Chapter 10 Diantha #2
“Well,” Orfeo says, brows knitting together. He watches me down the slope of his nose. “Yes.”
I tear my eyes away, staring at the tips of my boots. “Something we have in common then.”
We finish our coffees in silence. Bodies close, knees almost touching as we lean against the railing, our breath mingling in the white plumes between us. I start and stop a thousand different conversations in my mind. I want to ask him more questions. About his life. About the supernatural world.
More than anything, I just want him to keep focusing on me—to keep watching me. I never want his attention to shift.
Back inside, Orfeo quickly washes off the air filter and reassembles the unit. When he hits a button and it beeps to life, he lets out a satisfied grunt and dusts off his hands.
Within moments, my apartment has thawed entirely. After I finish rinsing our cups, I throw myself backward onto my bed, exhaling deeply as the warmth cocoons me. “Thank you, Jesus. Heat.”
“Jesus, eh?” Orfeo watches me with raised brows, washing his hands at my kitchen sink, a smirk playing at his lips. “I believe you mean thank you, Orfeo.” He grabs my kitchen towel and begins to dry his hands.
“Thank you, Orfeo,” I parrot, then squint at him. “Is there anything you can’t do? You cook, you fix things, you’re an artist.”
“Many, many things.” He takes his time, working the material over his hands then up and over his wrists.
His tattoos have faded to a sort of green color—most likely because he got them when he was still human.
It’s fascinating—his body has aged so slowly while the ink has continued on.
The line work is beautiful and intricate, flourishes of palm and fig leaves beginning in the middle of his toned, vascular forearms then growing denser at his wrists.
His hands remain unmarked by ink; except, I notice, for a small tattoo on the inside of his ring finger.
“I could never rescue you from a crowded swimming pool in the middle of August, for example. If you wanted me to make you American Thanksgiving food, I think I would do a pretty bad job. And I cannot sing.” He smirks. “My voice is horrible.”
“I like your voice,” I say thoughtlessly, then cringe immediately, regretting the words as soon as they leave my lips. Heat rushes to my face and I tear my eyes away from his.
“The prickly Diantha likes something? Mamma mia. What a compliment.”
“Oh, hush.”
“No, I’m serious.” He flicks the towel over his shoulder and makes his way to the foot of my bed. He stands between my dangling feet, his eyes tracing over my face. I should roll over, should put more distance between us—but instead, I stare back up at him.
My skin feels hot and flushed. I unbutton my sweater and lift my shoulders to peel the material back. “You’re making me warm.”
His lips part. “I tend to have that effect.” He reaches a hand forward, fingers skimming my collarbone as he dusts back a curl. “Your hair…”
“I know, I need to cut it.”
He clicks his tongue against his teeth, his thumb grazing the side of my neck now. “Don’t you dare.”
My pulse thumps in my throat, growing erratic underneath his touch.
I know he feels it; I know he can smell my excitement.
I close my eyes and lean my head to the side, and he accepts the invitation.
Orfeo strokes the length of my neck with his thumb, coming up to trace the underside of my chin before dragging all of his fingers down the column of my throat, drawing me closer to the edge of the bed. His touch is so gentle, so warm.
“Bellissima,” he whispers, and I feel his breath against my cheek. I blink my eyes open and there he is, so close that if I moved half a centimeter, our lips would meet.
My heart pounds in my chest, hammering against my breasts. I pull in quick, ragged breaths. I don’t move. Orfeo brings his mouth to replace his thumb at the base of my throat, and when his full lips connect with my skin, I suck in a chestful of air. That connection echoes through my entire body.
I feel it everywhere.
He makes a slow, ghostly path up my throat with his lips. Each kiss travels through my body, a spark that burns through me. I spread my legs and lean back as Orfeo’s palms come down to rest on my bed, on either side of me. When his lips reach my chin, he pulls back.
“You,” he says, his voice a rough whisper trapped in the back of his throat, “are magnificent.”
“You…” I reach out and dust my fingers over the faint scar in his eyebrow, the gorgeous definition of his cheekbones, high and wide. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. “Should have kissed me outside.”
