Hotter Than Hell(147)

“I just don’t think I have time anymore for school. I’d rather, you know—live.”



This sounded awful—so false and ironic. Don’t listen to me, I’m immortal, part of her almost yelled. But she didn’t, because another part of her was hungry.



When he spoke, he sounded uncertain. “Do—do you want to get out of here? Go to my place maybe?”



Her shy smile widened. She’d wanted him to say that. She wanted him to think this was his idea. She rounded her shoulders, aware of her posture, her body language, wanting to send a message that she was open, willing, and ready.



“Yeah,” she said, touching his hand as she stood.



His skin felt like fire.





Chris took her back to his place. He lived within walking distance, in a garden-level unit in a block of apartments. A nice place, small but functional, and very student. It felt like a foreign country.



Emma watched Chris unlock the door and felt some trepidation. Nerves, that was all. Anticipation. Unknown territory—to be expected, going home with a new guy for the first time.



Chris fumbled with the key.



There was more to this than the unknown, or the thrill of anticipation. She stood on the threshold, literally, and felt something: a force outside of herself. Nothing solid, rather a feeling that made her want to turn away. Like a voice whispering, go, you are not welcome, this is not your place, your blood does not dwell here.



She couldn’t ignore it. The voice fogged her senses. If she turned away, even just a little—stepped back, tilted her head away—her mind cleared. She didn’t notice when Chris finally unlocked the door and pushed his way inside.



She didn’t know how long he’d been standing on the other side of the threshold, looking back at her expectantly. She simply couldn’t move forward.



“Come on in,” he said, giving a reassuring smile.



The feeling, fog, and voice disappeared. The unseen resistance fell away, the barrier was gone. She’d been invited.



Returning his smile, she went in.



Inside was what she’d expected from a male college student: the front room had a ripe, well-lived in smell of dirty laundry and pizza boxes. Mostly, though, it smelled like him. In a moment, she took it all in, the walls and the carpet. Despite how many times the former had been repainted and the latter replaced, the sense that generations of college students had passed through here lingered.



The years of life pressed against her skin, and she closed her eyes to take it all in, to feel it eddy around her. It tingled against her like static.



“Do you want something to drink?” Chris was sweating, just a little.



Yes. “No, I’m okay.”



Seduction wasn’t a quick thing. Though she supposed, if she wanted, she could just take him. She could feel in her bones and muscles that she could. He wouldn’t know what hit him. It would be easy, use the currents of the room, slow down the world, move in the blink of an eye—



No. No speed, no fear, no mess. Better to do it cleanly. Nicer, for everyone. Now that they were alone, away from the crowd, her purpose became so very clear. Her need became crystalline. She planned it out: a brief touch on his arm, press her body close, and let him do the rest.



Fake. It was fake, manipulative…She liked him. She really did. She wished she’d done this months ago, she wished she’d had the nerve to say something, to touch his hand—before she’d been attacked and turned. Then, she hadn’t had the courage, and now she wanted something else from him. It felt like deception.



This was why Alette had wanted her to find a stranger. She wouldn’t be wishing that it had all turned out different. Maybe she wouldn’t care. She wanted to like Chris—she didn’t want to need him like this. Didn’t want to hurt him. And she didn’t know if she’d have been so happy to go home with anyone else. That was why she was here. That was why she’d gone to that particular bar and waited for him.



That doesn’t matter, her instincts—new instincts, like static across her skin, like the heat of blood drawing her—told her. The emotion is a by-product of need. He is yours because you’ve won him. You’ve already won him, you have only to claim him.



She reached out—she could feel him without looking, by sensing the way the air folded around his body—and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand. He reacted instantly, curling his hand around hers, squeezing, pulling himself toward her, and kissing her—half on cheek, half on lip.



He pulled back, waiting for a reaction, his breath coming fast and brushing her cheek. She didn’t breathe at all—would he notice? Should she gasp, to fool him into thinking she breathed, so he wouldn’t notice that she didn’t? Another deception.