In a vague attempt to get my brain working again, I drabble (plotlessly, of course, but that's how I roll):
“Well, you’re Catholic,” she said. “Guilty feelings are just part of the package."
She had me there. I managed a smile. “Yeah, I suppose.” Her fingertips were warm on my face. I liked that closeness. I craved it more than blood. I was lonely. I couldn’t deny it. But it still felt wrong even while it filled that emptiness inside me.
“Do you want to stop?”
I lifted my face to look at hers. She had brown eyes set against tanned skin, straight pale hair. Different. Different was good. “I can’t answer that in one word,” I replied. “But no.”