Orfeo wets his lips, slowly. “I was savoring the moment.”
“The moment?” I ask in a breathless whisper.
“The sweet in-between. Not knowing how this,” he rasps, his thumb skimming my bottom lip, “will change my life.”
I brace myself against the wave of longing this motion kicks alive in me. “You know exactly what to say, don’t you?”
“Hey,” he whispers. “I am not so self-interested. I simply say what I feel.”
“Can I do the same?” I whisper back.
“I demand it.”
“The in-between was nice,” I start, “but you should kiss me.”
I meet his hungry gaze.
He nods, weaving his fingers into my hair and cupping the back of my head, but I’m the one who collapses the remaining distance between our bodies, bringing our mouths together.
I know my lips meet his with trepidation, but as soon as the heat of him meets my teeth, a soft sound leaves me.
Like I just removed a pair of heels after eight hours on my feet.
Or like the first sip of a perfect margarita—bursts of salt between bright swatches of sweetness.
His fingers tighten in my curls and he draws me closer, until my breasts are against his chest and my pounding heart echoes between us. His tongue teases me, swiping over my bottom lip, and I surprise myself when I part my lips for him.
Orfeo tastes like heaven. Familiar and bright. Like fresh blackberries and sunshine and long summer days. His lips are plush and soft, and I can’t help but draw his bottom lip between my teeth. This pulls a noise from his chest. A deep, primal noise.
I should stop. Of course I should stop. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, and clearly my usual, overabundant self-control has vanished.
But whatever fraction of himself he’s giving me right now isn’t enough. I want more.
I fist a handful of his shirt and pull Orfeo forward onto the bed until his knees press into the mattress.
I open my thighs to him and he comes willingly.
He tightens his hold on my hair, pulling me flush against him, taking control of my body—my mouth, my breath.
I make noises I barely recognize. Low moans and hungry pleas.
Encouraged, his other hand joins in the tangle of my hair, and he shifts his body underneath mine.
His lips migrate, forging a hot, slow path over my jaw, over the delicate skin behind my ear.
He hums against my sensitive flesh, and I clench my legs together, pressing myself into his thigh.
Pleasure shoots through me. My nipples tighten under my top, and I press harder against him.
“Amore.” He bites out the word against my skin.
His tongue flicks over the pulse in my neck, and my entire body grows taut.
More of that unbidden pleasure fires through me, a fresh wave of heat, and I become desperate for more pressure, more points of connection between our bodies.
What’s happening to me? I think, promptly followed by: Who the fuck cares?
I let my head loll back as Orfeo drags his tongue over my pulse point, working it in easy, persistent circles.
“Orfeo,” I gasp, arching my back.
“Yes,” he breathes against my skin. “Say my name.”
I drop a trembling hand from his chest and grab at my own breasts before pushing my fingers into his thick, dark hair.
He moves on from my neck and leaves me almost desperate with desire.
He kisses me softly, like he’s soothing me.
He sucks at my bottom lip, stroking my hair away from my face and settling his hand on the curve of my hip, touching me like I’m precious.
His words blaze through my mind: you’re special.
Am I? God, I want to believe him—especially now.
When Orfeo pulls away, I realize our legs are tangled; I’m half straddling his lap, and the thick ridge of his erection is nudging at my core.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his eyes glowing that honey-hued shade of yellow, “if this was not on your agenda for the evening.”
I try to gain control of my breath. I shake my head, pressing my lips to his cheeks, then his chin, and finally his lips. “You are ridiculous.”
He stares down at me, and I can’t quite make sense of the look he’s giving me. “A hazard of becoming a vampire.” He begins to shift and I untangle my legs from his, smoothing my hands over my hair. “I should go,” he says.
“Of course,” I reply, though I’m still dazed. “Do you wanna leave from the balcony again?”
He nods and I lead him to the doors, swinging them open. We step out into the night, and before I can wonder how this moment will end, Orfeo reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine and bringing them to rest against his lips.
“Thank you,” he murmurs against my knuckles.
