isolt marcello

I'm more alive than I've ever been

It was no matter of contention between them that Damon was and always had been the better of the two when it came to choreographing romantic outings. Perhaps it was an edge courtesy of his advanced age, one he had honed like an artisanal Casanova over decades and countless suitors. Or, just as likely, it was inherent in his demeanor- gifted to him whilst still parading about the mortal world. Her husband had been a Lothario for the majority of both of his lives, of this she held no doubts. How could she, having only taken a small handful of lovers over the course of her entire life, have ever hoped to compete with such deeply-ingrained romantic prowess? It was a query that continued to gnaw at her this evening in a cool, boastful way.

However, the gentle smirk that quirked the brims of his lips and his arm as it slid about her waist saw a promising crackle of hope erupt somewhere within her. They were progressing in the right direction, it seemed. "Both it is, then," she whispered into his ear, even this slight gesture garnished with more innuendo than Isolt intended, coaxing a slight blush to the apples of her cheeks. She must exercise caution lest she surrender to his smoldering sexuality too early and too easily; though she had forgiven him his earlier trespass, a darkly maniacal sliver of her ego was siphoning some pleasure from having him endure this carefully-crafted, lascivious game of cat and mouse. Purely and simply, Isolt was reminding her husband (and herself, truly) what it was he had been without these long few weeks following the tragedy of their daughter's death.

These dark thoughts seem to dissolve, though, as Isolt begins to sway in time with the lively thrum of the music, the overhead lights casting shimmering rivulets down the waterfall of copper hair that dances against her bare back. Her rhythm does not pause as she feels her husband follow behind her, instead does her body recline just enough so that her back rests gently against him, her fingers reaching back to curl within his own and bring his hand to rest against the tantalizing slope of her hip. She cares naught for any stray glances that her choice of wardrobe might be attracting, her thoughts and her eyes reserved solely for her husband alone. That was until the redheaded nightwalker catches the eye of a donor prowling about the writhing bodies skittering around the dance floor. She was petite, her glistening mane of blonde hair fashioned into a delicate pixie cut that accented her chiseled features in a most complementary fashion.

Isolt curls a single, beckoning finger towards the woman- though truthfully the gesture is hardly necessary given that the women had locked eyes with one another moments earlier in a glance that was nothing if not knowing. There are no words exchanged between the pair of women, Isolt simply and delicately departing from her husband to sashay about the newcomer and place herself at the woman's back. The blonde instinctively inclines her head to the side, granting Isolt unobstructed access to her neck and the juicy vein that she can feel pulsing beneath a few layers of buttery soft skin. Locking eyes with her husband, Isolt eases the spires of her fangs into the woman's neck, an action that is quickly rewarded with a burst of delectable plasma. Her eyes seem to sparkle a brighter hue as she indulges in a few gulps more, her stare never departing from the man opposite her, careful to withdraw in order to preserve enough for her lover. Isolt's tongue traverses a slow, sensuous arc across her lips to capture any stray droplets as she extends a hand to press gently into the blonde woman's lower back to coax her towards her husband. An impish smirk tugs at the cherry brims of Isolt's lips as she lingers, waiting.