Kissed, Bitten, and Barely Breathing
Kissed, Bitten, and Barely Breathing
I'm standing in my kitchen, holding a can of air freshener like it's a weapon of mass destruction, waging war against the lingering scent of "Rowan's Midnight Mystery," which—let's be honest—smells way too much like trouble with a side of sex appeal and a garnish of "your parents are going to murder you if they figure out what just happened."
I've already emptied half the can spraying like a maniac possessed by the spirit of a very anxious cleaning lady, because how exactly do you explain to your Beta parents that your vampire soulmate just complimented your tits and now your panties feel like they're auditioning for a wet t-shirt contest while simultaneously plotting their own escape from your body?
The answer, I've decided after extensive consideration (approximately thirty seconds of panic), is: You don't. You just spray until your lungs burn and hope no one notices your wildly inappropriate hormone meltdown or the fact that you're currently leaning against the refrigerator like it's the only thing keeping you vertical.
I'm in the middle of my fourth frantic spray cycle when—click.
The kitchen door swings open like it's announcing the arrival of either salvation or complete destruction, and the world tilts on its axis so hard I'm surprised I don't slide right off the planet.
Rowan is standing there, looking way too calm, way too put-together for someone who just vanished into shadows like some kind of supernatural magic trick a second ago. He's leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, like he belongs here, like walking through my back door uninvited is just another Tuesday evening activity.
His eyes are that pale, hypnotic gray that could probably melt steel beams and definitely melts my resolve faster than ice cream on hot pavement. They're focused on me with an intensity that makes me feel like he's reading my soul and finding it moderately entertaining.
His black hair is perfectly tousled, like he's been styled by a midnight breeze and a little bit of supernatural magic, not like he just climbed through a window and disappeared into shadow smoke. Every strand is exactly where it should be, which is deeply unfair considering I probably look like I've been electrocuted by my own hormones.
And yes, he's still ridiculously, scandalously gorgeous in a way that should come with warning labels and possibly require a license to operate in public spaces.
Like, this is the kind of hot that breaks laws in at least three countries and probably causes international incidents when he travels.
"I forgot something," he says, his voice low and smooth enough to make me want to roll my eyes and swoon at the exact same time. The words slide over me like honey mixed with whiskey and bad decisions.
"What?" I manage, my voice cracking like I'm thirteen again and trying to order pizza over the phone without embarrassing myself. I'm utterly unprepared for this level of vampire charm to be standing in my kitchen, looking like he just stepped off the cover of "Dangerous Immortals Monthly."
He steps closer, and I swear the temperature in the room rises about ten degrees. Or maybe that's just my internal combustion engine kicking into overdrive.
My heart is doing this weird thump-thump-THUMP thing that feels suspiciously like it wants to jump right out of my chest and start sprinting through the house while screaming about how unfair it is that vampires get to look like walking sex fantasies while werewolves get to look like perpetually confused teenagers with anger management issues.
I'm not sure if I should be alarmed or flattered or maybe just run away and join a convent where vampires aren't allowed and all the nuns wear sensible shoes, but before I can decide on a course of action that doesn't involve spontaneous combustion, he's closing the distance between us.
His movements are liquid grace, like he's dancing instead of walking, and every step makes my wolf whimper with want and my brain short-circuit with panic.
Before I can process what's happening, before I can come up with a rational response or at least a witty comeback, his lips find mine in a kiss that steals my breath faster than a punch to the gut.
But not a violent punch. More like a gentle, life-altering punch that rearranges your entire worldview and makes you question everything you thought you knew about kissing and breathing and existing as a functional human being.
It's slow, deliberate, and every second feels like it's melting me from the inside out like some kind of hormonal lava flow. His lips are cool against mine—vampire temperature, I guess—but somehow they ignite something molten in my chest that spreads through my entire body like wildfire.
