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He apologized mentally to the vampire part of himself—the little bit of his being that didn’t like the bright light—for irritating its senses. I’m sorry, little beastie.
The guy was so…pretty. Gorgeous in a soft, unassuming way, with that little button nose, those Cupid’s bow lips. And really, the bed head look he had going on was too much; it was sending Alexei’s brain into dangerous territory. Like sweat-soaked sheets and a dark head bobbing between his legs and a million other dirty things he shouldn’t be thinking about.
How fucking marvelous to realize Alexei had been about as subtle as a hand grenade in his obsession.
Why the fuck couldn’t he be Jay’s mate? He’d be the most devoted mate there ever was, given the chance.
Wolfe always did that: referred to himself as a man, as if vampirism was a condition he lived with rather than an identity.
