Page 68 of The Silver Fox Vampire

“You need this, don’t you?” she said softly. “To heal the wounds and calm your mind.”

Yeah, damn right he did.

He knew Clare’s blood would slake the pain of his horrendous memories. It promised sweet oblivion, if only for a few hours.

Still he kept his head averted, his lips pursed, for all the world like a recalcitrant child. Gods, she was peeling back the layers of his pain, exposing his raw underbelly, his hidden wounds.

“Please—just—leave me be,” he gritted out.

“Not until you have partaken of my blood.”

He groaned, but could not speak, the need to drink from her a great well of desperation and hunger inside him. And surely she knew, for she moved closer to him on the bed. “Neck or arm? Which is better?”

He let out a strangled sound, trying to control his fangs. A fruitless task, since he had so little energy left in him to fight with. His vampire would take what it needed.

Finally, hoarsely, he got out, “If… If I bite your neck, I will drain you dry.”

“Then take it from my arm.”

“I—must—not.”

But her arm was there, so close to his mouth now. Finally, he took her hand in his shaking fingers and, barely knowing what he was doing, kissed the skin of her palm and heard her littlegasp of surprise… or was it pleasure? He glanced up through swollen eyelids to see her lips gently parted, the pulse in her neck fast and staccato, and the longing to reach up and bite her throat instead surged through him.

He resisted. If he drank blood from her jugular, it would also fire up his libido, and he would not be able to halt his dark desires.

And yet… he had to taste her blood. Had to…

Like a starving man, he bent his head to her vein. “I will seal it when I’m done,” he whispered, the quietness of his tone belying the raging furnace inside him. And then, closing his eyes, he plunged in his fangs. She let out a little cry, and for one moment he managed to hold himself back enough to check in with her. “Okay?” he asked, his thumb pressing on the vein to stem the blood.

“Keep going,” she urged.

Shame on him, he barely waited for her response.

And oh gods, his eyelids rolled up in ecstasy as the first mouthful of her blood hit his tongue. Like nectar to the gods.

And surely this was a thirst so great, he could never quench it.

Oliver drank deeply.

Almost immediately, strength surged back into his body. The pain receded. The memories no longer hounded his brain.

He heard her soft moan. Was it pleasure or pain? He couldn’t bear to hurt her but equally, he could not stop.

Just one more… mouthful. Just one…

He took another gulp, then—damn his lack of control—another, then with superhuman effort, he sealed the puncture wound with a firm lick of his tongue.

Laying back, every nerve ending tingled as her blood healed his body, his mind.

Finally, he dared to look at her. Her face was a little drawn, yes, but her eyes were bright and full of something so beautiful it seared him. “I think maybe you are feeling better already?” she queried softly.

Oliver breathed, a deep, full breath into ribs he’d been sure were broken but now felt completely healed.

He sat up. “Show me your wrist.” Even his voice he recognized again, strong and full of authority.

She held out her arm. Already the swell of the puncture wound was almost gone. He’d done well. He may not have fed off a human in two centuries, but he hadn’t lost his almost surgical precision in sealing a bite wound.

“Do you feel okay?”