Vampire Kisses and Air Freshener Fiascos
Vampire Kisses and Air Freshener Fiascos
Not through the door. Not through the window. He just dissolves into shadow and mist, leaving behind nothing but the lingering scent of pine and rain and the echo of words that make my stomach clench with anticipation and terror in equal measure.
I'm left standing there, pressed against the fridge door like it's the only thing keeping me upright, heart hammering like a drum solo performed by someone with serious anger management issues, cheeks flushed the color of ripe tomatoes, and panties wetter than the lake I nearly drowned in earlier.
My lips are tingling, my skin is on fire, and I'm pretty sure I can still taste him on my tongue—something cool and dark and addictive that makes me want to chase after him and demand he come back and finish what he started.
And just as I'm trying to collect myself, to think rationally about how the hell I'm supposed to act normal after a vampire just basically made out with me and left me dripping with lust and confusion—
The front door opens.
The sound echoes through the house like a gunshot, making me jump about three feet in the air and nearly give myself a concussion on the refrigerator handle.
"Julia? We're back!" Mom's voice floats through the house, bright and cheerful and completely oblivious to the fact that her daughter just had her first real kiss with the enemy and is currently having what might be a hormonal breakdown in the kitchen.
Mom and Dad step inside, and I can hear them in the foyer, laughing softly about something, hanging their coats and weapons like everything is totally normal. Like they have no idea their daughter is currently a hot mess in the kitchen, trying not to spontaneously combust from residual vampire-induced arousal.
Like they can't smell the sexual tension still hanging in the air like fog.
I freeze, my entire body going rigid with panic.
My brain does a frantic scan for escape routes but comes up blank because there's only one way out of the kitchen and it leads directly past my parents, who would definitely notice if I tried to sprint upstairs while looking like I just survived a natural disaster.
So instead, I do what any self-respecting teenage werewolf with zero chill and even less common sense would do.
I grab the nearest thing—the can of air freshener that's been rolling around on the floor—and start spraying.
And spraying.
And spraying.
The can hisses like an angry demon as I empty the entire remaining contents in a desperate attempt to cover up the fact that I'm standing here, pressed up against the fridge, still dizzy with lust and smelling like a late-night sex scene gone wrong.
"Julia?" Mom's voice floats into the kitchen, calm but cautious in that way that means she's trying to figure out what disaster I've created this time.
I freeze, my finger still on the nozzle, heart pounding so loud I'm surprised it doesn't echo through the house like a marching band having a stroke.
"Everything okay in there?" Dad asks, and I can hear his footsteps approaching the kitchen like the world's most terrifying countdown timer.
"Yeah!" I say way too quickly, voice pitched about three octaves higher than normal and probably audible to dogs in the next county. "Just… air quality issues!"
Which is code for: Don't ask, don't look, just let me die quietly in this kitchen while I figure out how to explain why I look like I just got hit by a truck full of hormones.
Mom steps into the kitchen, her eyes immediately narrowing like she's trying to read the invisible script of my panic written across my face in neon letters.
"You sure you're okay? You look..." She pauses, studying my flushed cheeks and wild hair. "Flustered."
I nod so vigorously I'm surprised my head doesn't fall off. "I'm fine. Totally fine. Just... cleaning. Aggressively."
Dad appears behind her, folding his arms and giving me that look that says he knows I'm lying but is willing to let it slide for now because he has bigger problems to deal with than his daughter's obvious mental breakdown.
"The rogues got away," he says grimly. "We tracked them to the border, but they slipped across into neutral territory."
"Oh," I say, trying to sound concerned instead of relieved that they're too distracted by rogue problems to focus on why I smell like sexual frustration and industrial air freshener. "That's... bad?"
"Very bad," Mom agrees. "We'll need to organize patrols, set up watch schedules. This could mean—"
Before she can finish explaining exactly how doomed we all are, Amy pops her head around the corner, looking like she just ran a marathon through a hurricane and lost a battle with a very angry porcupine.
Her hair is sticking up in twelve different directions, there are leaves in her braid, and her clothes are torn in several places that suggest she either fell down a hill or got into a fight with a particularly aggressive bush.
