raised himself up. His lips brushed mine in a soft, nearly chaste kiss. He moved back from me, letting go of the chair.
I could taste my heart in my throat, and it wasn't fear.
Jean-Claude touched my hands, lifted them up. He placed my hands on his bare shoulders. The skin was warm, smooth, wet. He held my wrists in his hands, lightly, very lightly. I could have pulled away at any time. He ran my hands down his slick body.
I pulled my hands free. He said nothing, did nothing. He stayed kneeling, looking at me. Waiting. I could see the pulse in his neck jumping against the skin, and I wanted to touch it.
I slid my hands across his shoulders and lowered my face to his. He started to move into me for a kiss, but I slid my hand along his jaw and turned his head away. I touched lips to his neck and slid my mouth down his skin, until I could taste his pulse beating against my tongue. He tasted of perfumed soap, water, and clean skin.
I slid from the chair to the floor, kneeling in front of him. He was taller now, but not too tall. I licked water off his chest, and let myself do something I'd wanted to do for months. I ran my tongue over his nipple, and he shuddered against me.
I licked water off the center of his chest and ran my hands along his waist up the damp curve of his back.
He pulled the sash of my robe, and I didn't protest. I let his hands slide under the robe, around my waist, with nothing but the t-shirt between his flesh and mine. He ran his hands up my sides, his thumbs playing over my rib cage. The gun swung heavily in the loose cloth. It was annoying.
I raised my face to his. His arms slid behind my back, pressing me against the long wet line of his body. The towel was perilously loose.
His lips brushed mine; then the kiss became something more. Harder, nearly bruising, with his arms locked behind my shoulders. My hands slid down his waist, rubbed the sliding top of the towel, and found it had already slipped. My hand touched the smooth top of his buttocks. Only the pressure of our bodies kept the towel in place.
He ate at my mouth and I felt something sharp, painful. I jerked back and tasted blood.
Jean-Claude let me go. He sat back on his heels, the towel gathered in his lap. "I am sorry, ma petite. I got carried away."
I touched my mouth and came away with a spot of blood. "You nicked me."
He nodded. "I am truly sorry."
"I'll just bet you are," I said.
"Do not go all self-righteous on me, ma petite. You have finally admitted to yourself, to me, that you feel the pull of my body."
I sat on the floor by the chair with my robe in disarray. The t-shirt had ridden up to my waist. I guess it was a little too late to protest my innocence.
"Fine, lust; you happy?"
"Almost," he said, and now there was something in his eyes. Something dark and drowning, and older than it should have been.
"I can offer you my mortal body, and more, ma petite. It can be between us much more than any human lover could offer."
"Would I lose a little blood each time?"
"That was an accident," he said.
I stared at him, all pale and damp, kneeling on the floor with the white towel bundled into his lap, leaving nearly every inch of him bare.
"This is the first time I've cheated on Richard," I said.
"You have been dating me for weeks," he said.
I shook my head. "But I haven't been cheating. This is cheating."
"Then have you been cheating on me, with Richard?"
I didn't know what to say to that. "Go get dressed."
"Do you really want me to dress?" he asked.
I looked away. I was embarrassed now and uncomfortable. "Yes, please."
He stood up, the towel gripped in his hands. I looked down at the floor and didn't have to see his face to picture the smile on it.
He walked away from me, and didn't bother moving the towel around behind him. Muscles moved under his skin from calf to waist. He walked naked into the bedroom, and I enjoyed the view.
I touched my finger to my tongue. It was still bleeding. That's what I got for French kissing a vampire. Even thinking about it made me nervous.