My fangs punched effortlessly through Emma's skin. My teeth did not. I bit down hard, and Emma screamed in pain. I let go, but only so I could bite down again. I tore at her flesh with fangs and teeth alike, and blood flowed.

God, it tasted good. Vibrant and warm and satisfying and alive. I closed my eyes and moaned into Emma's shoulder. She had been turned on before I bit her, and now -- caught up in her emotions -- so was I. The edge of need had been sated, but want had been whetted by Emma's own desires.

I raised my mouth from Emma's wound and breathed out ecstatically. The torn flesh was already mending itself, leaving her skin smooth and pristine beneath the smears of her blood that I hadn't lapped up. I wanted to sink my fangs into her again -- but that wasn't all I wanted. It wasn't even all she wanted.

I let go of her arm and cupped her head. I drew myself forward until our bodies pressed together: hers soft and solid and warm against mine, despite the barrier of our pajamas. I tilted my head the other way and brought my mouth forward. We kissed.

Emma was a good kisser. An eager kisser. With her emotions and impulses surging through me I responded in kind. Our tongues tangled through parted lips. I pressed forward, dominating her; pinning her against the headboard. I denied her any chance for breath while I fumbled with her tank top's other strap. I found it and tugged it down just as far as I had the first. When I pulled back Emma struggled for breath, making her breasts -- bare and full and exquisitely beautiful -- rise and fall with her heaving gasps. With the tank top pooled down about her waist and her elbows she almost looked like she was in one of my fantasies: disrobed, flushed; arms bound at her sides.

God, I loved that image. It sent a shiver through me that made me add restraints to my new list of necessities. But even without ropes or chains binding her helpless, Emma was beautiful. And mine.

And still helpless.

Prey.

I surged forward again. Again I cradled Emma's head, keeping it from cracking against the headboard as I bore her back. But this time my other hand closed on her breast instead of her side. So soft. It was more than just a handful for me, and surprisingly firm -- and warm. I fondled Emma as I kissed her. My thumb stroked roughly across her nipple. The predator in me egged me on further. I wanted her to realize what I was going to do to her; all the ways I meant to take her.

I was faintly aware of how strange it was for me to not be bothered by what I was doing. But in the moment -- or perhaps just in my thirst -- I didn't care that I'd normally be horrified by what I was doing or how I was treating Emma. I'd already made a concession to myself by deciding not to kill her. Whiney-ass Alive Abby was just going to have to fucking deal with whatever I decided to do instead.

God, I hated that pushy, self-absorbed, freaking neurotic prude side of me. Unlife would be so much more fun if I didn't default to being such a scared little bitch all the time.

With a surge of aggression I bit Emma's lower lip. I wasn't sure where that burst of self-loathing had come from, but I knew blood would fix it. My fangs caught Emma's lip; pierced it -- stretched it when she gasped and pulled instinctively away. Her lips slipped free and the puncture closed leaving just a thin dribble of blood on her chin in testimony of the brief taste that had found my tongue.

It was enough to resurface Emma's emotions in me. I expected fear, anticipation, desire; terror -- everything I felt when Hans had held me down and made out with me yesterday morning. I wanted to feel those things. I wanted the familiar emotions to overcome the revulsion I felt for my sated self.

I didn't feel those emotions, though. Oh, the anticipation was there -- wrapped around arousal, blanketing lust -- but not the fear; not the terror. I had trouble wrapping my head around those absences. Didn't Emma understand?

I didn't. But after that barely registered flare of confusion, I didn't care, either. Emma's anticipation and desire bolstered my own. My lack of fear and anxiety made me bold. I was a predator and Emma was willing prey.

I growled softly and sat up straighter. Emma was an exhibitionist. She had a thing for putting herself, her sexuality, on display. She liked knowing others wanted her.

I wanted to strip out of my flannel armor. I was too impatient to fuck with it, though. Why the hell had I thought pajamas that covered me completely -- pajamas with so many damn buttons -- were a good idea?

I stared at Emma instead. Her hair was mussed from my fingers running through it. Her eyes were bright from excitement. Her lip trembled in desire and she whispered my name, turning it into a plea. I continued to just look, drinking in the sight of her as I had her blood.

Blood. Emma's pulse throbbed through her neck. Her jugular leapt out for my attention in a way it couldn't have were it not for my supernatural proclivities. The brief taste I'd had from her lips was swiftly fading -- being subsumed into the jumbled emotions I recognized as my own.

Fuck that.

I didn't want to be anxious, frightened Abby. I wanted to be bold and aggressive and shameless. Emma wanted me to be, too.

I shoved my nascent feelings down. They were weak enough to be ignored: I'd taken the edge off of my thirst when I'd first bit Emma, but I was far from slaked. I wanted more.

More of Emma's blood, more of her life; more of her desire. Perhaps it was just a remnant fragment of Emma's own need to know she was desired, but I wanted to feel her lust for me again. To feel it stronger; to know her want of me had crossed the borders of desire and turned to need. I didn't want her to whisper my name pleadingly. I wanted her to scream it in ecstasy, to beg me for more. And I wanted to take her blood while she begged and know her cries were real.

I felt more than heard myself growl softly at the thought. But I didn't lunge for her. I could be patient. I was going to do this slowly, I reminded myself. Carefully.

Gently enough so that Emma would survive to be taken again.

I let my gaze continue to drift over her, knowing every second I spent at it stoked Emma's anticipation for whatever I chose to do next. I followed the curve of her neck to her shoulder. My first bite was long since gone. The smear of blood that had marked it was already drying. My eyes slid along the elegant arch of her collarbone, then trailed down from the vee of her clavicle to sweep over her bare breasts.

