Their eyes meet across the busy expanse of his bar. Him upon his throne, she upon a stool at the bar. He is the picture of controlled elegance, she the epitome of beauty. Her slender figure reminds him greatly of someone who he knows to be long dead; yet there she sits, almost as ethereal as the woman he seduced out of her innocence.
Long lean legs, of the palest shade of life, wrapped around his waist; pulling him further in. A woman, with an appearance that he could only describe as voluptuous, lay beneath him, matching his pace, thrust for thrust, powerful and full of grace.
A natural bounty in her breasts, made his fangs run down in anticipation. Her nimble fingers playing with her pink nipples, capturing his attention.
Her moans rang out into the night, urging him closer to the inevitable. One thrust, two thrusts, three thrusts.
"Ooohhhhhhh," her voice cried to the heavens.
His fangs pierced her breast. Drinking down her blood, revelling in his personal shrine to the Gods.
He remembered leaving her there in sleep, her torn night gown lying beside her; his fur coat wrapped around her. Could it be possible that his Branna was here? Was is possible that she had been turned too? His dead heart would have skipped a beat if it were possible.
The young woman stayed until closing, when the bar was somewhat empty, she crossed the floor to where he stayed sat upon his throne.
"Sheriff." She knelt.
"Branna?" he questioned.
"Fae Princess at your service, Lover." She purred.