Page 24 of Bite Me

I eyed Nate as he watched her go, then caught him licking at his fake fangs as he turned his gaze toward me. The gesture sent heat storming through me that set up camp in my groin. I’d helped him with his makeup earlier, lined his eyes with kohl, fitted the fangs just right. The memory of having him stand still while I worked, my fingers on his face, made me itch to touch him again. From the way he kept glancing at my mouth, I knew he was thinking along the same lines.

I fought the urge to just shove him into the nearest closet and have him right there: teeth, hands, tongue, until he was limp and ruined.

But the party pressed in around us. Every time I thought about pulling him into a corner, another group would crash by, or someone would grab Nate for a photo or conversation, or those damned ruffles on our shirts would catch another wandering hand.

He kept touching me too, every chance he could. Casual brushes of his knuckles against my wrist, fingers fidgeting with the black ribbon. The contact was electric, ramping my arousal higher and limning me with tension that the crowd made impossible to release.

“I’ll be back,” I murmured against his ear, letting my lips barely brush his earlobe. “Don’t let anyone else eat you.”

He gave me a look that was hungry and knowing, like he was barely holding himself together.

Good. That was exactly the state I wanted him in.

Time to go hunting.

One thing I noticed as I started my trek was that frat house parties always smelled the same, regardless of which Greekletters decorated the houses: stale light beer, too much cologne, the faint tang of bodies even the strongest cleaning supplies couldn’t hide. Sweat and restlessness. Sexual frustration and bravado. It was intoxicating in its own unique way.

I pushed past glow-in-the-dark skeletons, dodged someone dressed as a traffic cone, and ignored the bathroom line that snaked down the hall. Up the stairs, past couples grinding against the banister, I moved down the hallway, peeking inside half-open doors. One revealed someone hurling into a trashcan. Another showcased a witch giving an enthusiastic lap dance.

I needed something better. Something empty and private and dark.

I found another bathroom, which met the qualification of being empty, but Nate deserved better than a toilet tank digging into his spine—at least for tonight.

As I roamed, it turned into a game, finding the spot where I could wreck Nate, let him wreck me, make him forget about his drink, his costume, everything but my hands on him. I came upon a coat closet, but it was packed with coats and some dude passed out in a unicorn onesie. Decidedly not sexy.

I turned down another hall and encountered more closed doors. It was quieter here, though I still felt the bass from downstairs thumping through the floor.

At the far end of the hall was a heavy old door with a discolored patch where a plaque once hung. Janitor closet? Library? I wasn’t sure.

I twisted the knob to find it locked. Of course.

Dropping to a crouch, I examined the lock and grinned. I pulled the little paper umbrella from my drink, flipped it around, and stuck it into the hole beside the lock, pushing until I heard the mechanism release. It was so effortless I almost felt bad. Almost.

Had to love frat house logic: their locks always seemed more decorative than functional.

I twisted the knob again, and this time the door opened. I fumbled to the right of the frame until I found a light switch, then flipped it.

I was in a storage room that smelled of dust, old wood polish, and a hint of mildew. The two can lights with working bulbs hummed low and tired. The place was packed with leftover decor: boxes labeled Winter Formal, a cracked disco ball, a fake palm tree, a gold spray-painted throne—probably from Greek Week. And leaning against one wall, an enormous mirror in a chipped gilt frame.

I crossed to the throne and dropped onto it, testing its stability. The thing creaked but held. I sprawled on top of it, one boot hooked on a nearby box, the half-warm drink still in my hand. The mirror threw back my reflection in cloudy pieces: white shirt open at the throat, fake blood on my collar, hair mussed from the heat of the party. Lestat in a frat house storage room—there was something fitting about it.

I pulled out my phone, angling it to capture both myself on the throne and my reflection in the mirror. The ornate frame added an aesthetic touch as I shifted to show off how my leather pants hugged my thighs and emphasized the bulge between them.

ERIC:2nd floor, end of second hallway. I’m hungry.

I hit send and waited. My reflection stared back at me, patient and predatory, while bass from the party thrummed through the floor and soaked into my bones.

11

NATE

Iwas debating with Jesse about whether Louis or Lestat was hotter when my phone buzzed against my ass. He’d shown up at the party about five minutes earlier, with Sam right behind him—this time actually in costume, though I had no idea who the hell he was supposed to be.

Everyone I held near and dear, except for my parents, who were definitely asleep, was at this party. So I had a pretty good idea who was messaging me. I yanked my phone out like it was a golden ticket to the Wonka factory—not far off where Eric was concerned—and saw his name on my screen immediately, along with his message.

Another followed quickly, but this time it was a video that I had to actually open my messages to see. I did so with zero chill and about a thousand degrees of anticipation. Eric never disappointed. I sucked in a breath as heat crawled up the back of my neck and arousal pooled low in my gut, still struck by how reactive I was to him.

Almost a year ago, during a fundraiser at Merriweather Gardens, Eric had sent me something similar. I’d been so frozen with disbelief that when Mark had jostled me, I’d dropped myphone. It had skittered across the dance floor in a kaleidoscope of ramrod-hard dick and thick veins.