Things are changing. Quickly. A growing tension in the air, a crackling scent-feeling of fire and smoke. This is the kind of change I like, the kind I spent my childhood trying to chase, the kind I squeezed out of poisonous berries, chased the bottom of champagne flutes. The hairs on my spine are starting to rise; I am alight, prickling with anticipation, still wearing a smile that ebbs and flows sort of in sync with the way Andras’ expression changes as he watches me.
Dark and almost angry. Then confused. Suspicious, even, and more than a little skittish. A moment later he is wearing something like deep want, eyes downturned; I can see the way his mouth moves as he swallows—once, then twice.
I am grinning and grinning and grinning again. A sly, wolfish flash of teeth. It sits on me solid as any gold chain. I am flooded with smug self-satisfaction, a white-hot weightlessness in the chest that drops through me, then pools in the pit of my stomach, a feeling so intense and unexpected I am finding it hard to stand still. My body is buzzing like a frayed wire; I know that if he reached out to touch me every inch of my skin would be inhumanly hot.
When he speaks, his voice is heavy, almost guttural. It makes me shudder with—with something.
The snakes, forever the bane of my existence, are fully awake. They are stirring ever-quicker against my cheek, nipping impatiently at my neck, the thin skin just behind my ear. I lick my teeth. My will to wait is coming up short, far too short, pulling me down like a noose around the neck. When I swallow my throat is dry as the Mors, and I am growing dark and dark and dark—eyes, mouth, heart, gut.
Dark and dark and dark and—
I blink and the space between us is dead. Gone. My pulse ratchets into the back of my throat. I can feel the way his body heat fills the air; I can see the thick, dark, curl of lashes under the glare of his glasses; now I can make out the way his lips curl just so, the grin feral and barely-there. As if he’s weighing his options. As if he’s testing the waters, the way I might react to the way his eyes linger on me—hungry and unstable, like something is about to blow.
I don’t care. I’m not afraid. It could be beautiful.
Prove it.
I’m not afraid, I don’t care—
There is a crackling noise like something inside of me has burst. There is the cold roar of blood rushing into my ears.
And I am hungry, in a dark and lazy way: I know no matter what I do he will be wrapped around my finger.
Another crack. I think maybe an artery has burst. In the pit of my stomach there is a curling, like a snake, and a hissing in my ear that rises and falls, undulating in waves, and I cannot decide whether I am angry that he is telling me what to do or pleased that he has the nerve to try it.
“Or,” I threaten softly, “What.”
The thing in my stomach could be frustration or satisfaction, or some tooth-breaking combination of both. But either way it is making me tremble, and my muscles tighten, and my jaw clenches, and despite my best efforts I am reaching out.
I am reaching out, and exhaling a faint, deliberate breath onto the curve of his throat. I am reaching out and grinning as I press my mouth (and teeth) against his shoulder. I am reaching, growing bolder and bolder until I am standing with my face just an inch away from his, my eyes dark and steady, and almost purring.
I will not kiss him first.
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