Demon Moon

pleasure had only been Colin.
    There was more.
    His hands tightened on her hips, holding her in place as he tore through her blood, ripped a scream from her throat. This was beyond ecstasy, beyond momentum, out of control and spinning her along with it, falling and ascending and impossible to feel like this without dying.
    And her brain couldn’t process it, but her body knew what to do—rid itself of it, it was too much, and she twisted and clenched and tried to keep hold, but it slipped away with the orgasm, blinding bright and extinguished as soon as Colin lifted his head.
    Already, she raced along her memory, pulling each thread and examining it for what she’d missed the first time: the cold marble beneath her, the brush of his hair on her thigh, the suction of his mouth, the sound of his pleasure as she rocketed into hers.
    He’d not taken much; when she came back to herself she found him watching her with the need still hard upon him. He licked his way up the length of her torso, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, reached down to guide him.
    “Oh, Christ, Savi. On the floor .” He pressed frantic blood-scented kisses over her mouth, down to her neck. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Don’t apolo—” But she didn’t finish.
    He sank into her, filled her. Rapture streaked along her veins, greater than before, as if his physical pleasure fed it, increasing with each heavy stroke, suspending her between the thrust of his body and the fire in her blood.
    This couldn’t be real .
    He stiffened, his anguish pushing into her with the euphoria, and she realized she’d spoken it. Or he’d heard it within her. It didn’t matter; he’d misunderstood. Angels and demons and vampires weren’t real, either.
    “I won’t forget,” she said to all of them staring down at her, begging her to see him, to remember. Or she thought she did, but he must have heard her—the pain vanished. I’ll never forget , she promised.
    Tremors shook him. Stay with me , she thought she heard him say.
    Yes . For this. For now.
    She dared not hope for more.

    Colin apparently didn’t know that most blood donations only netted juice and a cookie. Food enough for a village had been delivered from the local grocer, most of it perishable; she’d barely made a dent in it that afternoon.
    “Why does a vampire have a gourmet kitchen?” Savi wondered as she turned away from the enormous glass-front refrigerator, unwrapping yet another package of fruit.
    “I’d an obsession for The Food Network; I briefly entertained the notion of learning to dice and sauté.” He leaned his hip against the counter, watching as she washed a small pile of strawberries and transferred them to the cutting board. “But this is just as pleasurable, and far less effort.”
    The berries’ sweet fragrance released with each slice of her knife, the juice as red—if not as thick—as blood.
    “What does it taste like? When you drink from someone.”
    “Never as I expect,” he said. “I don’t believe I truly taste it—it’s nothing like the few times I bled when I was human.”
    “Metallic? Salty?”
    His gaze fell to her throat. The punctures had closed by the time she’d run upstairs to change into her little T-shirt and pajama pants; they’d stopped itching before she’d come down again.
    “The texture is the same, but the flavor is…” He shook his head. “There’s nothing with which I can compare it. I daresay it’s more of an experience than a taste.”
    “A bloody glorious one?”
    His laughter rolled softly through the kitchen. “Yes.”
    “It was,” she admitted, and his delighted grin sent a delicious quake through her stomach. “Though it wasn’t near five minutes. More like two. Does everyone taste the same?”
    “No. Elements of the flavor are similar, but it’s influenced by temperament, by mood. Animal blood—and human blood taken outside the body—have no flavor at all.”
    Nor could they sustain a vampire for long; perhaps the physical properties of the blood weren’t enough.
    “So the taste is probably psychically based.”
    He made a sound of agreement. “Much like your scent, though no one else perceives it that way.”
    “Except for the wyrmwolves.”
    “Yes.” His face hardened slightly.
    “How deep can you get? Into my head, I mean,” she quickly added the last.
    Though amusement softened his voice, he only said, “Not as far as I’d have liked. Your shields were down, so perhaps it is the