I grin. “The diet plans are easy. And don’t require much thought. I haven’t… it’s been a while since I’ve had real food.” I don’t expand on the thought. He knows. Knows that I’ve locked myself in my apartment for three years. Knows that, other than my road trip of mayhem two weeks ago, this is the first time I’ve left the sanctuary of apartment 6E.

“Maybe I could cook for you sometime.”

I smile weakly. “Let’s see how tonight goes.”

“You’ve been good so far.”

“She hasn’t brought the steak knives out yet.”

He laughs, as if it is funny, as if there is no real threat of danger. I frown.

“Stop doing that,” he warns. “And please, relax a bit. I’m not gonna let you hurt me.” I’m not gonna let you hurt me. An odd statement for a first date, but one that fits us well.

“Don’t be so sure you can stop me.”

“Can you be naked again the next time you try? I enjoyed that.” His serious tone catches me off guard, and laughter suddenly bubbles out of me, uncontrolled in its erratic path.

It is, quite possibly, the strangest first date in history. But I behaved. I gripped my steak knife tightly and avoided putting it through his skin. I focused my attention on the food, diving full force into the deliciousness that was unpreserved, unboxed cuisine. He was amused, chewing his food slowly as he watched me, staring with an awe that was unnerving. Undeserved. Then he ordered every dessert they had, and watched with unreserved glee as I dug in. We left the restaurant by six and, fifteen minutes later, we’re back at my doorstep, the sight of this side of the door unfamiliar, foreign.

I place my hands on the steel, noticing that the 6E metallic sticker is slightly crooked and barely hanging on, and that my doorknob is brass, while all of the other hardware silver. Of course it’s different. Mine is the only one designed to lock someone in as opposed to keeping strangers out. I turn to Jeremy nervously, fingering my key as I try to figure out what to do.

I am out of practice, and unsure of my level of control. I feel panic grip my chest, the hallway entirely too small, the warmth and scent of his body, right there, and all I have to do is reach out and we will touch.

He leans against the opposite wall, his posture loose and relaxed, as far away from me as he can reasonably be, my tension easing slightly at the move. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For the date.”

I blush, the words ones I should have thought to say. I am out of practice, but am fairly sure that the girl typically thanks the man, especially when he foots the bill for half the menu. “Thank you.”

“I’d like to kiss you, if you’re comfortable with that.”

I hesitate. This is stupid. We spent three days together, two weeks ago, our bodies wrapped around each other during the night, his mouth on mine countless times during that period. I know his kiss, know that I want it—want more than just it. But two weeks ago—I was broken during that time, and he was healing me. Now, I am back to normal, and my urges are as strong as they’ve ever been. I worry over what will happen when he is that close, worry how my psychotic mind will handle the experience. Whether it will slink to the background and lie low, allowing me to enjoy the experience. Or, if it will bare its teeth and come out to play. I drop my keys on the floor and hold out my hands. “Could you hold me still? Just in case.” I avoid his eyes when I say the words, my gaze fixated on my wrists, outstretched and waiting for his touch. Then I feel him step closer, see his strong hands wrap, one wrist in each hand, and pull.

He drags me forward, his hands spreading mine and swinging them around my body, till they are joined at the small of my back, the new position bringing his body flush to mine, his arms wrapped around me, my face in the crook of his neck, his breath quickening as he walks us backward till our hands hit my door and his body pins me to it.

It is too much, the rush of sensations. Sensations that I have forgotten, either intentionally or through neglect. The hard press of hips against mine, the hard brush of him against the thin material of my dress, one leg sliding in between and spreading my legs, my pelvis grinding, without thought, on his thigh, the movement causing a quick intake of breath to hiss through his lips.

“Deanna…” He whispers my name as he lowers his mouth, and there is a brief moment of quiet as our lips pause, inches from each other.

“Like this?” he whispers, and all I can do is nod a response.

The need. It is stronger than my blood lust; it is overriding any thought in my head. I want this man so bad. I want him alive, and I want him to fill me with that life, that sweetness.