holding a foil packet and a travel-sized jar of lubricant.
“I’ve always been taught to come prepared for every possible situation.”
“Presumptuous,” I huffed.
“Resourceful.”
“Opportunistic.”
“Sue me.”
With the lantern at his back, he looked unreal, haloed and carved out of shadows. I dipped my fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans and watched his body flex at the touch.
“You’re stunning,” he said, roaming a hand over my abdomen. His gaze was savage. I watched him appraise me, arching into his touch as I realized we had been thinking the same thing.
“Well?” I dared. “Are you just going to sit there being resourceful?”
Never one to back down from my challenge, Mason swatted my hand away and lowered himself above me. I reached out to shut off the lamp.