Page 7 of Thirst
“You—!” I mouthed.
His low laugh feathered over my skin. “Me.”
I felt a rush of wetness between my thighs. I squeezed them together and jerked my focus back to the painting.
Beside me, he inhaled slowly. He knew about my suddenly damp panties, of course. He was a vampire with a supernatural’s heightened senses.
“Missed me, have you?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smirk.
“No.”
Yes. So much yes.
“Liar.” He let his gaze drag down my body, slow enough that I felt every inch of it, then flicked his eyes back up like he’d caught me out.
Every nerve in my body lit up like a Christmas tree. I dug my fingernails into my palms and focused on the painting, when what I wanted to do was grab him by the satin lapels and fuse my mouth to his. Rub myself up against his sinewy frame. Make him burn for me like I burned for him.
“Back off,” I said out of the side of my mouth. “Didn’t you see Jerome? It doesn’t matter if he thinks you’re from the Paris Syndicate. If he hears we were flirting like this, he’ll still gut you.”
Jerome might not be allowed inside, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t find a way to check up on me.
“You’re worried about me?” Cain’s voice was edged with amusement, like he’d enjoy taking on Jerome. He’d probably win, too. He was young for a vampire but he oozed dominance. He’d never have climbed to syndicate lieutenant otherwise.
It was me who had everything to lose if he got into a fight with one of my father’s men.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I muttered, and to my relief, he moved back a few, socially acceptable centimeters.
I finished my wine and handed my glass to a passing server, then continued to the canvas at the end of the platform, the largest of the seven and the only item marked NFS because that painting was mine. A new painting, so recent it still smelled of pigment and linseed oil.
A large white tiger prowled across the canvas through a misty forest, its mouth slick with blood, its black stripes stark against its fur. Deep in the trees, a blond vampire in a wool peacoat glowered out of the canvas, his fangs also blood-tinged, a wicked silver dagger in his hand. Something about his stance suggested he was moments from erupting into motion. On a nearby cliff, a fire raged, its flames tearing at the night sky.
It was wild and emotional—and the one work I’d never intended Cain to see.
I tensed, my nerves still lit with adrenalin. But this time it wasn’t from excitement—it was something colder, sharper. If I were human, I’d have broken out in an icy sweat.
I glanced sidelong at him to find he was studying me out of the corner of his eyes.
Maybe he wouldn’t put it together. And if he did, there were dozens of islands off the coast of Nova Scotia. He couldn’t possibly know for sure that I’d painted that island.
Except…yeah, right. Who was I kidding? I’d practically handed him the proof on a silver platter.
I had to distract him, and now. I edged closer, letting the back of my hand graze his.
“The washroom,” I said under my breath. “Ten minutes.”
Too late. He frowned at the painting, did a doubletake.
His gaze snapped to me. “What the?—?”
I eased sideways. “I?—”
“Stop,” he bit out.
I exhaled hard but stopped moving.
He turned back to the canvas. “The Haunt,” he said in an undertone. “You’re?—”
“Not here,” I begged. “Please.”
