You like to explore with your hands, running your fingers across his chest, torso and abdomen. You never stray too far south, but you feel him tense anyway, much to your amusement. He isn't well-built or thick set, but he is taller than you, and his breath ruffles your hair every time he huffs at you to settle down and stop your fucking fidgeting.
Every time his heart beats, you hear it under your ear, and there's a pulse of the aroma of his blood, warm and thick and sweet (ironically for him), like cherry syrup. It's strong and soothing and tempting, to know you'll never taste it (and even if you did, it wouldn't taste like it smelled) is cruel - nothing you'll ever eat will be as satisfying as his blood is.
Ooh. That thought made you smirk.
Creepy.
"I still like your blood the best," you mutter against his warm chest. He blushes. You know it because the scent is dusted over his skin instead of beneath it as it heats up under your cheek. You chuckle and give it a quick lick for good measure.
He waits a long time to kiss you gently on the head, so you figure he was waiting until you'd fallen asleep to save himself the embarrassment. You decide to bring it up tomorrow at the moment that would prove most humiliating for him, maybe in front of a lot of people, so you could smell his blush again.