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The first few times that Rozanov’s teeth pierced his neck, Shane reminded himself that the pleasure was expected, that it’s easier for a predator to feed when the prey is pacified. Even now, some small part of his mind, that isn’t floating in a haze of warm and dizzy contentment, insists that he would feel like this under any pair of fangs, any vampire’s body pressed against his, any fingers stroking his hair and back in exactly the way that he’s missed, exactly the way that he loves…
Rozanov’s hands still, and Shane mumbles, “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” but, really, he knows that he wasn’t supposed to think it in the first place.