(no subject)
Delilah sat in the back of the limo with Bill, silent, the tears that had been wanting to come but were forced back finally breaking free.
He watched her silently, giving her a moment. Each silent shuddering sob pulling at him, tearing down the resolve of his decision to keep the distance between them formal until their lives were less 'complicated.'
Bill glanced at the dark case, occupying the unused seat across from him, trying to focus, failing. He slid across the seat closer to her, encircling her with a massive arm. "It will be allrigh' love." It wasn't the right thing to say, there were no right words. Somewhere a beloved Sire was dust spinning in the wind. All he could think of was her beside him, the strange coldness of her skin, somehow compelling to him. His brain focusing again and again, against his will, on what he wanted, what he'd refused to allow himself to focus on for nights.
She curled up against him, pulling herself up and into his lap, pressing her face into him, holding onto him desperately, and still crying silently.
He stroked her hair, unsure of whether he'd given his hand permission to act, it simply did. It wasn't a comforting gesture, though it appeared as one. It was possessive.
He couldn't focus on the night's events. VII, the murder, the pain he'd seen. The effort it took to drag himself across the room to offer a small piece of selfless and effortless advice to the broken Crone who stood staring at his Sire's ash covered bracelet. The faux pas with Miguel, showing the effrontery to refer to his brood mate by name, then the harsh explanation of his behavior that stunned a group of Elders into an expectant and amused silence. It was unimportant.
It all boiled down to a microcosm of his own needs, his desire, his Liege. It wouldn't stop, and he didn't want it to. That small voice of reserve was drowning in months of repressed desires that welled to the surface. He pressed his cheek to her head and breathed in the scent of her hair.
It should have all been disturbing, off putting. She was Nosferatu, and yet even her peculiar eyes drew him closer. The aura that made men and even women shudder as she slipped passed them silently made her that much more desirable. It was becoming obsession.
Her hands wrapped around him, making her cling to him. She still cried silently, but holding to him wasn't out of desperation or even need; it seemed to go beyond that. Everything from the event washed over her, and she let it this time. Being so close to him was . . . where she was supposed to be. She shuddered against him when he touched her hair.
He forced the smile of contentment from his face. Lifting her chin he looked into the alien eyes that drew him to her. "Wha' do we do love?" Looked at her, taking her in, his hands sliding along her sides now, a hug, a touch, becoming impossible to hide as concern. Did his eyes show what his mind raced to?
"Take me to the hotel. I don't think I can maintain a stiff upper anymore." She stared up and into his eyes. She shuddered again, after everything, why is he the only thing I see?
He nodded, arms enfolding her tightly again, clinging, gripping. His mind encompassing her small frame, imagining, making it his already. He had never been anything less than a gentleman, and yet he could envision every inch of her. He shuddered, it was anticipation, that realization scared and thrilled him.
Turning to the cabbie, he gave the intersection. The cab slipped through the streets, sparkling with rain. The headlamps making each swerve and turn of the vehicle an explosion of light and color.
When the cabbie finally pulled up to the hotel, Delilah allowed Bill to lead her back up to the room, her head covered in the sari and her eyes cast down. To anyone who looked at her, she was just another guest of New York City who'd had too much that night.
And they were right. Delilah had had more than she could handle.
When they were in the room, she just stood there, not knowing what to do. For a moment, her head just shut down, she was displaced, not in the hotel room, somewhere and nowhere else; and then the reset button was pressed and she looked out the window, wiping the blood from her eyes, returning to herself, and the man she couldn't tear herself from behind her.
Bill watched her for a moment, quiet, letting her collect herself. He walked to the suite bar and opened a bottle of whiskey. Jameson's. Raw Irish stuff that was best served over ice or emotional exhaustion.
He poured a pair of glasses, and slipping up behind her, his arm encircling her to offer the drink.
She took it gratefully, "thank you, Bill," and sipped as she pressed back against him. Her voice was heavy, sultry, raw as she closed her eyes. She wanted to speak, but couldn't. When she opened her mouth, all that came out was a small, low, desperate moan.