Her skin was pale. It was less flushed than her cheeks had been. I couldn't guess at a cup size, but Emma's breasts were significantly larger than mine. Smaller than Megan's or Fumiko's, though. At first I thought her nipples were small, too, before I realized they were just pale -- so pale that her areolas nearly blended in with her skin. Only the nubs, puckered from rubbing against my flannel top, were obvious.

My patience wavered. She was so beautiful. What could she possibly see in someone like me?

I shoved the thought aside. Enough waiting. I couldn't wait anymore; didn't want to wait anymore. I wanted Emma, and I wanted her before I recovered enough of my normal fears and anxieties to fuck it up.

I leaned forward. I didn't lunge: I had that much restraint at least. I brought my lips to the slope of Emma's breast and kissed it. Slow. Sensual. Without the awkward self-consciousness that would have been there had I been my normal living self. I knew what I wanted to do -- I'd had fantasies enough when I was alive. But when I'd been alive I'd also lacked confidence and had a surfeit of fear and shame.

I cupped Emma's other breast -- the one I'd fondled before -- and kneaded. I kissed her first again, lower. And again. My lips brushed the top of her areola.

Emma moaned and leaned her shoulders against the headboard. The arch of her back raised her breasts to me. I covered one nipple with my mouth; flicked my thumb across the tip of the other. I traced the raised circle of her areola with the tip of my tongue before closing my lips around her nipple, taking painstaking care with my teeth and fangs.

I sucked gently, flicking the tip of my tongue across the tip of Emma's nipple while she whimpered with pleasure. I started to brush my thumb across her other again, but caught it instead. I pinched it gently between thumb and forefinger, then plucked -- teasing it until it was as swollen and sensitive as the one trapped between my lips.

Emma's hips writhed in needful suggestion between my thighs. I reached up with my free hand and caught the top of the headboard. I used it as a brace to pull myself up along Emma's body. I released her nipple and trailed my lips along her breast, rising to a suitable place to bite.

Emma's throaty, whimpering moans filled the room and I gave her other breast a final, kneading squeeze. Then I let her go and pushed that hand down. I wriggled my fingers under the covers and slipped them between her legs. By touch I determined that she wasn't wearing pajama bottoms -- just silky panties with a lacy texture along the band.

I sucked impulsively at the skin above Emma's breast, leaving her with a little bruise. She gasped, then squeezed her thighs around my fingers in response. Her hips shifted and she squirmed as she tried to grind herself against me. Her panties were already damp -- I twisted my wrist and forced her to let me slip my fingers under them.

Emma choked on a sob. "Oh, god, yes please," she begged as I cupped the lips of her vulva. I pressed slowly, running a finger between them; teasing them apart. Emma continued to babble -- a stream of affirmations and inarticulate pleas jumbled heedlessly together.

Then her labia parted, and my finger dipped between them. Emma's body tensed. Her babble was cut off by a gasp. I slid the pad of my fingertip up, inching it higher until I found the hooded nub of her clit. Her body trembled. She was taut with sensation.

I bit into her shoulder. The bare, clean one I hadn't ravaged already. Emma cried out in pain -- a cry that was strangled by a moan when I brushed my finger across her clit.

Her blood filled my mouth. Emma's emotions, the surge of her physical sensations, struck me like a fist. I cried out and lost my grip on the headboard. My fingers found Emma's head and I tangled my fist in her hair instead. I pulled myself up and bit again, higher; closer to the neck. Emma choked on a sob. I clamped down, refusing to let go, and stroked my finger across her clit again.

The cries of 'yes' fell from Emma's babble. She was reduced to pleas and moans and gasps. The sensations that ripped through her tore through me as well, but my cries were muffled against her shoulder; drowned out by hers.

I didn't continue flicking my fingertip across Emma's clit, though. She felt things differently than I did; liked things differently. The swift, repeated strokes that did it for me when I pleasured myself were teasingly, torturously brief to her. It didn't matter. I knew how she preferred to be touched. Her need was shared along with everything else as her blood spilled across my lips.

Pressure. I pressed against Emma's clit. I ground my finger against it without letting up. She sobbed in ecstasy. I felt the sting as she bit her lips together. I eased off -- then pressed harder.

Emma came.

So did I.

I couldn't even tell who climaxed first.

I didn't care.

I'd had my fill of blood. I released Emma's shoulder and my cries joined hers. I brought her again.

And again.

And again.

I didn't stop until I couldn't stand it anymore. Didn't stop until my limbs felt like gelatin and Emma -- her heart pounding and her breath coming in short, hyperventilating gasps -- had become insensate to pleasure.

I collapsed against her. I had to force my trembling fingers to unclench in her hair. She slowly managed to pull an arm around me, making her tank top stretch awkwardly as she did. The aftershocks of orgasm echoed through both of us.

Emma licked her lips. She opened them once or twice, but didn't say anything. My mind -- mine, full of anxiety and fear -- whirled frantically. What had I done? What the fuck had I just done?! I squeezed my eyes shut.

Emma's breathing slowly steadied. I wanted to look at her expression, but I didn't dare. I didn't know how much of her personality and emotions had been left intact, and I didn't know how quickly she would recover. But I didn't dare look up for fear of seeing revulsion painted across her face.

She had come here today to help take care of me, and I had taken shameless advantage of her. She was going to leave me. She had every right to throw our relationship away: she deserved so much better, could do so much better. I was a worthless, wretched human being who had abused her trust. She'd barely known me -- and perhaps that was the only reason I'd had her trust to begin with -- and look what I'd done with it!

I buried my face against Emma's chest. Her bare, naked, bloodstained chest. I choked back a sob. I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I was so ashamed. Everything was over.

What had I done?

Then Emma shifted. I felt her chin brush my head as her lips parted again. Her voice was hoarse. Her breath: raspy. "Oh. My. God," she managed to croak. "That was freaking amazing."