When he turned back to face her, her hand whipped around, fist bared. She punched him again, sending him floundering sideways into the door. He’d already unlocked it, and it swung open wide. He danced clumsily across the threshold and into the room, toppling to his knees.
Naima walked in behind him, her stride leisurely, and using her telekinesis, she swung the door shut behind her.
“I mean it, Naima,” he said, grabbing hold of the nearby bureau so he could get to his feet. “You hit me again, and I’m going to hit you back. Fair warning.”
He felt a tickle deep inside his left nostril, and then a warm rivulet of blood slid down from his nose toward his lip. Her eyes were riveted on it, and as he watched, the dark onyx of her pupils began to widen, seeming to slowly but steadily engulf the whites of her corneas in glistening, inky darkness. All at once he remembered something important he’d foolishly forgotten—Naima and the Morins hadn’t come by their telekinesis through accident. It was the result of their feeding habits—ones Lamar and other Brethren in Kentucky considered abominable.
They fed from each other.
Oh, shit, he thought.
Her canine teeth had started to descend from the recessed grooves in her upper palate. His blood excited her, the sight and scent of it; he could sense this in the sudden quickening of her heartbeat and breathing. It had summoned the blood lust within her.
“Naima,” he said, holding out his hand. “Wait a minute.”
He didn’t want to fight her, even though he now felt he’d recovered enough strength to summon a psionic bolt that could easily incapacitate her.
“Listen to me,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately calm. “You don’t want to do this.”
In response, her eyes flashed and he felt the now-familiar sensation of pressure increasing in the air as she used her telekinesis. It felt like someone kicked his knees out from under him; with a grunt, he fell to the floor again.
“Or maybe you do,” he croaked, biting back a choked cry as she wrenched his head back.
He tried to move, but couldn’t. She reached out, drawing her fingertip against his chin. Catching some of his blood on her finger, she then slipped it into her mouth, tasting it. Then she leaned toward him, bringing her face within inches of his own. Her nostrils flared slightly as she drew the scent of him—the fragrance of his blood—in, savoring it.
He should have been alarmed. Very, very alarmed. If he’d had any sense, he’d be panicking out of his damn fool mind in that moment. Instead, ridiculous and inexplicable though it was, he found his heart racing not with fear—but with anticipation. The idea that she wanted to feed from him—that she might bury those elongated teeth deep into the meat of his throat—turned him on.
He closed his eyes, his body reflexively tensing as he awaited her strike, but instead, he felt the warm, wet tip of her tongue drag against the shelf of his chin, up toward his mouth, lapping the blood that had smeared on his skin. He opened his eyes again, then winced as she clamped her hand against his jaw. Her tongue brushed against his bottom lip and he uttered a soft, breathless sound. He tried to kiss her, but she hissed at him like a cat, as if outraged by his audacity, and that unseen force keeping a fierce hold of his hair abruptly tightened, leaving him to suck in a sharp, pained breath through his teeth.
After a moment, she forced him to turn his head, keeping her fingers hooked into his cheek. This time, her tongue toyed with him, dancing lightly across the seam of his lips, making his cock strain, rock hard, through the front of his pants.
God, you’re beautiful, he said, opening his mind to her again; the only person besides his father and brother with whom he’d ever allowed himself the luxury of such vulnerability. In response, her brows furrowed, and she reared back, her lips drawn in a snarl. All at once, he felt himself being jerked up from his knees. She seized him telekinetically, hoisted him aloft, and then flung him across the room with a hoarse, furious cry. He felt the sharp whip of wind, and then crashed down hard on top of the bed. Naima grabbed him again telekinetically, pinning him on his back against the mattress, and then shoved him up toward the headboard, the blankets wrinkling and bunching beneath him.
Having no control of his body whatsoever was a peculiar and unsettling sensation. At her telekinetic command, he sat up, as clumsy as a rag doll. He felt the hem of his shirt rise up, tugging loose from his pants by unseen hands, and as his arms shot skyward, the shirt whipped up the length of his torso and over his head. It flew into the air, then fluttered down, and she shoved him onto his back again. He couldn’t move, as immobilized as if baby elephant had just decided to plant its ass atop him.
Startled, he flinched when a lamp flew off the nightstand beside the bed, the cord snapping out of the wall, its small circumference of yellow light abruptly distinguished. Across the room, another lamp leaped from the chest of drawers, and with the exception of the dim sliver of light coming from beneath the bathroom door, the motel room was plunged into darkness.
“Naima?” He tried to lift his head, to see her in the darkness. “Naima, are you—?”
His voice cut short as she telekinetically muffled him, forcing his mouth shut. He felt the air around his hands collapse in her telekinetic hold, and then his arms were stretched wide across the headboard, a cruciform pose. When he felt the stinging slap of electrical cords wrapping suddenly, constrictor-like and swift, against his wrists, binding him to the bedposts, he understood why she’d wanted the lamps.
After that, again there was only silence. He lay in bed, his heart still pounding. He tugged uselessly against the cords at his wrists; they had been cinched tightly enough to damn near cut off the circulation to his hands, and had absolutely no give to them whatsoever. He was strong enough; with concerted effort, he could have broken them. But in truth, he didn’t want to break free. Adrenaline was surging through his body like an electrical current, and he wanted to see where this game of hers would take them.
Things are either about to get really, really bad… he thought. Or really, really good.