"Mom, Dad," she pants, "we need to talk. Like, right now. Emergency pack meeting situation."
Mom and Dad exchange one of those looks that parents share when they're communicating in some kind of telepathic code that children aren't supposed to understand.
"We have to go," Mom says, already moving toward the door. "Julia, stay inside. Lock the doors. Don't—"
"Open them for anyone except you," I finish. "I know. I'll be fine."
They grab their coats again, weapons clinking as they prepare to head back out into the night of supernatural crisis management.
"We'll be back as soon as we can," Dad calls over his shoulder. "Try not to—"
The door clicks shut behind them before he can finish telling me not to do something stupid, which is probably for the best because I've already done approximately seventeen stupid things in the last ten minutes and I'm probably not done yet.
I'm alone again.
And oh God, the quiet is deafening.
I lean back against the fridge, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through the storm of lust and panic and "what the hell just happened" that's currently raging inside my chest like a category five hurricane of teenage confusion.
I'm still dizzy, I'm still aroused, and I'm way too aware of how damn sexy Rowan looked while making out with me like I'm his last meal and he's been starving for centuries.
My bottom lip is still tingling where he bit me, and when I run my tongue over the spot, I can taste copper and something darker that makes my wolf whimper with want.
"Okay," I whisper to no one in particular, my voice echoing in the empty kitchen. "Time to clean up this disaster and pretend it never happened."
Except I don't want to pretend it never happened.
I want it to happen again.
Preferably soon.
Preferably without the time limit imposed by parents who could walk in at any moment and discover their daughter making out with the enemy.
\---
Two minutes later, I'm standing in front of the bathroom mirror, scrubbing at my bottom lip like maybe I can wash away the memory of those fangs sinking in.
Spoiler alert: You can't.
The more I scrub, the more sensitive the spot becomes, sending little sparks of sensation shooting through me every time the washcloth makes contact. It's like my lip has become some kind of erogenous zone, which is deeply inconvenient and also probably not normal.
I touch the spot where he bit me, and there's a small, dark red mark that looks suspiciously like a bruise. Or a hickey. Or some combination of both that I definitely can't explain to my parents without admitting that I let a vampire put his mouth on me.
I'm part terrified, part aroused, and 100% absolutely losing my mind.
Maybe that's normal when your soulmate is a creature of the night who drinks blood and can disappear into shadows like some kind of gothic magic trick.
Probably not, though.
I check my phone, hoping for some kind of distraction from the chaos currently happening inside my head.
No messages from Amy, which is weird because she usually texts me approximately every five minutes when something supernatural is happening.
No missed calls from anyone, which is probably good because I definitely can't handle normal conversation right now.
Just the usual spam from some weird shoe company I definitely never signed up for and a notification that my period tracking app wants to remind me that I'm "approaching my fertile window," which seems deeply inappropriate given current circumstances.
I lean back against the bathroom sink, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
How do you process the fact that your first real kiss was with a vampire who's supposed to be your mortal enemy?
How do you explain to yourself that you want it to happen again, even though it could get you killed or disowned or both?
How do you function normally when you can still taste him on your lips and feel his hands on your skin and hear his voice promising that next time he won't stop?
There's a soft knock at the back door.
My heart leaps into my throat like it's trying to escape through my mouth.
I'm not sure if it's hope or panic driving my pulse into overdrive.
Or both.
Maybe it's him again. Maybe he forgot something else. Maybe "next time" is right now.
Or maybe it's a serial killer who's been waiting for my parents to leave so he can murder me while I'm still dizzy from vampire kisses and poor life choices.
I grab my phone and text Amy: If you don't hear from me in twenty minutes, assume I've been murdered by either a vampire or my own hormones.
No reply, which figures because Amy's probably busy with whatever pack emergency dragged my parents away from their helicopter parenting duties.
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.
I take a deep breath, check my reflection one more time (still flushed, still wild-haired, still looking like I just got hit by a truck full of sexual awakening), and head back toward the kitchen.
Because apparently, I have no survival instincts whatsoever and I'm about to answer the door for someone who's probably going to either kill me or kiss me.
And honestly, at this point, I'm not sure which option terrifies me more.