Two hours later, they were in the back seat of his truck, parked under the skeletal branches of a dead oak. The windows fogged. Her dress hit the floorboard. His hands were cold, but his mouth was fire. She bit his shoulder when he found the spot behind her ear, and he groaned a sound that wasn’t quite human—hungry and hollow, like wind through a broken church.
“Close,” he said. His smile didn’t reach those sea-storm eyes. “I’m the thing ghosts are afraid of.” lust ‘n dead
She should have screamed. Should have clawed at the door handle, thrown herself into the night. But the heat hadn’t left her. It was still there, coiled low in her belly, confused and furious and desperate. Two hours later, they were in the back
That’s when she noticed.
“That’s why they stay,” he murmured, cupping her face with those cold, tattooed hands. “The hunger doesn’t care if the heart beats. It only cares if the blood burns.” His hands were cold, but his mouth was fire
He kissed her again. And this time, when his mouth opened, she felt something worse than cold—a pull, like a riptide dragging her out to sea. Her vision blurred at the edges. Her heartbeat stuttered.