Vampyrs don't really need much sleep, not like humans such as you. Still, Lance thinks he could spend an eternity snoring if it meant keeping you pressed against his chest, breathing in your warmth and your scent.

"You're so perfect, he murmurs into the dark, fingers brushing along the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. His smile widens as he feels, more than sees, the goosebumps rising across your arm.

His fangs have ached from the moment you stepped into his room, and he exhales slowly, his breath ruffling the strands at your nape, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he fights the urge to drag his tongue down the exposed length of your spine, to taste the salt of your skin, to sink his teeth and drink until he's drunk on you.

"Are you asleep?" He whispers, though he knows you're not. Your heartbeat hammers far too fast, but asking gives the illusion that he isn't a monster, that he doesn't know exactly what he's doing, as his hand slips beneath the blanket, tracing down your forearm before curving down to seize your hip. His palm molds against the swell of bone and flesh here, squeezing just enough to feel the tender heat of life thrumming beneath fragile skin, stretched muscle and delicate bone. It's like holding life itself between his hands.

At last, he gives in. His nose buries into your nape as he inhales deeply, pressing himself closer. The proximity rips a sharp breath from his throat, his chest vibrating with a desperate groan, and his fingers tighten, almost bruising, when you finally react.

"Shhh…" he breathes against your skin, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice husky. "Sleep, pet… don't mind me."