His hands find my waist, fingers curling around the fabric of my ridiculous WORLD'S BEST GRANDMA t-shirt, and I realize with a start that I'm still wearing the same pajamas from earlier. The ones with cartoon muffins. The ones that make me look like I raided a thrift store while blindfolded and having a mental breakdown.
Why I'm still wearing this ratty, holey thing after two days of house arrest is a mystery even to me, but there's no time to change now and honestly, Rowan doesn't seem to care about my fashion choices because his hands are sliding under the hem of my shirt like he has every right to touch me wherever he wants.
My fingers twitch, almost of their own accord, as they find the edge of his black t-shirt. The fabric is soft and expensive-feeling, probably made from cotton that was hand-picked by virgins under a full moon or something equally ridiculous and vampire-appropriate.
Rowan's hands slide further under my shirt, fingertips ghosting over the bare skin of my waist and up toward my ribs like they own every inch of real estate they touch. His touch is cool but somehow burns like brands, leaving trails of fire everywhere he makes contact.
Heat blooms under his touch, spreading fast and furious through my chest and down to places that make me swallow hard and question my commitment to remaining a virgin until at least college, maybe graduate school if I'm being really ambitious about my life goals.
I moan softly into his mouth, a sound that surprises even me because it's so loud and involuntary and definitely not the kind of noise I thought I was capable of making. It sounds like it belongs to someone with way more experience and significantly fewer inhibitions than seventeen-year-old Julia Claw.
But apparently, vampire kisses do things to your vocal cords that should probably be studied by science.
He responds to the sound by deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees threaten to give out entirely. I'm pretty sure I would collapse if not for the refrigerator behind me and his hands holding me steady.
And then he bites my bottom lip.
Not hard. Not painful. Just enough pressure to break the skin, just enough to draw a tiny bead of blood that blooms like a crimson pearl against my mouth.
Electricity explodes inside me.
Not metaphorical electricity. Actual, literal lightning bolts of sensation that shoot from the point of contact straight down to my toes and back up again, bouncing around inside my body like pinballs in a machine that's been tilted way too far.
A bolt of pleasure so intense it practically knocks me off my feet and makes me see actual stars—not the romantic kind, but the kind you see when you hit your head really hard, except instead of pain there's just pure, concentrated bliss.
I clutch at his shoulders, my knees threatening to give out completely, but Rowan holds me steady, his hands spanning my waist like he's the only thing keeping me tethered to earth and preventing me from floating away on a cloud of hormonal euphoria.
My wolf is practically howling with joy, doing victory laps inside my head and chanting "MATE MATE MATE" like she's at a supernatural football game and our team just scored the winning touchdown.
Apparently, when a vampire feeds on his soulmate—even just a tiny taste—it releases fireworks in your brain and pleasure so sharp it makes you question every life decision you've ever made, especially the decision to remain a reasonable, level-headed person who doesn't throw herself at dangerous supernatural creatures.
I'm dizzy, breathless, and painfully aware that my cartoon muffin pajamas have suddenly become the least sexy thing in the room, which is saying something considering there's also a refrigerator covered in grocery lists and a can of air freshener rolling around on the floor.
My entire body is humming like a tuning fork that's been struck by lightning, and I'm pretty sure I can feel my pulse in places I didn't know had pulses.
Before I can even think about what's happening, before I can process the fact that a vampire just bit me and somehow turned it into the most erotic experience of my short, previously kiss-free life, Rowan pulls back.
His eyes are dark and a little wild with something I can't quite name but definitely want more of. His pupils are dilated, making his gray eyes look almost black, and there's something predatory in his expression that should probably terrify me but instead makes my wolf purr with satisfaction.
There's a tiny smear of my blood on his bottom lip—my blood—and the sight of it makes something primitive and possessive surge through me that I definitely didn't know I was capable of feeling.
"Next time," he says, his voice rough and low and full of promise, "I won't stop there."
And then—like smoke in the wind, like he was never real at all—he disappears.