"Isla. Isla."

Greg's sweet voice trembled as he shook me awake. Rude. I had, post round two of our delirious sexcapades, only just drifted off into the coziest couch sleep of my life. My body was exhausted and satiated and the absolute best kind of sore, but damn, girl, now I was the one who I needed a nap.

I groaned and heaved my eyes open one at time.

He knelt beside the couch. Eyes wide. My blood smeared most of his face. Lips to cheeks to brows to disheveled hair and the tip of his nose. Streaks of it decorated his neck. He curled a hand around mine and released the littlest of sighs when I squeezed him back.

"You dozed off," he swallowed. "I had to be sure I didn't—forget it. Sorry to wake you."

His obvious anxiousness put a stiff ache in my neck. The multitude of little – and big – love bites he'd given me throbbed gently. Enough to notice, like an aging bruise, but nothing close to excruciating. Trust me, I'd been a lot closer to death than artery play with Greg had ever brought me. This was a tickle by comparison. Still, was flattering he worried.

"You're cute," I mumbled. "Little deaths don't count as murder."

His gaze softened. But those lips of his, talented as they may be, struggled to form a relieved smile. "Oui, Madame."

She appeared for the briefest of moments. Just over Greg's shoulder. Quick as a hidden frame in a movie. A slack jawed ghost in a white nightgown, golden hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders. Thin. Pale. Bloodstained. Flickering into existence and out again before I barely had time to register her at all.

Huh. Maybe Greg wasn't always so sweet. Wonder how if she was a former lover. A conquest he literally fucked to death. Hm, wonder if Greg had many former lovers haunting him across the city. Something to ask Phoebe about later. That was a red flag, right? Haunted by dead lovers? Haunted period. Solidly crimson. Red as the blood that painted him well south of his face. It covered his still naked chest. Vermilion strokes ventured into the waistband of the boxer briefs he somehow acquired. Dried splashes of me coating his thighs and arms and strong hands.

And not a single part of me cared. Snuggled into Greg's crappy sofa in his chilly office, post best sex ever of all time, turned out to be a heck of a great comfort. Red flags be damned. I had plenty of my own I wasn't ready to let fly in front of him just yet, so who was I to judge a couple of dead hookups?

Greg noticed my roaming gaze. "I have a shower. If you want."

I adjusted slightly, stretching my back. A cake of dried blood crackled across my skin. Yikes. "Hot shower sounds fantastic."

As I sat up, he jerked forward, as if to catch me before I fell. While a touch of dizziness and fatigue tickled me, I wasn't in any danger of fainting, and managed to stand perfectly fine on my own, thanks very much. Not that I, you know, rejected his hand. Held it quite firmly actually.

Greg's brows furrowed. "You've got some strong veins on you."

"You sound like the Red Cross. They will absolutely not stop calling me for donations."

Lies. I was solidly banned from ever donating blood or organs. No, you know what, not lies, let's say teases. That sounds cuter than lies. Lies were for my probation officer, my parents, and online dating.

Greg handed me a thick, fleece lined bathrobe. I accepted more out of the chill in the office than from modesty. We were well beyond that. Though I had to hand it to him, he was much better at keeping his eyes from wandering too far from my face than I was (those undies looked soft as heck). It seemed after sating his thirst and riding out the high, my vamp returned to his usual gentlemanly self. Pity.

Least the robe was warm and smelled woodsy, like him.

Once I was properly covered, he grabbed a glass of water and a glass of orange juice off the coffee table and offered them both. My head tingled a bit. I took the juice.

"Thanks."

"Thank you," he said, wetting his lips. "For everything. You gave—" he glanced down at his decorated body, "more than you should have."

A slight pinch of pink sprinkled Greg's cheeks. A blush. I noticed then that his usual pallor wasn't quite so Victorian woman dying of consumption anymore. He was still pale, don't get me wrong, but his skin held the distinct color of actual life in it now, more like Goth who disliked the beach pale. Gone were the slight wrinkles and crow's feet and dark circles beneath his eyes. Buh-bye to those few silverly streaks of gray hair. Something in my chest swelled.

I did that. I brought him back to life.

