The cleft and curve of his lips drew you closer, the rhythmic ba-bump of his heart in his chest. His shiny, pathetic eyes, made you lick your lips. Your cold hands stamped themselves on his biceps, warm, alive. Your touch seared into his skin.

His arteries were singing to you like a most angelic choir. You could eat him alive. With a sliver of restraint you placed tame lovebites along his neck. How you managed to refrain, you didn’t know.

He shivered. Monsters were for killing, not whatever this was. How he got himself into this predicament was fuzzy. One bad decision bled to the next, nights blotted together. He didn’t know you were a fang. You didn’t tell him. Dean was a hunter, that kind of secret could only stay under wraps for so long.

Tongue tracing the tense line of his jaw, a breath of twisted delight makes an expulsion from his lips.

His arms lace around your frame, trapping you in his pristine warmth. Your teeth sank into his muscle and he didn’t flinch. You swear he wanted it—yearned for it. “You make me sick.” His words say something, but his actions say a lot more. Him reveling in your twisted fascination, said more than a thousand words.

“I shouldn’t be—“

“You shouldn’t be—“

Frankly, you’re shocked he didn’t slice n’ dice you the moment he heard the chilling word; vampire. That he’s let this go on and on and on. He quickly gives up on his altruism when your white-hot touch traces down his chest.