Stone's Thirst

Chapter 6: Citations & Temptations

Watson let me into the cottage with his warm, toothy smile. He wore a button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showing off strong, tanned arms coiled with strong muscles. His variety of male beauty was very California rocker, all lean muscle and sunshine. He pushed a flop of blond hair out of his eyes, squinting into the sunlight. (It's a complete myth about vampires and sunlight; they might not be able to get a tan as well as humans, but they absolutely do not burst into flame and ash at sunrise).

“Admirably on time," he said approvingly, checking his expensive looking wristwatch. Everything about him, even with his casual surfer vibe, gleamed of top brands and new style. “Her last assistant was always at least ten minutes late. We'll have to adjust our expectations. Come on in."

I followed him through the close, dimly lit house, admiring the glow of candlelight on brass and the stark, modern-art photo prints lining the walls. The house was an enormous mismatch of time periods, but everything was so beautiful it still felt tasteful somehow.

“Here we are."

Watson opened the door to a brightly lit room, which looked like a cross between an old-school library and an ultra-modern office space. Dark wood shelves overstuffed with much-worn books ringed the entire room, and books cluttered low tables and stood stacked on the rich Turkish carpet. In the center of it all stood a glass-and-steel desk with a slight, graceful laptop sat propped open, weirdly pristine among the Old-World glamor.

And there, kneeling among the cluttered books and scattered pages of notes on the floor, was Professor Stone. She seemed not to have noticed us come in, her slender neck extended over the mess of pages, one hand scribbling rapidly in an open notebook. She wore a tight black tank top that left her lower back exposed down to the waistband of her slim gray leggings. Her bare toes curled on the carpet.

“Knock knock," said Watson gently. “We've got company."

“What? What time is it? Damn." Professor Stone's head shot up, eyes focusing on us. “It can't already be three o'clock."

“It can be, and it is. For an immortal, darling, you really have the most extraordinary disregard for time."

“One might think the two go hand in hand," the professor shot back. “Please come in, Miss Brooks. We have so little time. Here."

She shoved a stack of notebooks—apparently at random—in my direction. At a loss, I sat down on the floor beside her to accept them. She seemed so full of energy, almost electric with it. I was close enough to smell her, her scent of cinnamon and silver. I heard Watson close the door.

“Those are about ninety percent of my sources for the bibliography. I need you to check them for formatting consistency."

“On paper?" I asked, feeling incredibly stupid. I hadn't edited on paper since grade school.

“Yes, on paper. It's MLA style. You know it?"

“Yes, of course," I said almost defensively.

“Then get to it." She tossed a red pencil my way, and I fumbled it before snatching it up and bending over the pages.

We worked in tense quiet, as she shuffled papers into piles, adding sticky notes and paper clips. I wished I could put on some music, but I was too timid to ask. Besides, Professor Stone seemed to have almost forgotten I was there. I found myself becoming slowly frustrated: she clearly didn't care if I were here or not. Why was I sitting here on my professor's office floor instead of working on these edits on my own computer back in my dorm room with my soundtrack playing and Janis cracking the quiet with stupid jokes?

All at once I heard a quiet chuckle from the professor, and I looked up to see her looking at me with a cold, arch smile. “Is this work arrangement not to your liking?"

“What?" I said, stunned. Could vampires actually read thoughts?

“Your body language has been growing tenser and tenser the longer we sit here. Is there some objection you'd like to voice?"

Damn, why did I blush so absurdly easily?

“I'm just used to music," I muttered, abashed.

“Then put some on. My computer is just there."

She gestured. I stared. But she had already turned back to her papers. It would be even more awkward not to do it now. I grimaced as I rose and walked reluctantly to the pristine glass-topped desk. Bracing myself, I tapped the touch pad. The screen flashed on, revealing a browser with an incredible number of browser tabs. I winced at the number. It stressed me out just seeing them. I quickly opened another and signed into my music streaming account. My brain went absolutely blank. Suddenly all my favorite music seemed ridiculous.

I hit one of the daily mix playlists almost at random, and Tom Petty started thrumming from the laptop speakers.

When I turned around, Professor Stone was smiling up at me with a secret, inward mirth. She was playing with me! She knew she was putting me on edge, and she was batting me around like a cat with a yarn ball to see when I'd unravel.

“You need to close some of your browser tabs," I told the vampire, trying to ignore the fact that she definitely wasn't wearing a bra under that tight tank top. “It's probably slowing your machine down."

Professor Stone's smile widened. “Oh, but I have all the time in the world."

I sank back to my papers, red pencil balanced over the dozens and dozens of neat rows of citations.

“Good choice by the way, Miss Brooks," said the professor after a long while, taking me by surprise. “It's hard not to love Tom Petty."

I looked up at her, shocked. There was something strangely gentle about the expression on her cold, lovely face. It wasn't stiff and regal like usual: instead, there was a genuine interest and warmth there, as if she were really considering me for the first time.

I wanted desperately to reach out and touch one freezing hand, to feel those careful, slender fingers under mine, and then to feel more of her. That bare, pale stretch of flesh curving up from the base of her spine. I had an image of the professor on the floor, teasing that black tank top higher and higher…

I prayed vampires couldn't really read thoughts. I wanted Professor Stone in a way I hadn't known was possible. Vitally, urgently. It was as if part of my mind had been cracked open and let loose for the first time. All that pretense with my previous boyfriends had been nothing but that: pretense. Lust made my throat dry, my heart race.

Her hand seemed to flinch toward mine—or maybe I was imagining it, wishing for it. But I looked up and met her eyes, and I knew. Her eyes were the dark, hungry predator eyes I'd seen as she fed on that wisp of a girl. The eyes of someone ready to devour. But she'd just fed. I knew that. So, the fact that she was looking at me, holding my stare, with that deep greedy burning at the bottom of her dark gaze mean something other than a need to feed. It meant a different kind of hunger.

What would happen if I reached out at this instant? If I dropped the red pencil and extended my fingers to her…?