My pussy was that good.

"Anytime," I said, my voice hoarse and belly warming at the idea of having his lips on me anytime. Anytime I wanted. He wanted. Anytime either of us felt that delightful itch.

"No. Absolutely not anytime—" he must've noticed my face fall to match the feeling in my gut. "I could've killed you. Frankly, I'm a tad surprised I didn't. This whole night I have been, to say the least, an unprofessional sleaze. I apologize for that. Not just for being so forward, but for the situation I put you in. Again, shit," he ran a bloody hand through his hair, as if it only just occurred to him we had a knack for wandering into dangerous situations together. "I hope I didn't—I didn't intend to trick or enthrall you into anything. You didn't deserve— it shouldn't have come to that, and I promise it won't happen again."

He didn't want to do it again? Lame, because I did. Okay, maybe under less dire circumstances, but hey, who didn't like to spice things up in the bedroom every once and while?

I took a gulp of my juice. Pulp. Eck. "You were thirsty." And so was I.

"Yes, but," Greg pinched his fully healed nose. With the other hand, he gestured to the little hall, where I knew a staircase was nestled across from his front door. "If I don't manage it, I get a little sloppy sometimes."

"I liked sloppy you," I said, sashaying my way up the staircase in his bathrobe this time. "Don't get me wrong, I like uptight you as well. But at least sloppy you was honest about wanting to bang me. Just a shame it has to be a hit and run."

I hadn't meant for that twinge of bitterness to creep into my voice. Just, you know, a dash of it. A smidgen that happened to boil over like an unwatched kettle.

An arm hooked me by the waist.

Greg turned me around to face him, holding me close with his arms wrapped around my legs. His mouth was nearly level with my crotch. Nice.

"Isla, do you think I didn't enjoy what we...?"

"Oh, no, of course I don't think that. My sex literally brought you back from the brink of extinction and you don't want to do it again, but whatever. I just think you're just being a touch ungrateful, that's all."

At some point in the last nanosecond, I lost the battle against my hand to run my fingers through Greg's hair. Didn't even try to stop myself, despite how annoyed I was. His waves were thick and luscious. He grinned and leaned into my touch.

"I'm grateful. Abundantly grateful," he nuzzled me between my thighs over the robe, giving me tingles. "Think I recall showering you in gratitude at least twice."

I could still feel the remnants of our coupling at least twice between my thighs. A mix of us. Warm and sticky. I was wearing Greg, so many pieces of Greg, like a brand. His bites, his robe, his spent gratitude, the offer to shower in his soap marked me in the same way my blood had drenched him. Whether or not it was his intention, he was labeling me like food in the office refrigerator.

A rush of heat pooled at my center, making me fidget.

Greg's nostrils flared. He jerked his head away and pried my hands from his hair. "As grateful as I am and as much as I did enjoy this, which is to say, too much. You're a client. I took advantage."

"I offered."

"I never want you to feel like you had no choice but to offer yourself—"

"Pfft, men really are blind. I've been serving myself up on lowcut neckline platters for days now, it took you till you were mortally wounded to accept."

"Wha— no you did— you pulled away in the alley."

My cheeks burned as a suspiciously Nazira-like voice tsked in my conscience. "A nervous flinch!"

"Regardless," Greg ground his teeth. "I—it would be unprofessional to repeat this tryst—"

"What about me screams professional to you?"

"I have a business!"

"So do I!" I retreated up a few steps, stepping on the robe and nearly sliding down again on my ass (of course Greg's arms were at the ready to catch me) but I braced myself against an iron railing. "It may be under the table, and I may be retiring, but that was rude."

He scrunched nose. Inhaled deep and let it all out in a long sigh. Tension seemed to wash down his back and shoulders. "You're right. That was rude. See what I mean? Unprofessional sleaze. But I have other clients. Someone could have walked in. Seen us."

"Oh, I like that," I lowered my voice to a whisper. "The private eye and the criminal. What a scandal it be if we're caught in a compromising scene together. I'd have to hide under your desk, detective. Of course, you may need to gag me to keep me quiet. You know now just how much noise I like to make. Whatever will you stuff in my mouth to make me swallow my voice?"

