“May I kiss you, Miss Sybrina?”
Darkening irises show me the fire that burns under her skin. She wants me, just as much as I want her. Her entire body stiffens except her head, which nods very subtly yes. I reach out my arm to caress her around the waist, hauling her close to me. I stare into her eyes that are distinctly thirsty with need, using my hand to tip her head up and lean down, pressing my lips to hers. My need is triumphant, reveling in the sensation, kicking away the blandness that tortures my spirit and replaced by sweet berries in springtime. A flood of core memories stabs at the vibrancy awakened in me. The touching and kissing become ravenous, stronger than bloodlust. Sybrina is wild with passion... for me. My hold tightens and my hands roam, wanting more. It is a feverish awareness that in all my long years I have never experienced.
An alarm whirrs in the deep recess of my mind. Sybrina is fighting against me. The cloud of passion pops like a boil. Audible now is her struggle to be free of me.
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