I couldn't blame him, but part of me wanted to. He passed Nathaniel in the doorway. He used it in that circular rhythm, to caress along the walls of me. Disturbing.
He'd braided his hair so it looked as professional as ankle-length hair can, and he was reading back issues of some music magazine that he had a subscription to and had fallen behind on reading. The blood I wanted was slow and thick, and holding its hand out to me. But there was still something large and frightening on the other side. I knew he stripped.
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