Greg pressed his eyes shut and did a poor job of hiding the way his tongue grazed over his fangs inside his mouth. When he opened those eyes, that playful, challenging glint from last night had returned. "See, we can't do that, Ms. Santiago-Corrigan," he said in a voice low and gravelly, "because you'd like it too much, and I'm afraid I might like the sound of you choking too much."

"Ha!"

The laugh escaped me in a practical choke. Yet a rush of wetness slicked my thighs. Goodness gracious. I liked this side of Greggy.

"We'll just lock the door then. Much simpler," I turned and continued to lead him up the stairs, feeling his presence sticking close behind me. But not touching. "How 'bout next time, if you'd rather not wait till our lives are threatened, you just hit me with the classic 'u up?' text like a real gentleman."

"Gosh, sounds like a swell plan, darling, if you were answering my texts."

That didn't... we hadn't really come to a conclusion about how to proceed beyond the bridge we just crossed. But it was clear were both too tired to continue destroying the pleasant afterglow clinging to us. Defining the relationship could wait, I guess.

"Eh, I'll give you that. Oh. You got a nice place. This whole building yours?"

"Ought to be," said Greg as he ushered me up the final steps onto the second floor. "Bought the place in the fifties."

Unlike the shambles we'd left his office in, the rest of Greg's home was clean. Meticulously so. As I half expected. The stairs dissolved onto the second floor in an open yet narrow kitchen and living space. He'd done it all in lush greens and cool blues and grays. Hard wood floors. Emerald tiled kitchen (so pristine I'd wager that it had never been cooked in) with stainless appliances. Not the newest models of anything, but still, well kept.

Beneath the large, navy blackout curtained windows, and evidently above where his desk sat on the ground floor, was his living room. Cozy and neat. A large sectional sofa with a collection of pillows and throw blankets in varying shades of blue and gray looked soft and inviting. More modern than I'd been expecting, especially after seeing Dmitri and Sloane's time-warped sense of interior design.

Greg's taste was borderline minimalist if it wasn't for the vast record collection that overtook the space.

Across from the sectional was a long wooden cabinet giving me very mod sixties vibes. The vintage record player sitting atop it took front and center in the room. Surrounding it, neatly slid into every available shelf space between the mod cabinet and several other wall mounted shelves, were stacks and stacks and stacks of vinyl records. Hundreds of them. On the opposite wall, leading up yet another staircase, Greg appeared to have framed his favorite pieces of cover art. Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie, Amy Winehouse, and of course, Rihanna all appeared to have made the cut.

"Bathroom's upstairs," Greg said.

He might've noticed me staring.

The third and final floor was just as open and loft like, aside for bathroom taking up the back quarter. I shivered at the sight of his king-sized bed looming in the center of the room, the sheets smooth and flat and unlike my rumpled heap of pillows and quilts.

I didn't manage to snoop any further. Greg guided us into his bathroom. Small, but naturally, tidy. Not a drop of blood stained the grout or white, polished tiles.

Greg both insisted I go first, and he get the water started, as the pipes were a bit fussy and needed fiddling to find the right temperature. Really, chivalry was undead. Wasn't till the little room was enveloped in a cloud of steam that I ditched his robe on the floor and stepped in. Greg held my hand so I didn't slip and ran a gentle thumb over my knuckles before closing the completely mildew free curtain on me.

Yeah. I was right. A hot shower was fantastic. Exactly what my body needed. My muscles relaxed. The soreness abated. A whirlpool of brown and red water circled the drain, clueing me in to just how filthy I'd been. Was all that blood mine? I grazed a soapy washcloth against the bite on my neck. A bruise throbbed beneath the pressure, but the sting of soap and water in the cut was absent. I traced the two pinpricks above my jugular with my fingers and swept them around to pat the tender ring that encircled all of my neck. A ball formed in my esophagus at the memory of Kyle's weird dudebro-henchman clutching me by the throat, and the crazed look in Greg's eyes as he risked his own neck to save mine.

