Annie pretends not to know that I want her. That stupid bitch walking around with her smiles and soft skin and swan like neck just begging to be ripped-
No.
I lust silently after her, watching her with Eve, accepting her endless cups of tea and listening to her inane chatter.
Lord Harry would have seduced her into submission already, ensnared her long before now. A couple of centuries ago there would have been lingering glances at a ball, whispers to be introduced to the beautiful young woman with the delicate ringlets and perfect figure. Careful brushes whilst dancing, calculated sweet nothings on some moonlit terrace. Later, I would whisper pretty words into her pretty ear as I threaded even prettier trinkets into her pretty hair, or around her pretty neck. And then. Well then would come my piece de resistance. Declarations of loving to distraction, loving til the end of time, loving to the depths and breadths and heights that my soul can reach. And she would fall, and at the next ball there would be secret meetings in abandoned rooms filled with gasps and moans and sweating bodies as I took her slowly, gently, whilst the other humans danced.
And somehow, rumours would chase our beauteous, heavenly union. My lady would become a scarlet woman, a harlot, a wanton, brazen whore. And she would run to me, cast out and already as good as dead, looking for protection from her Lord Harry. And I would calm her, hold her, fuck her.
And then drain her dry.
But I'm not Lord Harry anymore. I'm Hal. Trembling and teetering constantly on the edge of sobriety. I can no longer seduce, just stare and stutter and snarl until I am left to wallow in how far I have fallen. Which is why I am at a loss when my door creaks open in the middle of the night and Annie slips into my bed. I understand even less when her hand slips under the covers and wraps itself round my cock as she presses hungry kisses along my neck. And all comprehension flies out of the window when with clenching hands and arched back she sinks down onto me and her hips begin to snap and roll in such a way that my head spins. It's been far too long and I soon lose control, thrusting hard and gasping like a virgin at how good and tight and hot she feels. Everything gets faster and harder and more until she freezes and moans loudly, possibly loud enough to wake Tom in the next room as she clenches and writhes above me, flushing prettily. I grasp her hips as I come and through the aching, breathless, white hot pleasure I dimly register how unusually human she feels.
I fall asleep with her warm body draped across my chest. Hours later I wake up hard and gasping, and take her until she shudders her climax with scratching hands and a silent scream and I bury my face into her neck and groan out my orgasm. We fuck sporadically throughout the night, until the lines blur between sleeping and waking and everything becomes eerie and dreamlike.
When I wake the next morning she's gone. I walk down to the kitchen where she's feeding a gurgling Eve and listening to Tom debating the case for a swimming pool, his "I put it to you" nonsense fading into insignificance as she glances at me in the doorway. Lingers. I pass by her and carefully brush a delicate curl. I sense her blush. She will come back to me tonight.