Page 50 of Bite Me

I pull out the blood bag and pour it into a cup. It’s ice cold, but reheating it messes with the taste too much. Sitting on my bed, I drink and imagine the taste of warmth on my tongue.

Her warmth. Her skin. Her blood.

I’m already hard thinking about it. Why does she do this to me?

I savor every gulp of blood down my throat, imagining her sweetness.

It feels wrong as I unzip my pants and press my palm over the bulge in my boxers. A sigh of satisfaction passes through the room as I stroke my cock, the blood filling my mouth while I imagine her under me. The thought of her collar bone turns into the thought of me removing her shirt to view her perfect breasts and sucking on them.

I’d make it good for her.

I’d take care of her.

I’d take my time and make sure she was comfortable. I wonder what she’d let me do the first time . . . Maybe the only time.

To have Emma for one night. To have her whispering my name while her blood fills my mouth. One night for her not to hate me.

After giving her breasts all the attention, I’d love to test a bite on her chest.

All it takes is imagining her moans, and it’s over quickly, and I’m left with a mess and an empty cup. It’s the only time I let those types of thoughts in. This is why no one else can know. The forums would have a field day . . . And my grandfather? I don’t want to know what he would do. Not even I am safe from my grandfather’s plans. I never lied to my grandfather until I met her. I’m not even sure why I did it. Maybe because Emma’s blood feels like mine. The thought of anyone else claiming her as a source is mind-numbing. No, it’s . . . unacceptable. A word I never use. Almost everything can be accepted. Even things I don’t like or don’t want to do, I can find something in them to satisfy me.

Full of fresh donation blood, I still don’t feel satisfied.

It’s late, and I’ve already showered and found my way into bed when my phone rings. I groan and lay my head back when I see the caller ID.

“Yeah?” I answer.

“How are things?” my grandfather asks.

Truly abysmal.

“Perfect. The Osborne girl is doing well in the culinary club.”

I try to put as much distance between Emma and my grandfather as possible. If my grandfather doesn’t trust me, he won’t tell me anything.

“Good. I’m assuming you two are getting along well?”

His chair creaks on the other line, and the silence that lingers after makes me squirm.

“Yeah, I think she’s warming to me.”

I test out the way that feels, the lie slipping through my teeth. Getting her to give up on the culinary club will require patience, and it’s not an endeavor my grandfather needs to know about.

I zone out, staring at the skylight above me as he runs through his usual checklists to make sure I’m making time to meet all the culinary associates he deems necessary. He’s been grooming me to take over the company for years. I think he stopped caring about anything in the culinary world when he met my grandmother. Her family came with wealth as well as a firm line directly to the Donor Program. The Everharts have a lot of different businesses, but our cooking prowess is a talent that’s been inherited from the beginning.

I think that’s why, despite being the youngest, my grandfather has always favored me. Back before my parents died, before everything, when I was too young to understand the responsibility of being the favorite, my grandfather would spend all his free time teaching me. I wish I hated the memory of it. The smell of freshly caught fish sizzling in a citrus butter sauce, or sauteed mushrooms in garlic, or a hundred other dishes he would prepare while I worked on dessert. That was my favorite part.

But those memories feel like dreams, much like the faint memories of my parents. If they’re just faraway dreams, these mystical things, does it matter if I enjoy the comfort they bring me?

“How is Florence?” His voice snaps me out of my reverie.

“What?”

“Your brother asked me about her the other day, and your grandmother worries frequently.”

He’s toying with me. Baiting me.

“I think the family would feel . . . more comfortable with her home,” he goes on. “I know it’s not the right time, but even your aunt and uncle are in agreement that it’s better if she isn’t away from those who can provide her with the proper protection and education.”