I let him bite me. I let myself feel his teeth. I rub my face in the chaos of curls at the top of his head. “I’m right here, love, I’m yours.”
He growls, miserably, letting go of my collarbone, mashing his face into my chest again. “I don’t know how, Baz.”
“What, Simon.”
“To get enough.”
“You don’t have to get enough.” I push his wrists down. I pin his arms with my elbows. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His head falls back onto the pillow. I think he might be crying again.
Maybe he wasn’t awake. Maybe this is all a bad dream for him.
My hair hangs in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Snow.”
“Come here,” he says. His wings are winding tighter around me. I can see the spikes curling over my shoulders. My knees give out, and my hips fall on him.
“Are you awake?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Are you crying?”
“Yeah. Baz … come here.”
“I’m here.”
“Come closer.”
“All right.” My elbows give out, too. I let go of his wrists, and he wraps his arms around my waist. Arms. Wings. Legs. Tail.
“Closer,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“Can.” He’s kissing my mouth with his teeth now, lips and tongue almost an afterthought.
I try to retract my fangs, but it’s hopeless, so I turn away and let him bite my face.
“Baz.” He’s biting my fangs through my cheek. “Baz…”
I’m awake. I’m thirsty. I’m dizzy. All the blood I have left has gone to my cock, and I’m running on fumes. On good manners and bad memories.
“Simon, ” I say, with my last measure of caution.
He’s all around me now. His heels are in my calves. His tail is around my ankle. I can feel the bones in his wings, like long fingers along my spine.
It isn’t enough.
“Simon, ” I say, taking his head in my hands.
His skin is hot. So is mine. Under the blankets with him like this for hours, I could be mistaken for a living thing.
“Simon, Simon.”
He’s biting my neck, and I’m not biting his—but I am kissing him. I’m kissing his hair, his ear. I’m pulling up his shirt. “I love you,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Baz, I need—”
“Yes.”
“I can’t—” He’s pushing too hard to kiss. He’s holding too hard to touch.
I wrench my head back. “Simon, let me—”
He won’t let me pull away. His head is still in my neck. He’s panting.
“Baz, I can’t—I need you.”
I’m kissing his cheek. My fangs are out, I can’t care. “Simon,” I slur, “my darling, my love…”
“I can’t … breathe, ” he says. “It isn’t enough—It’s too much—I can’t—”
He’s crying. And clinging to me. Arms. Legs. Wings. Tail. All of him trembling.
I’m breathless, too, but in the wrong way now—the wind has changed.
Hopefully it only just happened. Hopefully I didn’t misinterpret every moment of this moment.
“Simon,” I say, my hands in the back of his hair. “My darling. My love.
It’s all right.”
“I can’t,” he sobs.
“I know,” I say, stroking him. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m here.”
“Baz…”
“I’m here, love.”
19
SIMON
It’s been a while since either of us said anything.
It’s been a while since I stopped blubbering.
As soon as I loosened my panic-hold on Baz, he pulled away from me a bit. But he’s still here. Lying quietly on one of my wings. Probably thinking about how much sex he could be having if he were with literally anyone other than me.
I mean, have a look at him—he’s the most fuckable person alive. Or otherwise.
I’m the problem. As is always true, in literally every situation. It’s me.
I’ve been here before. Wanting to crawl out of my skin and leave myself for dead after a miserable attempt to do more than kiss. What I’d normally do now is stand up and walk out of the room. Then Baz would leave the flat, not wanting to embarrass me further, nor to dwell on the fact that he’s stuck with me.
But he can’t leave—this is his flat. And if I leave, it would be in direct violation of the promise I made not to leave. Or not to give up. Or whatever.