Passage #3 - Love You To Death

In her place, one hundred candles burning,
A salty sweat drips from her breasts,
Her hips move, and I can feel what they're saying, swaying …
They say the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, get …
Type O Negative, "Love You To Death"

For 26 years, he's refrained from stalking her within walking distance of her home. The two story house was also the previous residence of her mother and grandmother and, should she have discovered she was being stalked, she might have felt inclined to move.

But times have suddenly changed. She knows who he is, what he wants and how he'll get it. She should at least suspect that he would come to find her sooner than later.

He parks Nadine – a 1967 Chevy Impala – down the street from 714 Delaware Street, gets out and walks the rest of the way. He remembers thinking how absurd it had seemed for a vampire with so many supernatural abilities to perform a task as simple as driving, but when he saw the car for the first time, he knew he would never be without it. He named her after his first victim.

Flickering lights are visible in the lower level of Bella's home, which suggests to him she's lit candles – several, by the looks of it. Darkness disguises him as he creeps through the unkempt garden next to the window where most of the light is coming from. Peering inside, he knows instantly that this room is the one she rests in every night. The walls are appropriately painted in dreary scarlet, the marvelous canopy above the bed is also crimson, but a much lighter, more peaceful, shade, with silken drapes hanging from the four corners. The sleek fabric matches that of the blankets and sheets which cover the unmade bed where she lies.

As his eyes finally drift to Bella's body lying on top of the red, silk mess, he wonders for a moment if he isn't seeing this; if he isn't at home in his cold, windowless basement envisioning this whole scene. He reaches out and touches the window to feel the condensation on the pane and now he knows he's not dreaming. He's really here, and she's really there – stretched out on the bed, still completely clothed in a black leather corset, black jeans and black boots, but something he doesn't see every night is her own hand shoved down the front of her pants.

Nonplussed air flees his lungs and lands with a white shadow on the windowpane as he opens his body and mind to the thoughts, feelings and sensations which own Bella at this very moment. He's overcome with heat all over his body that is a welcomed change from his permanently cold blood; her thoughts are exclusively about him – what she wants him to do to her.

Closing his eyes, he can see – in flashes, only – exactly what her fantasies are. His glistening chest pressed firmly against her chest, his mouth sucking hard on her vulnerable neck. He's not sure if he's punctured the skin with his canines, but that's the least of his worries. In another flash, his head is between her legs – tasting her, enjoying her. Next, their places have switched and she's down on her knees in front of him. And then – sweet mercy­ – he's on top of her, buried within her saccharine core, thrusting unrelentingly into her just to hear her scream and feel her nails draw blood on his back.

His eyes unlatch when he senses that she's close, too close. Her fingers have accelerated their velocity and she thirsts to howl his name when she reaches climax, but she isn't educated in that area, and he knows this, though he would surrender his immortal life to hear her speak his name. Closing his eyes one last time, he whispers his Christian name, projecting the title through the window, through her bedroom and into her mind.

"Dean …" Her breath is so soft, so unwavering, that he's unsure of even hearing it; but he caught her lips moving, caught them pulling back from her teeth as she sighed exasperatedly.

This time he does not oppose the invitation to enter her room, and he's suddenly standing next to her bed, sniffing the assorted scents of lavender, vanilla, jasmine, rosemary, juniper and sex. He situates a knee onto the satin sheets, and her horrified eyes fly open. She hurriedly rips her hand from her pants, but he grasps her wrist mid-air, drawing her soaking, stiff fingers toward him and, in the process, lifting her from the bed. Once she is on her knees in front of him – cheeks flushed, breathing ragged, heart hammering – he slips the first two fingers into his awaiting mouth, as his eyes hold hers in a locked showdown.

She pants, watching his eyes and lips hungrily as he sucks hard on her fingers, curling his tongue around the tips, savoring the flavor of her excitement and remnants of her orgasm.

"I hate you," she breathes meaningfully, her eyes boring into his.

He raises his eyebrows inquisitively, but the suction around her fingers never decreases.

"I hate the way you look at me," she continues disgustedly, "And the way you talk to me. I hate the way you make me feel." Her free hand rises to rest on a broad shoulder as she moves her face forward. "I hate the way I'll watch the door, waiting for you." Her face and expression sadden ten fold, and he stops sucking if only for a moment. "I hate the fact that I don't think I can live without you."

A smirk morphs onto his lips – arrogant, knowing – and he brushes his fingers through her hair, tilting his head when she leans into the cold of his palm.

"You won't," he confirms her last declaration. "It won't be much longer before … I give you what you want, Bella."

"Dean …" Tears slide down her cheeks as her hand finds his face, but he takes her wrist into his hand and pushes it away.

"Soon."

And then he's gone, and she's alone.