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“A surprisingly wise friend told me that I hold back some part of myself from all the men in my life. He said that I do it to keep myself safe, to keep myself from being consumed by love.”

Jean-Claude’s face had gone very careful, as if he were afraid for me to read his expression.

“I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. He was right.”

Jean-Claude looked at me, face still empty, but there was a tightness around his eyes, a wariness that he couldn’t quite hide. He was waiting for the blow to fall, I’d taught him to expect it.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and finished, “What I hold back from you is sharing blood. We fed the ardeur off each other now, but I still won’t let you take blood.”

Jean-Claude opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He’d sat up straighter, hands clasped in his lap. It wasn’t just his face he was fighting to keep neutral, even his body language was so very careful.

“I asked you to feed off me a few minutes ago, and you said not while the ardeur was riding me. Not while I was intoxicated.” I had to smile at the choice of words, because intoxicated was a good description of the ardeur. Metaphysical liquor.

“I’ve fed the ardeur, we both have. I’m not intoxicated any more.”

He’d gone very still, that utter stillness that the old vampires could do. It was like if I looked away, he wouldn’t be there when I looked back. “We have both fed the ardeur, that much is true.”

“Then I’m still offering blood.”

He took a deep breath. “I want this, ma petite, you know that.”

“I know.”

“But why now?”

“I told you, I had a talk with a friend.”

“I cannot give you what Asher gave you, gave us, yesterday. With my marks upon you, I may not be able to roll your mind at all. It will be only pain.”

“Then do it in the middle of pleasure. We’ve proven more than once that my pain/pleasure sensors get a little confused when I’m excited enough.”

That made him smile. “As do mine.”

That made me smile. “Let’s fool around.”

“And then?” he asked, voice low.

“When it’s time, take blood, and then let’s fuck.”

He gave a surprised burst of laughter. “Ma petite, you are such a sweet-talker, how can I refuse?”

I leaned into him, pressed a gentle kiss upon his lips, and said, “Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies! Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, and all is dross that is not Helena.”

He gazed into my face with such longing. “I thought you said you could not remember more of the play.”

“I remembered more,” I whispered, “do you?”

He shook his head, and we were so close that his hair brushed against mine so that you couldn’t tell where one blackness left and the other began. “Not with you this close to me, no.”

“Good,” I smiled, “but promise some night we’ll get the whole play and take turns reading it to each other.”

He smiled, and it was the smile I’d come to value more than any other, it was real and vulnerable, and I think one of the few things left of the man he might have been if Belle Morte had not found him. “I swear it, and gladly.”

“Then help me peel off these wet jeans and leave the poetry for another night.”

He cupped my face in his hands. “It is always poetry between us, ma petite.”

My mouth was suddenly dry, and it was hard to swallow past my pulse. My voice came breathy, “Yeah, but sometimes it’s dirty limericks.”

He laughed as he kissed me, then he helped me out of the wet jeans, and the wet socks, and the wet shoes, and the wet everything. When my cross spilled out of my shirt, it didn’t glow. It just lay there glinting in the overhead lights. Jean-Claude averted his eyes, as he always did when he saw a holy object, but that was the only hint I had that the cross bothered him. I realized with a start that I’d never worn a cross around Jean-Claude and had it glow at him. What did that mean?

I’m usually pretty straightforward except in emotional areas, but I was trying to be different, change that,