The response was electric; his body responding instinctively to hers. Leaning down to her, he took in the now familiar scents of her hair and skin. Somewhere deep within, his conscience screamed, and it manifested in a simple question:
"I'd like t' stay wif ya ..."
It wasn't a question; it was never a question, they just hadn't figured it out yet. He knew his room was steps away, hers steps in the other direction; and he'd stay regardless, but the offer hung in the air. It was a token, as the words slipped from his lips and trailed off, he knew it; he felt its weakness. The conviction of his moral compass paled under the undeniable want he felt.
"I want you to stay, Bill." Her hand had a will of it's own as it snaked up around his neck. She knew that she shouldn't, knew that he would only think of her as he thought of all the other women in the end, but she hadn't the will or the desire to step from him. She'd felt need before, felt want before, but never like this. She knew to the deepest core of her flesh and being that the two of them were locked together, no going back, nothing to go back to, but she couldn't know why.
The touch of her hand was alive. The night washed away in a flood of emotion, bursting the dams he had worked so hard to build. He leaned down, almost doubling, tasting the skin of her neck for the first time. The beast stirred and he kicked it, hard. Two animal instincts fighting; a man's and a monster's. This moment, this flesh was his, and the man would not share the moment with the monster.
He turned her easily, kissing her and lifting her from the floor effortlessly into his arms.
She dropped her drink when she felt his lips on her flesh and gripped his neck. The shawl fell from her as he turned and lifted her. Between his kisses, which she returned with a passion that frightened her, she protested; but only slightly.
"Please don't think me like them . . . " she whispered into his skin.
He heard her protest and laughed gruffly, "love, 'ere is nuffing like you."
He kissed her before she could misinterpret the phrase. He couldn't speak well, he knew this; but he knew another way to express what he was feeling for her.
She shuddered at his words, the last of her walls built up over the course of the evening and the last few months crumbling as she wrapped her legs around him. If there was to be consequences, she accepted them no matter what they were. She had no more arguments as she held to him desperately, not even watching or caring where he took her.
He watched her silently, giving her a moment. Each silent shuddering sob pulling at him, tearing down the resolve of his decision to keep the distance between them formal until their lives were less 'complicated.'
Bill glanced at the dark case, occupying the unused seat across from him, trying to focus, failing. He slid across the seat closer to her, encircling her with a massive arm. "It will be allrigh' love." It wasn't the right thing to say, there were no right words. Somewhere a beloved Sire was dust spinning in the wind. All he could think of was her beside him, the strange coldness of her skin, somehow compelling to him. His brain focusing again and again, against his will, on what he wanted, what he'd refused to allow himself to focus on for nights.
She curled up against him, pulling herself up and into his lap, pressing her face into him, holding onto him desperately, and still crying silently.
He stroked her hair, unsure of whether he'd given his hand permission to act, it simply did. It wasn't a comforting gesture, though it appeared as one. It was possessive.
He couldn't focus on the night's events. VII, the murder, the pain he'd seen. The effort it took to drag himself across the room to offer a small piece of selfless and effortless advice to the broken Crone who stood staring at his Sire's ash covered bracelet. The faux pas with Miguel, showing the effrontery to refer to his brood mate by name, then the harsh explanation of his behavior that stunned a group of Elders into an expectant and amused silence. It was unimportant.
It all boiled down to a microcosm of his own needs, his desire, his Liege. It wouldn't stop, and he didn't want it to. That small voice of reserve was drowning in months of repressed desires that welled to the surface. He pressed his cheek to her head and breathed in the scent of her hair.
It should have all been disturbing, off putting. She was Nosferatu, and yet even her peculiar eyes drew him closer. The aura that made men and even women shudder as she slipped passed them silently made her that much more desirable. It was becoming obsession.
Her hands wrapped around him, making her cling to him. She still cried silently, but holding to him wasn't out of desperation or even need; it seemed to go beyond that. Everything from the event washed over her, and she let it this time. Being so close to him was . . . where she was supposed to be. She shuddered against him when he touched her hair.
