It was not his in any way. I gave myself to the feel of his mouth on my neck, the strength of his hands on my back, the press of his body against mine. I had to not look, because the craving was still there. I saw a picture of him on the yearbook staff, bent over a layout table, face very serious.
Zerbrowski was still smiling. I struggled to be still. The wound had begun to heal more than I'd realized, because to get to the blood, he had to pull hard and tight on my wrist. Doesn't he have a car? We only have two cars at the house, and Micah may need the other one if he gets called into work.
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