Page 72 of Bloodlust

He was here.

I can smell him.

I can almosttastehim on my lips.

He was so close. Mere inches away. For hours. It must have been hours.

But now he's gone. He's gone and yet fragments of his touch are still on me. His hand on my waist. His breath against my ear. I close my eyes, inhaling his lingering cologne. His fingers in my hair. His beating heart. I still hear it. Rhythmic. Steady. A transient melody that lulled me to sleep.

I'm awake now. A sad reality.

And he's gone.

Rolling out of bed, I strip out of my clothes and grab a silk robe, draping it over my body. I look out the window, sighing. The sun has barely risen above the towers. It's still early. Too early to overthink. Thinking requires power. And power requires fuel.

I head out of my bedroom, and an inaudible gasp slips past my stunned lips as I stop in front of the kitchen. Hayden's bare back is turned to me as he hovers above the coffee machine, a glass pot in his right hand. The same hand that was holding me. Gripping me. Damn near pinning me down.

I was asleep but I remember.

I didn't have to see in order to feel.

And he didn't have to talk in order to speak.

I heard him last night. He was loud. Basically screaming. He must have heard me too. I think he's heard me for weeks. And he's still here. Standing in front of me.

He didn't run.

He always runs.

Every time a line becomes too blurred...he's gone. I've noticed that. Like clockwork. Not this time though. It's different. The white, dusted chalk no longer separates us. There is no line. He crossed it, and it vanished.Hedid that. Consciously. No alcohol. No drugs. Nothing but his own volition.

"Morning," I breathe out.

He turns around slowly at the sound of my voice, the rippling curves of his chest muscles fucking glowing under the sunlight. His smokey gaze flits around my burning face as he drags the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip.

It's no longer warmth that is coating my skin.

It's heat.

Pure fucking fire.

"Good morning, Camilla," he says with a raspy morning timbre. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," I say, chest rising as I take a knowingly dangerous step toward him. "You?"

"I'm a bit..." He swallows, gaze floating down the length of my body. Outlining it. Taking in all the skin on display. He snaps his head back up, his upper lip twitching slightly. "Tired."

"Oh," I hum, biting my lip. I glance down at the empty coffee pot in his hand. "Need some help?"

"No," he says, a frustrated edge in his tone as he clears his throat. "I've got it covered." He doesn't let me reply as he nods over my shoulder to the couch, expression softening to add, "Pinto is at Wayfair Clinic. It wasthe closest?—"

"Thanks," I cut him off, frowning. A wave of frustration washes over me.

What is he doing? Is he really trying to divert the conversation right now? Does he think I don't knowexactlywhat he's thinking?Preciselywhere his mind's at?

He's inmyhome.Mykitchen. Half fucking naked and staring at me with such intense hunger, he might as well be a starved animal. But he's not pouncing. No. He's holding back. Barely. But he is.

I tilt my head, watching him like a predator. Like a carnivorous beast. It's a dog-eat-dog world. And in my world? I always get the first bite. If he won't surrender. If he won't drop this foolish facade, I might just...