Her eyes flew open, and she pinned him. “Now.”

Her breathless word did something unfamiliar to his facial muscles. They twisted, his lips pulling up into a curve, parting as they did so. He brought a hand to his face to see what was happening to him and realized to his surprise that he was smiling.

He hadn’t smiled in over six decades.

***

Languid pleasure made her body feel boneless. Portia had masturbated a few times before, and while it had made her feel good, it couldn't compare to what Zane’s hands and mouth had done to her. She felt weightless.

When she opened her eyes, she looked at Zane’s smiling face. He looked so different now, younger and so much happier than she’d ever seen him.

Zane rose from between her thighs, thighs she’d so willingly spread for him only thinking of her own pleasure. With fluid grace, he pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his naked chest, still wearing his shirt and pants, and carried her into the bedroom.

She pressed her head into the crook of his neck and slid her lips against his skin, kissing him. She sensed him tilt his head to allow her closer access. Sighing her approval, she brushed her fangs against his neck, sensing the pulsing vein beneath that screamed for her to tear his skin so she could drink.

Zane growled. “Careful, Portia, if you bite me, you might be getting deeper into this than you want to.”

She met his eyes and noticed a strange glint there. Was he rejecting her, regretting what he’d just done? She averted her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

When he lowered her onto the bed, she scooted away from him, his rejection stinging. She cursed her inexperience. If she’d been with a vampire before, maybe she would know more about the etiquette around biting. As it was, all she had to go by was her instinct, and it told her that she wanted his blood just as much as she wanted his cock inside her.

Zane’s hand tipped her chin up, making her face his scrutinizing look. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d be honored if you drank my blood.”

Her heart jumped. “But then why—”

“Taking another vampire’s blood creates a connection …”

She knew all about blood bonds, her mother had explained it to her. “But if you don’t bite me at the same time, it won’t create a blood bond.”

“That’s not what I was talking about. Even without that, there’ll be a closer connection than if we were simply sexual partners.”

She frowned. Sexual partners, how clinical that sounded. “I see.” All he wanted was what she’d asked him in the first place: to help her lose her virginity. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You don’t.”

Zane shrugged his shirt off and dropped it to the floor. Then he stretched out his right arm, revealing the inside of his forearm. With the finger of his other hand, he pointed to the tattoo that marred his skin.

Portia’s eyes followed the direction, and her pulse skidded to a full stop. There, on his skin, six numbers were imprinted. It took her less than a second to realize what they were. She knew their significance from somewhere—from reading, or some class she'd taken, or maybe one of the many TV documentaries she'd perused. In any case, she knew that Zane had survived a Nazi concentration camp.

“This is what I am, Portia. I did unspeakable things to survive. You don’t want my blood, believe me. I’m an animal.”

Stunned at his self-hate, she stopped breathing.

“I’m a dirty Jew, Portia. Is that really what you want?”

He hated himself for being a Jew? She shook her head, unable to comprehend how he could have these feelings about himself. When he pulled away and lowered his lids, she realized he’d misunderstood her movement as an answer to his question.

“No!” she cried out and reached for his hand, pulling his arm closer to her. “Whoever said that of you is wrong.” How long had they repeated those words to him that he now believed them himself? What had they done to him to make him think he was dirty because of his heritage?

But Zane had already shut down again, his smile wiped off his face, his mask of indifference firmly in place.

“I want you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want your pity or your political correctness.”

“It’s neither.” Damn it, why was he so stubborn?

Unconcerned with her nudity, she nudged to the edge of the bed and turned her head to his forearm once more. She brought it to her mouth and pressed a kiss onto the first number.

“Portia, stop …”

His protest died when she kissed the second number, then the third. By the fourth Zane was moaning softly, and when she kissed the fifth and then the last one, his other arm had come around her and his fingers combed through her hair.