She grazes her lips, hard and cold, over the skin of Max's neck. She can taste him - fresh, clean and, disappointingly, not a trace of alcohol in his blood. Her lips push harder, her fangs grow and she bites down.

And she loses herself. Almost without knowing it, she moves to her knees, tilting her head, tilting his.
Her hands roam, touching his face, tracing his muscular chest, ticking his abs, before resting on his shoulders. And she ends up straddling him.

There's no way she's stopping any time soon, no matter her good intentions to only take a little. She's never tasted such pure blood in her life.