I lurch back at his words. “Thank me?”
“Yes, thank you.” His lips tug into a small smile.
“This week has been the most memorable of my afterlife. Sometimes the days, months, years—they blend together into nothing.” He sweeps his thumb over my lip, dark irises lightening to that stunning shade of amber.
“With you, I feel alive. I can’t describe it any other way. ”
“What if…” I swallow roughly. “What if we went back inside?”
“It’s best if I don’t…” He drops his eyes to our tangled fingers. “I am very hungry.”
“Oh.” Of course. “That makes sense.”
Orfeo takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling me closer until I feel the heat of his words against my lips. “One more kiss?”
I oblige, wrapping my arms around his neck and parting my lips. I give in to him and his rhythm and his firm hands as they skim under the hem of my shirt. They find the sensitive flesh at my waist, flaring goose bumps up across my body. I give in to the impulse to lift my hips and meet his.
He backs me up against the brick wall until our hips meet, the ridge of his erection a welcome pressure against me.
A choked half-moan works its way up my throat and I pull my mouth away from his, dropping my head back against the wall.
His mouth is relentless, traveling across my jaw and down my neck as he pulls my hips flush against his for just a moment.
With each brief connection, a new sound escapes me. A pant. A whispered plea.
Are those noises really coming from me?
Suddenly, they sound foreign. Far.
That’s not me.
My eyes fly open and I strain to hear the commotion.
I search over Orfeo’s shoulder. There, in the alley below us, is a couple.
The woman is pushed up against a wall, eyes thrown open in a glassy, stupefied expression.
Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, eyes narrowed in effort—and suddenly it hits me that she’s screaming.
Or trying to scream. Not with pleasure—she’s struggling to breathe, to speak, her voice growing weaker and weaker as blood bubbles up from her throat and spills over the sides of her mouth, drenching her attacker. Her words are garbled and distant, but I know what I hear.
Help me.
I gasp and shove my hands hard into Orfeo’s chest. He backs off immediately, eyebrows knit with concern. “Everything okay?”
“Orfeo.” I can barely force his name from my lips. I shove at his chest again, urging him to turn around, and lift a trembling finger to point. “Look. Down there. Th-there’s someone. And…and h-he’s killing her.”
Without a second of hesitation, he jumps up onto the railing and lands with soundless precision on the balls of his feet.
A real, animal growl tears through his throat.
“Fuck.” Orfeo spins around to face me, fangs flashing.
“Stay here. Do not follow me, Diantha. No matter what happens, do not even think about coming to help me.”
I nod vigorously, pressing myself back up against the house.
In one fluid motion, he leaps off the balcony railing and lands on his feet in the alley, behind the attacker.
He grabs the beast by its stubby. blond ponytail and delivers two swift punches to its temple.
But the attacker doesn’t stop. The beast thrashes, trying to break out of Orfeo’s hold as the woman continues to choke and gag.
“Let go!” Orfeo commands. “Let her go!” He yanks it back by a fistful of hair, ripping its mouth loose. The monster lets out a gurgling, shrieking noise, throwing back its head and baring blood-soaked teeth. Orfeo spins it and throws it up against the wall.
The creature slams into the brick wall with a nauseating thud and crack, clawing desperately at his face.
He manages to evade most of the attack while it spews hot, fresh blood, splattering the building’s darkened windows and drenching Orfeo.
The woman collapses to the ground, a limp puddle at Orfeo’s feet.
“Enough,” Orfeo roars, yanking it forward then slamming the hellish beast back against the wall—once, twice—until it shivers, emitting a final shriek of pain, then blinks out of existence.
The following moments of silence are somehow even more horrible than the screaming.
He drops to his knees at the woman’s side.
“Kat?” His voice breaks with emotion. With fear.
He tears off his jacket, biting into his own wrist and holding it to her mouth.
“Drink. Kat, listen to me. You must drink.” Then, he lifts the woman into his arms and takes off in the direction of Devil’s Row while terror holds me captive in the shadows.
It’s only when he’s gone that I realize I’ve been crying.