The teenager shook his head. "This is Gerard's turf. I called him an hour ago. One of his men should be here any minute to pick you up." He scowled. "Youngblood. If you were anything else, I would have just killed you and saved myself the trouble."

Whatever a youngblood was, I suddenly appreciated it.

"Clairemont," he muttered. "Who are you, really? Linda? Marjorie? The other ones are taller. Just when I thought I've done all of the reading on you. Tall, dark-haired—you must have dyed your hair blonde. Well, whatever you were up to, Gerard's going to get you back. Your kind should never run."

On second thought this didn't sound so good.

The vampire straightened. "Get up. I'll clean your neck—I may as well get some return from this mess."

I'll spare you the description of the sensation of standing up after a night on a bare wooden floor. The stretching alone was worse than my neck. Ugh, stretching hurt it even more. I opened my mouth to say something derisive.

The vampire grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into his chest.

I choked. His hands slipped down to my upper arms and trapped them against his body. I stomped on his instep. He laughed. Laughed!

Furious, I wiggled harder—then froze when I felt something wet on my neck. "Hold still," he murmured.

Now, I believe very firmly in treating other people with respect. Give someone the benefit of a doubt and they might surprise you. Expect the best, and a person will often jump to please you. It's not being manipulative. I just strive to be friendly and polite, and I've found that it works.

Thus, I surprised myself when I spat in his ear. I mean, it was within range. It was vulnerable.

The man growled and spun me against the bed, which nearly collapsed under our combined weight. "Hold still or I swear I will rip your throat out," he growled. He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge my saliva. Whoops.

I shrank against the bed and closed my eyes when that tongue came back. He all but stabbed me with it this time. The creepiest part was that his tongue wasn't smooth but rough, like a cat's. The better to clean scabs with, I guess.

The bite was most of the way up my neck. That horrible, cat-like tongue licked its way under my ear, across my throat, and down to the collar of my crew neck shirt. It didn't probe any further. But you bet I felt the long, slow lick across my jawline. I fought a hand free and slapped him.

He caught my wrist. "Well, there's no blood here, but if—"

I yelped and he relented, freeing my hand. "Sit on the bed," he ordered. "I don't want you fainting."

He stood up while I resisted the urge to touch my neck. My skin didn't feel wet. Still, touching where his tongue had been would expose me to—

Oh, no.

I'd probably already caught an indefinite number of blood-borne diseases, infections, and who knew what else. Some saliva now wouldn't matter. The wound had scabbed over. Because his fangs had been inside of my neck. 

Munching.