31. Thirty-One
Thirty-One
R ain poured down the windows of Leslie’s bungalow. The birch tree by the house bent to the wind, then sprang back up again, over and over. She had always loved that tree, loved the textures of its peeling bark and its compromise with the weather to bend but never break. She liked to think of this as the tree’s unconscious wisdom.
Wrapped in her favorite purple blanket, she opened one arm to Ryker, and he joined her on the couch. “I turned the heat up, but it’s hard to get rid of the bone-chill on days like this.”
“No problem,” Ryker said, though he shivered every so often just as she did.
“Just once I’d like to experience what humans mean when they talk about sharing body heat.”
He chuckled. “On days like this, I don’t think I’d mind it.”
“I’m surprised your flight wasn’t delayed. The last twenty-four hours, it’s like our weather is throwing a toddler tantrum.”
“Worst case scenario, everything gets grounded for a day.” Ryker pressed a long kiss to her lips. “Or should I say, best case scenario?”
“Do you know what today is?” She almost hadn’t brought it up, because if he didn’t know, it was really fine. Not like it was a true anniversary or anything.
“Four months of us,” he said.
He did know. Leslie rewarded him with an even longer kiss.
She played Tracy Chapman on the record player at the lowest volume above mute. They made hot cocoa together, sipped their mugs and sat on stools at her little kitchen bar. They played board games from the stash of classics under her coffee table: she won Scrabble, he won Clue. The man who lived and thought at a hundred miles an hour was utterly content to spend a rainy day inside with her, and she loved him for this as well as all the other reasons.
Tracy Chapman’s album ended, and Leslie hopped up to switch it out for Norah Jones.
They were planning the next weekend she could fly to Virginia when “Come Away with Me” began to play. Leslie stood and tugged his hands until he did too.
“I’m guessing,” she said with velvet in her voice, “that you’re a first-rate dancer.”
“I am.” Together they began a slow waltz across the den carpet. On the chorus, they sang it to each other. Come away with me.
“Will you?” Ryker said, halfway through the song and not missing a step.
“I will.”
“For centuries.”
“As many as we can get.”
As the song faded to its end, Ryker took her face between his palms and kissed her. The kiss was gentle, calm, happy, exactly like them together. But then it wasn’t. It caught icy fire that danced in Leslie’s veins. It brought her body to attention. It curled her toes into the carpet, her fingers into the back of his shirt.
Taste. She wanted his taste. She wanted to join their souls forever, today, unexpected and perfect, this day of blankets and board games, wind and rain outside and Ryker with her. Home with her. Being her home. Leslie drew his head down, exposed the dip between his neck and his shoulder, opened her mouth, set her teeth, tried to feel if he wanted this, if he wanted today.
“Yes,” Ryker hissed.
She bit down. She tasted. She sipped a little—cold from the vein and darkly flavorful, nothing like the human blood that kept her alive. She sipped a little more, but this wasn’t about sustenance. This was about their joined souls, and hers shivered in delight that exploded into a joy so strong and deep she could hardly hold it in her body. Her head flung back. She met his eyes. He stared, his body taut, holding himself motionless with effort.
“Ryker.”
“Can I?”
“Yes.” She wanted him to feel it, this freezing-shouting-dancing-sparking elation.
His lips were cool against her skin, the same place she had found to taste him. His teeth broke the skin but didn’t hurt her at all. He took a single long drink, then lifted his head. His eyes had gone pure silver. They sparkled like a galaxy before slowly shifting back to blue.
“Leslie.”
“It’s me.”
“I know. I felt you. I felt us. I felt…”
“We really are bound together. It’s like our hearts beat in time now, or…or our souls do, or something.”
“That’s it. That’s what it is. And I saw something. I got to borrow your gift for a split second, and I saw our anniversary cake. It had those cheesy number candles on top, so Mama will definitely be there.”
“Ooh, which number?”
She latched her arms around his neck and kissed him before he could answer her. He lifted her, arms under her thighs, and she straddled his hips as he carried her back to the couch, as the record kept playing and they kept kissing. He kissed the place he had bitten, and Leslie kissed the bite she had left in turn. The mark had already turned into a silver scar, a perfect mold only her bite would fit. At last they drew apart, but Leslie knew today was the beautiful day that would proceed their first beautiful night.
“Ryker, what was the number?”
He grinned. “A two.”
She rolled her eyes, and he kissed her.
“And a five.”
“Oh, twenty-five? That’s a respectable start—”
He kissed her again, and when he pulled back his eyes held glittering mischief, shining joy. “And a zero.”