There. That’s pretty clear.
He sighs and shakes his head, and for once, I’m pretty sure he’s not doing this to torment me.
“Look, it really seems like you’re not reactive to blood, but because of… everything, we can’t be sure if your sensitivity is just lower. Please, Noah—just a taste.”
Fucking Tish and his fucking need to fuck around with people’s lives. If it wasn’t for his god complex, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now.
I also would never have been born, but nothing in the universe will ever make me thankful to him for that.
Eyeing Andrew’s wrist, I swallow hard. I really don’t want to taste his blood. Or any blood. But I do want to know sooner rather than later if there’s any chance I might one day need to feed. The idea of starving to death because I don’t even know I need blood is terrifying.
“Could you… smear it on a cracker or something? I don’t want to lick your wrist.” It’s too personal. I can’t stand the guy, but I’m going to suck on his arm? No.
“Smear it on a cracker?” For some reason, he looks offended. “Do you see any crackers around here?” He throws his non-bleeding arm out in a dramatic gesture. “Am I supposed to wander the halls looking for a buffet that will meet your standards while dripping blood everywhere and ruining my shirt?”
Ruining his shirt?
The dude is bleeding from a self-inflicted bite wound that he wants me, someone he barely knows, to suck, but he’s worried about his shirt?
I roll my eyes. “If blood gets on your shirt, I’ll wash it for you. I’m doing a load of whites tonight, and I’m good at getting stains out.” I go heavy on the sarcasm so he can tell how ridiculous I think he is, but his gasp seems entirely real.
“This is a handmade couture garment,” he declares, like I care. “It cost more than everything you’re wearing combined.” His gaze skims over my clothes. “A lot more.”
Dick.
“You can’t just shove it in a washing machine.” The very idea seems to scandalize him, and I wonder if it would be really wrong of me to “accidentally” spill raspberry soda or something on him one day.
Probably.
I’ll keep it in reserve anyway. If nothing else, it may get me a reprieve from his company.
“Fine, I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,” I concede patronizingly. “But I really don’t think I can suck your arm, Andrew. It’s too weird.”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Maybe this can wait until we can find a cracker to smear the blood on,” he mutters. His gaze catches on his arm, where a trail of blood is slowly rolling toward his cuff—which he’s protected with enough tissues to outlast a flu epidemic. “Oh no, you don’t.” He bends his head and licks his arm, catching the blood. Part of me is utterly revolted, but the other part…
Well.
I’ve already said he’s hot, right? Even for a dickbag? So picture this: hot guy slowly licking his arm, his pink tongue tracing along the smooth flesh.
I’ve never been disgusted and aroused at the same time before.
I must make a sound—or maybe my breathing changes or something, because he’s got vampire senses and can probably tell that I’ve started to sweat—because he looks up, tongue still on his wrist.
It should not be as sexy as it is.
“Oh,” he says, raising his head. There’s a sudden wicked gleam in his gaze that worries me. “I have an idea.”
“Planning a move to the arctic?” I suggest. “Want to take up wrestling with polar bears? I can help you pack.”
He shakes his head slowly, a smirk stretching his mouth… the same mouth that was just sliding along his arm.
“Nothing so interesting,” he advises. “This is just a little trick that might allow us to get this done and move on to seeing if you have any charisma ability.”
I wait nervously. As much as I’d love to be able to compel people with my mind, I really don’t think this “little trick” to help me taste blood is going to be fun.
“You don’t want to take the blood directly from the vein.” He gestures to the still-bleeding bite on his arm. “But you seemed okay with the idea of a transfer—blood on a cracker.”
“Yeeees….” Where’s he going with this?
He shrugs. “So, let’s transfer. I’ll take a mouthful of blood. A simple kiss, and enough of the blood will transfer for us to tell if you’re reactive at all.”
I’m so, so ashamed of how long it takes me to understand what he’s suggesting. A simple kiss… between him and me?
He’s going to kiss me?
My heart rate picks up, and it’s not from revulsion. In fact, there’s altogether too much interest from my body.
“Fine.” The word bursts from me, and Andrew’s jaw drops.
“What?”
“Fine, do it. Kiss me. If it will get this over and done with, I can kiss an old man.” That last bit is pure bravado, because even though I know Andrew is literally old—by human and community standards—the last thing I think when I look at him is “old man.”
He blinks a few times, then says, “Okay.”
I think I’ve broken him. He must have expected me to kick up a huge fuss. Which, to be honest, I want to. But I also want to move the fuck on from all this blood stuff and focus on the possibility that maybe I can use charisma.
Andrew comes closer, once again lifting his wrist to his mouth, and knowing he’s sucking out some of his own blood is squicky. Then he pulls his arm away and leans in toward me, and I swear, my heart is going so fast, it might explode.
His lips touch mine, the pressure light but insistent, and I open for him. A tiny shiver runs down my spine. It’s a good first kiss, exploring but not devouring, and—
The metallic tang of blood hits my tongue, and I gag, jerking back and slapping a hand over my mouth.
“Well,” Andrew says, wide-eyed as he watches me gag again and try not to retch, “I’ve never had that response to a kiss.”
I flip him the bird and focus on getting myself under control. Unfortunately, all I can taste is blood.
“Would you like some water?” he offers solicitously, and I nod, afraid that if I take my hand away, I’ll actually vomit.
He goes over to a cabinet and opens it to reveal a hidden bar fridge stocked with bottled water. A moment later, he hands me a bottle, and I risk vomit long enough to twist the cap off and take a gulp.
Except, there’s nowhere to spit it out.
Fuck.
I could run for the bathroom, but chances are someone’s going to see me and want to know what’s going on. I’m already the oddity around here—no reason to add to it.
And I’m not going to spit bloody water all over the carpet.
Which leaves… swallowing it.
Gross.
Admittedly, there’s not a lot of actual blood. Maybe half a teaspoon’s worth. So it’s mostly water… and I really just want to wash the taste away.
Giving in, I swallow. Then follow up with another huge mouthful of water. I definitely do not like the taste of blood.
Andrew’s watching me with a combination of fascination and disbelief. “It’s really not that bad,” he chides. “I quite like it.” Once more, he licks the punctures on his wrist, but this time when he pulls it away, I can see that the bite is closed. That’s some heavy mojo. I wonder if it works on all wounds or only vampire-inflicted ones.