isolt marcello

I'm more alive than I've ever been

Her husband was correct in his assumption that she was not truly asking that he accompany her home- rather she was all but demanding that he bend himself to suit her will. She knew in the surest way that this darkly handsome man would not deny her, even had she not appeared so utterly beguiling and irresistibly tantalizing as she did on this night. This night had been perfectly choregraphed to woo him, to coil a beckoning finger at the erotic leviathan that had been suppressed, starved in the weeks following the untimely death of their daughter. They had, both of them, turned a cold shoulder to the lustful urges that churned about in the darkest places within them; grief presenting itself as a most powerful thing, indeed. Tonight, however, Isolt fully intended to reacquaint herself with her mate's body in every way that he would allow her. "Good," she whispers to him, fingers coiling delicately around his as she leads him through the dwindling throng of fellow night folk making their exit.

The journey back to their home seemed to last an eternity, the clandestine sexual tension that sizzled betwixt them a tangible, stinging thing. Few words passed between them though they were hardly required, the majority of what needed to be relayed passing as unspoken signals captured by each vampire in turn. Isolt offers her husband a coy simper, amused by his absolute naivete for exactly what awaited him. Tonight the dance was hers to lead until such a time as she was willing to relinquish the proverbial reins to her partner, to make herself pliant in his hands.

The redheaded temptress leads her mate by the hand through the foyer of their home, the scene of a harrowing exchange between the two mere weeks ago and yet on this night all of the anguish has fled into the dark corners of the hall. Tonight was for lust instead of sadness, love instead of fear. Isolt remains silent as she leads him into the vast den where a perfectly appointed nest of luxurious duvets and pillows awaits the pair, illuminated solely by the soft halo of the roaring fire crackling a soothing lullaby within the hearth. She does not, however, coax her husband into the goose down embrace of the duvets, instead does she stop him in front of an over-stuffed armchair. She looks up at him through cerulean eyes, her teeth pressing once more into the velvety pillow of her bottom lip before she once again coils her digits into the cotton of his shirt, pulling him towards her to erase what little distance remained between them. She rises again to meet him, her chest pressing lightly against him as her lips brush against his in a manner that is naught but excruciatingly seductive and painfully brief. This is the closest she has ventured to kissing her husband the entire evening, and yet still she does not indulge herself. Instead, offering him yet another teasing grin, Isolt presses her hand firmly into the broad expanse of Damon's chest and pushes him down into the armchair's waiting embrace before retreating a few paces.

Without a word Isolt's hands travel to the silken straps of her dress, coaxing one strap to cascade down the supple slope of her shoulder, unveiling the luscious fullness of a single breast, the rosy nipple already taut. She eyes her husband for a long moment, perhaps craving his reaction before allowing the remaining strap to fall in the same painfully slow manner. Isolt moves ever so slowly, wanting her lover to gaze upon this veritable feast she offers him without actually allowing him to partake... yet. Perhaps she is cruel for teasing him in this manner, and yet tonight it appears that she either cannot or will not deny herself the guilty pleasure of parading before him in this elegantly powerful way. And so she continues, bending at the waist to rid herself of the remaining constraints of her garment, the black fabric sliding easily down her slender legs to pool at her feet. She stands before him in nothing more than an intricately lacy black thong that hardly succeeds in covering any significant portion of her anatomy before slowly closing the distance which separates her from her seated audience. There she remains, the deep blue of her eyes as she gazes upon him portraying that the next move is entirely his own.