Page 51 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He licks his lips. “Cool… that’s cool…”

I lean forward, letting my body eclipse his view of the room. “You are aroused by your fear.” It is not a question. I draw my hand from his chest to his chin, tilting his face back so I can see him. “Je le vois maintenant, petit chaton. Ton goût du danger. C’est ce qui t’attire vers moi, n’est-ce pas?” I see it now, little kitten. Your taste for danger. It is what draws you to me, is it not?

He tries to shake his head, but I’m holding him too firmly for that. “I don’t know what the fuck you just said,” he breathes.

“Je sais,” I murmur, and bring my mouth to his. I know.

He shudders against me, the exhale hard, as though some last defense has split. I am careful at first, lips merely brushing, testing his resolve, but he opens at once, greedy and desperate. He tastes like adrenaline and longing. His hands, freed now, clutch my shirt and yank me closer, so our hips are pressed together, and his shivering is matched by mine.

I slide my hands down until they find the curve of his waist, the place where his skin is warm and still trembling, and I hold him there as if I could root all the fear straight out of him.

I do not think; I devour.

11

Camille

Ryan’s lips are bruised, our breathing tangled. He’s already half off the stool, his knuckles digging into my shoulder blades while his knees find either side of mine. His thighs squeeze tight, and—fuck, this is why I cannot resist him—he is so alive under me, terrified and burning, the taste of danger electroplating every last nerve. I slide my palm up his back and push, just once, until his spine bows, and he’s forced flat to the table, the cold steel making him jerk and curse.

“Camille—”

I flatten a hand to his sternum and pin him there. I can feel his heart, the frantic percussion, and I let him see how much I like it.

“Do you know,” I say, “how many milligrams of venom it takes to kill a person your size?” I trace the hem of his shirt with one finger, then slide beneath it, up the line of his ribs. “Estelle’s yield today would kill you four times over. Five, if you were very lucky.”

He huffs air, mouth open. “That’s not—Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking weird, Camille—”

“Am I?” I lean in, my mouth at his jawline, then his throat. “Or are you the strange one, for wanting me anyway?”

He shivers, then laughs, the sound barely holding together. “You going to inject me with it or just keep talking?”

I bite him, just beneath the jaw, hard enough that he whines.

“Would you like that?” I ask, teeth grazing his pulse. “Would you like to feel your blood melt in your veins, kitten?”

He whimpers, but his hips push up, and his hands grasp the edge of the table, searching for something to anchor him. I roll my hips down, pinning him, and he makes a sound that is almost a sob.

“I wouldn’t let you die,” I murmur into his ear. “I’d keep you right at the edge. Let you feel every moment of it. I have every antivenom I need here.”

He’s gasping, barely able to answer. “You’re sick.”

“I am.” I want to taste his fear, all the way to the marrow. “But you’re here, Ryan. You could have left at any time, but you’re still here.”

He makes a sound, and I know what he’s going to do—he’s going to kiss me again, desperate and unguarded, but I press a finger to his lips and let him taste the acrid powder of my glove, the ghost of antiseptic.

“Shhh.” I draw my hand down, over his neck, his chest, my palm splayed wide. “I could stop your heart. I could make you convulse, right here, on my table. Would you like that, baby?”

He shudders. “I don’t know.” Then, softer, he says, “M-maybe? But don’t call me baby.”

I almost want to laugh. Instead, I place my mouth over where I bit him, sucking until blood rushes to the surface in a hot, perfect bloom.

He writhes, the table clanging under his spine.

He’s panting now, the flush at his throat blooming outward, his pulse visible under the thin skin. I want to see how far I can push him.

“Tell me,” I whisper, palm on his sternum, “what else are you afraid of?”

He stares up at me, eyes glassy with a cocktail of chemical fear and feral longing. “What?”