She’d taken her sweater off, and the top two buttons of her shirt were undone. The implied invitation registered, but it didn’t count yet, in his mind. He meant to sit down next to
her, but when he got close enough for her to reach, she wrapped both arms around him and tipped over backward, pulling him down on top of her. He caught himself with his elbows to avoid squashing her.
“Hey, I want you to do me a favor,” he said, before he had a chance to lose his nerve.
She said, “Hmm?” and then waited quietly while he tugged his shirt off. Her hands settled on his back again, cool against his skin. “Ooh, you’re warm.”
“Bite me.” He offered her the inside of his left arm.
She looked bemused, but caught a bit of skin between her teeth and toyed with it gently.
In the pit of his stomach, a host of little demons readied a vat of despair in case he needed to wallow in it. “Like you mean it,” he added with forced optimism.
That got her to apply a little more pressure. It felt slightly pinchy.
“Harder?” He wanted her to make him scream.
A little more pressure. The tiny increments were driving him crazy. He clenched his teeth, as though that could make her bite down harder.
“Like you’re a vampire who’s been starving for a week,” he suggested.
She let go. “Herbivore teeth. Not made to draw blood.”
“I know, but it’ll hurt like hell,” he told her, desperately willing her to understand.
She looked into his eyes. He wished he could read her expression, but for several long seconds, all he could see was his own reflection. He held his breath and his heartbeat filled his chest. “Are you okay?” he asked when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“Yes,” she said.
He couldn’t tell if she meant it. “Then talk to me. Say something.”
“I’ve never had any inclination in that direction.”
He rolled off of her and flopped on his back. “Story of my life.” He didn’t care if he sounded bitter. What was so hard about hurting a guy? You’d think he was asking for someone to bite the head off a kitten.
“I know, but it’ll hurt like hell,” Jamie said. He was staring at Lene too intently for someone just asking for a simple favor. Just fantastic—she finally had him half naked in bed after daydreaming about him for months, and he was springing a fetish on her that she didn’t understand. It was like one of those moments in a movie where something goes wrong and the grand swell of music grinds to a halt.
Lene ran through a few choice swear words in her head, but kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to say something rash and hurt his feelings before she had time to process the information.
“Are you okay?” he prompted.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then talk to me. Say something.”
She tried to think of the most neutral way to say it. “I’ve never had any inclination in that direction.”
He rolled off of her and flopped on his back dramatically enough to bounce. “Story of my life,” he grumbled.
So much for not saying the wrong thing. She turned onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” Mom used to say, You don’t know you don’t like something unless you’ve tried it. Granted, the advice was dispensed in the context of casseroles and green vegetables, but it generalized well. One bite was the least she could do.
“Oh.” His face relaxed.
“But you threw me a little.” She stroked his short dark hair.
“And tell me if I’m wrong, but the way you were looking at me, I got the feeling that you wanted more than one little thing.”
He closed his eyes. “Sorry. I thought you might like to bite, but really, it’s just that I like pain with sex. Or messing around or whatever it is that we’re doing. There never seems to be a good time to mention this.”
“So you’re a masochist,” she said.
He winced, squeezing his eyes shut tighter for a moment. “Technically, but I hate the word. The
her, but when he got close enough for her to reach, she wrapped both arms around him and tipped over backward, pulling him down on top of her. He caught himself with his elbows to avoid squashing her.
“Hey, I want you to do me a favor,” he said, before he had a chance to lose his nerve.
She said, “Hmm?” and then waited quietly while he tugged his shirt off. Her hands settled on his back again, cool against his skin. “Ooh, you’re warm.”
“Bite me.” He offered her the inside of his left arm.
She looked bemused, but caught a bit of skin between her teeth and toyed with it gently.
In the pit of his stomach, a host of little demons readied a vat of despair in case he needed to wallow in it. “Like you mean it,” he added with forced optimism.
That got her to apply a little more pressure. It felt slightly pinchy.
“Harder?” He wanted her to make him scream.
A little more pressure. The tiny increments were driving him crazy. He clenched his teeth, as though that could make her bite down harder.
“Like you’re a vampire who’s been starving for a week,” he suggested.
She let go. “Herbivore teeth. Not made to draw blood.”
“I know, but it’ll hurt like hell,” he told her, desperately willing her to understand.
She looked into his eyes. He wished he could read her expression, but for several long seconds, all he could see was his own reflection. He held his breath and his heartbeat filled his chest. “Are you okay?” he asked when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“Yes,” she said.
He couldn’t tell if she meant it. “Then talk to me. Say something.”
“I’ve never had any inclination in that direction.”
He rolled off of her and flopped on his back. “Story of my life.” He didn’t care if he sounded bitter. What was so hard about hurting a guy? You’d think he was asking for someone to bite the head off a kitten.
“I know, but it’ll hurt like hell,” Jamie said. He was staring at Lene too intently for someone just asking for a simple favor. Just fantastic—she finally had him half naked in bed after daydreaming about him for months, and he was springing a fetish on her that she didn’t understand. It was like one of those moments in a movie where something goes wrong and the grand swell of music grinds to a halt.
Lene ran through a few choice swear words in her head, but kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to say something rash and hurt his feelings before she had time to process the information.
“Are you okay?” he prompted.
“Yes,” she said.
“Then talk to me. Say something.”
She tried to think of the most neutral way to say it. “I’ve never had any inclination in that direction.”
He rolled off of her and flopped on his back dramatically enough to bounce. “Story of my life,” he grumbled.
So much for not saying the wrong thing. She turned onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” Mom used to say, You don’t know you don’t like something unless you’ve tried it. Granted, the advice was dispensed in the context of casseroles and green vegetables, but it generalized well. One bite was the least she could do.
“Oh.” His face relaxed.
“But you threw me a little.” She stroked his short dark hair.
“And tell me if I’m wrong, but the way you were looking at me, I got the feeling that you wanted more than one little thing.”
He closed his eyes. “Sorry. I thought you might like to bite, but really, it’s just that I like pain with sex. Or messing around or whatever it is that we’re doing. There never seems to be a good time to mention this.”
“So you’re a masochist,” she said.
He winced, squeezing his eyes shut tighter for a moment. “Technically, but I hate the word. The
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