He forced the smile of contentment from his face. Lifting her chin he looked into the alien eyes that drew him to her. "Wha' do we do love?" Looked at her, taking her in, his hands sliding along her sides now, a hug, a touch, becoming impossible to hide as concern. Did his eyes show what his mind raced to?
"Take me to the hotel. I don't think I can maintain a stiff upper anymore." She stared up and into his eyes. She shuddered again, after everything, why is he the only thing I see?
He nodded, arms enfolding her tightly again, clinging, gripping. His mind encompassing her small frame, imagining, making it his already. He had never been anything less than a gentleman, and yet he could envision every inch of her. He shuddered, it was anticipation, that realization scared and thrilled him.
Turning to the cabbie, he gave the intersection. The cab slipped through the streets, sparkling with rain. The headlamps making each swerve and turn of the vehicle an explosion of light and color.
When the cabbie finally pulled up to the hotel, Delilah allowed Bill to lead her back up to the room, her head covered in the sari and her eyes cast down. To anyone who looked at her, she was just another guest of New York City who'd had too much that night.
And they were right. Delilah had had more than she could handle.
When they were in the room, she just stood there, not knowing what to do. For a moment, her head just shut down, she was displaced, not in the hotel room, somewhere and nowhere else; and then the reset button was pressed and she looked out the window, wiping the blood from her eyes, returning to herself, and the man she couldn't tear herself from behind her.
Bill watched her for a moment, quiet, letting her collect herself. He walked to the suite bar and opened a bottle of whiskey. Jameson's. Raw Irish stuff that was best served over ice or emotional exhaustion.
He poured a pair of glasses, and slipping up behind her, his arm encircling her to offer the drink.
She took it gratefully, "thank you, Bill," and sipped as she pressed back against him. Her voice was heavy, sultry, raw as she closed her eyes. She wanted to speak, but couldn't. When she opened her mouth, all that came out was a small, low, desperate moan.
The response was electric; his body responding instinctively to hers. Leaning down to her, he took in the now familiar scents of her hair and skin. Somewhere deep within, his conscience screamed, and it manifested in a simple question:
"I'd like t' stay wif ya ..."
It wasn't a question; it was never a question, they just hadn't figured it out yet. He knew his room was steps away, hers steps in the other direction; and he'd stay regardless, but the offer hung in the air. It was a token, as the words slipped from his lips and trailed off, he knew it; he felt its weakness. The conviction of his moral compass paled under the undeniable want he felt.
"I want you to stay, Bill." Her hand had a will of it's own as it snaked up around his neck. She knew that she shouldn't, knew that he would only think of her as he thought of all the other women in the end, but she hadn't the will or the desire to step from him. She'd felt need before, felt want before, but never like this. She knew to the deepest core of her flesh and being that the two of them were locked together, no going back, nothing to go back to, but she couldn't know why.
The touch of her hand was alive. The night washed away in a flood of emotion, bursting the dams he had worked so hard to build. He leaned down, almost doubling, tasting the skin of her neck for the first time. The beast stirred and he kicked it, hard. Two animal instincts fighting; a man's and a monster's. This moment, this flesh was his, and the man would not share the moment with the monster.
He turned her easily, kissing her and lifting her from the floor effortlessly into his arms.
She dropped her drink when she felt his lips on her flesh and gripped his neck. The shawl fell from her as he turned and lifted her. Between his kisses, which she returned with a passion that frightened her, she protested; but only slightly.
"Please don't think me like them . . . " she whispered into his skin.
He heard her protest and laughed gruffly, "love, 'ere is nuffing like you."
He kissed her before she could misinterpret the phrase. He couldn't speak well, he knew this; but he knew another way to express what he was feeling for her.
She shuddered at his words, the last of her walls built up over the course of the evening and the last few months crumbling as she wrapped her legs around him. If there was to be consequences, she accepted them no matter what they were. She had no more arguments as she held to him desperately, not even watching or caring where he took her.