isolt marcello
I'm more alive than I've ever been
There was a deeply lascivious glint in Isolt's eyes that sizzled to life as she watched her husband drink his fill from the pixie-haired blonde, her staunch aversion to the predation of humans all but dismissed in these moments. For tonight, it seemed, she had wholly and completely embraced the idea of her own vampirism. This... and the extraordinarily vivacious sexual enchantress that she had always secretly yearned to be. As a mortal she had been shy, awkward, and limited by the timidity bred by the fear of death, but in this night's heightened state of being she was... magnificent.
The curves of Isolt's front teeth press coyly into the cushion of her bottom lip as her husband diminishes the distance that separates them, both nightwalkers dismissing the blonde donor just as swiftly as she had been summoned. He fancied himself a monstrous predator, worried that she might fear him should she peel back the handsome veneer and gaze upon this portion of him. Tonight, however, his mate was as much the predator as he. It was plainly evident in the manner in which she coiled her fingers into the fabric of the shirt resting against his waist, pulling him gently yet insistently towards her and eradicating any space left between them. In an excruciatingly slow and tantalizing fashion does she ascend to the tips of her toes, the softness of her tongue erasing the blood from her husband's chin in a single, smooth motion that ends at his bottom lip. She desires nothing in this moment as desperately as she longs to kiss her husband, to feel the caress of his lips, his hands, upon her.
But she cannot and will not indulge her desires... not yet. She yearns to prod the beast that she knows dwells within him, to tempt him with her wiles as a siren tempts the wayward sailor. It had been far too long since last she had stretched these proverbial muscles, neither of them having indulged themselves in a seductive caress since the death of their daughter. And so she calls to the virile leviathan prowling beneath the surface, brushing her fingers lightly against the tautness of the skin beneath his shift before releasing her hold upon him, her tongue passing over her lips for the crimson droplets that linger there.
They dance and drink for what feels like hours, swaying in one another's orbit as if they alone inhabit this place, until the final call comes and goes, and the club quickly empties of nightly creatures fleeing from the coming dawn. The red-headed woman turns to her husband then, peering up at him through the dark curtain of her curled lashes. "I hope that you were done at the office, because I'm taking you home with me. That isn't a problem, is it?"