Restless
The moonlight guides her, but she already knows the path through the dark, ancient cemetery, for she has journeyed it many times before. The cold wind whips at her blonde hair, dry leaves swirling up to lightly dance and surround her. The footing is difficult, the abandoned twigs and uneven terrain making her stumble at times. Feeling the chill of the night air, she rubs her arms for warmth but resolutely keeps going.
He is waiting for her. And she must not keep him waiting.
The unnamed restlessness within drives her forward, needing to be subdued and subjugated. Under the moonlight, her sheer white gown and robe make her look like the ghost she suspects she has become. Knowing what awaits her tonight, she shivers with anticipation. It is always the same, he is always the same, and that comforts her.
She continues on her path, picking up her pace as she nears the familiar meeting spot. The weathered headstone looms ahead, calling to her like a Siren; her heart races and her breath hitches, for she knows he is there in the shadows watching her, his need as great as hers.
She walks as if in a trance, powerfully drawn to the grave. Facing it, she slowly removes her robe and gown. The strengthening wind tries to slow her, but she continues, undeterred. Her nipples harden from the cold night air as she gently kneels to lay down her garments. She rises to stand before the marker, naked and trembling, waiting for him, waiting for release.
She hears his deliberate footfall in the dead leaves before she feels his cool touch on her back and shoulders. His contact is reassuring while it ignites something within her blood, a long-forgotten connection that stirs anew.
He leans in closely to whisper the endearment meant only for her, the word that arouses her in its intimacy and possessiveness.
Lover.
As his fangs extend, she responds with a soft sigh. He gently lifts her hair and slowly drags the fangs across her exposed neck, his fingers trailing down her back to circle and explore. She arches into him reflexively, and he roughly pulls her against his bare body. She moans at the sensation: his hard, cold skin is a welcome contrast to her soft, warm flesh. Their contact is so intense that she believes his presence will finally conquer that which struggles to drown her.
His hands move to her breasts, caressing and teasing her nipples, and she willingly surrenders into his embrace. His long fingers explore lower, forcing her to gasp in delight as they slowly enter her, stroking and stimulating her in ways she had forgotten possible. His soft kisses along her neckline and earlobes heighten the sensation, and she feels a growing surge trying to break free, fighting to tame the agitation threatening to rise again. His sharp fangs press deeper, so close to penetrating, so close to release.
More than anything she longs for the bite, for the deep marks left behind when he has taken her blood. She must touch those marks—they are the only proof this is real, the only proof she is real. He continues to tease and torture her by withholding what she craves most, bringing her just to the edge and then stopping. She is close to tears when he finally indulges her, sinking deeply into her vein, drawing her blood in great mouthfuls, savoring her release as much as his own. He continues drinking, unrelentingly, until she screams with pleasure and cries tears of relief. It is finally abating—the disquiet, the restlessness—making her whole again. He has restored her.
She bolts upright in her bed, breathless and shaken. In the darkened room, a small tear escapes when she recognizes the familiar sleeping form beside her. She sobs softly in anguish, knowing no bite marks will be there when she feels for them. She sobs softly in regret, knowing there are choices in life which cannot be undone.
Like a ghost, she rises and glides to the door—to walk in the moonlight, to ease the ever-growing restlessness within.