“It means someone who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone. He makes decisions for them without asking them.” Maybe I had put a personal spin on the term, but so what?

“Then I am high-handed,” Eric said with no shame whatsoever. “I’m also very . . .” He dipped his head and kissed me slowly, leisurely.

“Horny,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said, and kissed me again. “I’ve worked with my new masters. I’ve shored up my authority. I can have my own life now. It’s time I claimed what is mine.”

I’d told myself I’d make up my own mind, no matter how Eric and I were tied by our blood exchanges. After all, I still had free will. But whether or not the inclination had been planted by Eric’s blood donation, I found that my body was strongly in favor of returning the kiss and of trailing the palm of my hand down Eric’s broad back. Through the fabric of his shirt, I could feel the muscles and tendons and the bones of his spine as they moved. My hands seemed to remember the map of Eric’s topography even as my lips remembered the way he kissed. We went on this way very slowly for a few minutes as he reacquainted himself with me.

“Do you really remember?” I asked him. “Do you really remember staying with me before? Do you remember what it felt like?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I remember.” He had my bra unhooked before I’d even realized his hand was back there. “How could I forget these?” he said, his hair falling around his face as his mouth fastened on my breast. I felt the tiny sting of his fangs and the sharp pleasure of his mouth. I touched the fly of his jeans, brushed my hand against the bulge inside, and suddenly the moment for being tentative was over.

His jeans were off, and his shirt, too, and my panties vanished. His long cool body pressed full-length against my warm one. He kissed me over and over in a kind of frenzy. He made a hungry noise, and I echoed it. His fingers probed me, fluttering against the hard nub in a way that made me squirm.

“Eric,” I said, trying to position myself underneath him. “Now.”

He said, “Oh, yes.” He slid inside as if he’d never been gone, as if we’d made love every night for the past year. “This is best,” he whispered, and his voice had that accent I caught occasionally, that hint of a time and place that were so far distant I could not imagine them. “This is best,” he said again. “This is right.” He pulled out a little, and I made a choked noise.

“Not hurting?” he asked.

“Not hardly,” I said.

“I am too big for some.”

“Bring it on,” I said.

He shoved forward.