BooksBarbecue
Back Any Way the Wind Blows
Chapters (100)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. EPILOGUE
  96. AGATHA
  97. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  98. Also by Rainbow Rowell
  99. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  100. Newsletter Sign-up

He bites and bites.

“I’d drain you fuckin’ dry, Baz, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

My fangs break though my gums—that happens, it’s all right, I try to suck them back. I try to turn, but Simon holds me fast against him.

I let him.

I lay my arm atop the arm he has wrapped around my stomach. He’s champing at my neck now, sucking. He knows he can suck hard; there isn’t enough blood in me to leave a mark. “I can’t get enough,” he says, hot behind my ear. “Baz, help me. Help me. I can’t get enough.”

“I’m right here,” I say.

“I know.” He bites hard on my ear, pulls at it. “It’s not enough.”

“Simon…” I press my head back into his face. He grinds his nose in my hair. “Simon, are you saying I’m not enough?”

“No.” He practically shouts it into my skull.

I push his arm away, forcing him to let me turn. I push him back onto his back, onto his wings; I push his head down with my chin. I hold his wrists above his shoulders. He’s still trying to bite at me.

“I’m right here,” I say.

“I know…” He’s growling.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know.” His tail coils like a steel cord around my leg.

I’m careful with my hips. Even as he’s mauling me. (Land mines. Permissions. Boyfriends being boyfriends, etc.)

“You smell so good,” he says, burrowing his face into the neck of my T-shirt. “I don’t know how to get enough, Baz—I don’t know how I’m supposed to get enough.”

I’m holding myself over him, my hands on his wrists, my knees bracketing his hips. He works his wings around us, pulling me closer. Then he latches on to my collarbone, right through my shirt. “You smell so good,” he says, his mouth full of me.

Simon Snow smells like my aunt’s shampoo. He smells like iodine still. Like ham. And butter. Like PG Tips.

He smells like sleep—sour breath and too-warm skin.

He smells like blood, always. His blood. Salt and milk and something burnt. (It used to be fire, now it’s ashes.)

He smells like sex.

I can’t help knowing this. Any of it. It’s in the air I’m somehow still breathing. But I don’t know what to do with it. What he wants me to do with it, what I’m allowed to do with it, what will help … What will lead to something strong enough to lean on between us.

I let him bite me. I let myself feel his teeth. I rub my face in the chaos of curls at the top of his head. “I’m right here, love, I’m yours.”