Greg turned on the sink—and apologized when I yipped at the sudden change in water temperature. I watched his shadow as he brushed his teeth. This was strange. We'd just fought for our lives, swapped at least two bodily fluids beyond spit, and banged out our frustrations on his ceiling. Shouldn't I have been, I don't know, having a hysterical breakdown? Instead, I was sighing contentedly in his shower, surprised to be relishing this weird moment of domesticity. Just two creatures of the night, sharing a bathroom, one of them flossing, calm in each other's presence. You could almost forget about the seven layers of impending doom looming just over our heads from all directions at that very moment. Almost.

Greg's shampoo and soap were cheap and unscented. Hm. Maybe I should consider leaving a bottle of my own. And a loofah. If we decided to, you know, be doing this calm and contented thing more often.

"So do you, like," I asked while sudsing up my hair, finally sick of the stupid, weird, comfortable silence, "get horny every time you eat?"

Greg gagged on his toothbrush. "N-not necessarily."

"Cause I'm trying to imagine enjoying a sandwich so much I masturbate with the baguette."

"Your mind is fascinating," he cleared his throat. "Thirst and thirst don't exactly go steady. We don't have to – you know – while we feed. Think of it more of a flavor preference."

His outline watched me through the curtain. I dragged the washcloth between my thighs. Slowly. "Oh, so it's a personal choice to eat and bone?"

Greg vigorously finished with his teeth. He spit loudly into the sink. The shower cooled a bit as the water ran and he washed face. His shadow's movements were tense and awkward. It was cute on him. That fluster. I liked bringing it out. After several moments of him wringing a towel a touch more viciously than necessary (and with me imagining just how he was going to explain that he hadn't meant out his own kinks that much) he finally spoke again.

"People taste differently when they feel different things—it flavors you. There're vampires who prefer to feed on anger or adrenaline or fear," he took take slow, deep breath. "I happen to think you taste better when you're in a good mood."

Oh. Hot.

"Orgasms make blood taste good, noted. Hand me a towel."

I turned off the shower and drew the curtain back. No towel awaited me, but he handed me his robe again instead. It was warm and woodsy. The scent and feel of him enveloping me was nice. Made me pleasantly drowsy. And the way he'd washed the smears of blood from only his hands and the lower half of his face made me giggle.

He sat on the toilet and gestured for me to move into his lap. Moths skittered to life in my belly, drawn to Greg's body like a flame. I straddled him. A soft mmm rumbled through his chest and his cock twitched.

"Good girl," he said quietly, gently tilting me neck to one side.

I sighed and arched into him. Desire made my limbs heavy and liquid. Closed my eyes and braced for the cool trace of his lips on my skin, but it never came.

A dollop of cold gel hit me instead.

"Hey!"

"Hold still, it's Neosporin."

I opened my eyes. On the ledge of the sink he'd laid out Band-Aids and the antibiotic ointment. As a creature whose wounds healed on autopilot and could never carry disease or bacteria, these were clearly guest amenities.

"Didn't you heal me? With your tongue thing?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "My, ah, saliva can slow the bleeding. One of those good ole predatory perks for keeping your meal fresh and alive for longer. You're no good to use once you die after all—ah, but no, it can't fully heal you, so let me help that along."

"Huh. The more you know," I said as he carefully smoothed the bandage over my broken skin.

He moved onto the cut on my arm next. Oh, yikes. I was about to complain. To whine and tell him to blow off the silly punctures dotted across my body, they'd be fine. But looking at the ragged gash from my sloppy surgical skills I understood his concern. Yeah, that one'll probably leave a mark. Greg treated it gingerly, of course. Applying ointment and bandages and, the surprising cherry on top, a little kiss to finish off his work. Worth it.

Cool fingers trailed down the length of my arm, pausing to rub a similarly gnarly scar only a few inches down from this recent cut. It was old. I'd done it to myself as a teenager. Nothing life-threatening, or malicious. It was just before I realized the convenience of needles when it came to blood magic. Whatever Greg thought it meant, he very politely kept it to himself.

He applied the same care to the multiple bites on my inner thighs. I wrapped my arms around his neck, you know, for balance. Despite growing half hard as he softly swathed antibiotics across the pinprick cuts, Greg played the part of the good doctor and kept his touches bordering on clinical.