isolt griffin
The realization of what she had done, of what she had allowed to happen, seemed to dawn upon her with all of the subtlety of a sledgehammer straight to the chest. Never once could it have been said that Isolt was an individual prone to such whimsy as this; never before had she been so taken with an individual as to offer them such an intimate display in the moments following their meeting. Physical intimacy of such a romantic nature was not oft bestowed upon others by the shy young woman, and certainly not unto strange gentlemen who slithered about under shroud of darkness in pursuit of lascivious fantasy or another. Had she been aware of the affinity he possessed, that it had been he who had begun to so subtly rearrange her body's primitive chemicals in order to coax this reaction from her, Isolt might have been irked at his presumptuous intrusion. As it stood, however, her naivety to his talent dictated the apprehension that has her body stiffen once more against the wooden brace of the oak at her back. Anxiety bred just as much from his forward nature as it is from her willingness, no matter how fleeting, to comply.

It does not help the anxiety that mounts with steady insistence that he moves forward, clearly intending to further her rapidly withering personal space. Nor does it help that some part of her, how dominant it might be she fears to consider, gleans some titillating brand of excitement from his proximity, her body clenching in some offhandedly seductive manner. Her attempts at fortitude, miniscule though they certainly were, seemed to have only ignited within this wayward vampire the desire to press her, to prod at her in the most salacious manner in order to coax the reaction he wished. And, more troubling still, Isolt could almost feel her resolve as it crumbled, disintegrating with every inch he ventured closer. His whispered words are as ice to creep up the slope of her spine, threatening phantom goose flesh upon the pallor of her skin.

Isolt's eyes close for a moment marked by its brevity when his fingers reach out to brush with almost loving tenderness through her wealth of gossamer copper strands. She reaches up, deftly capturing his traveling hand into the delicate suppleness of her own to stay whatever further movements he had intended. Her eyes, once opened, rise to meet his, a pained expression carving its way into the beauty of her features at the use of an all-too-familiar nickname. This man, whoever he is, seems an echo of the emerald-eyed man she fears so, with his false tenderness and confounding mystique. And though her body might have silently urged her onwards, her mind grapples with the reality of the present and the near-certainty of dismay should she allow herself to indulge. "Because I'm not so sure we want the same thing. I'm really not into... one-night stands or whatever it is you're playing at," she whispers, whatever fortitude might have seeped into her syllables is likely a farce, for Isolt finds herself rather suddenly weakened in the knees. She knows, is all too aware in fact, that she should make her departure from this man and his hidden plethora of clever guises... and yet, her fingers remained clasped about his, her eyes locked upon him. Waiting... hoping...