His tongue rasps on her throat, and finds the soft juncture between her neck and shoulder. She sighs deeply and runs her nails down his back. Wrapping her legs tightly around his waist, she nuzzles his ear; he licks and kisses more on her neck, running his sharp teeth over her vein.
She knows what he wants.
But she won't let him have it, not yet.
She pulls his mouth back to her, kissing him passionately, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and nibbling on it. He groans, and she swallows it down and rubs her warm wetness against his rock hard shaft. It pulsates and she shudders, wanting nothing more than to strip him and let him bury himself into her, over and over again. She runs her fingers under his waistband, back and forth, until he's panting, hands frantic to undo his jeans.
She reaches behind and unsnaps her bra, and pulls it off as quickly as she can. She reaches under the short skirt she wore purposefully for him and pulls off the tiny thong. He's got his jeans off, and his manhood juts out, straining, slightly purple from desire, a throbbing center of need. The very tip glistens. She leans down and licks him, just enough to make him curse. He grabs her by her thighs and pulls her close to him, so the tip rubs against her slick folds.
She gasps, and arches her hips and glances up into his eyes.
Inhuman eyes stare back, golden, like the moon during the summer.
***
She wakes up, panting, hot, aching for something she's never had. The sheets are damp from the sweat cooling on her body. She sits up, flicking on the bedside lamp, and runs her fingers through her long blonde hair. Her shorts are damp between her legs, and she blushes at the embarrassing feeling of being excited. It was the fourth "wet" dream she had had this week. Each one had been more explicit, more exciting, more dangerous than the last. They had started out tame enough, the idea of this man, whoever he was, kissing her lips, caressing, gently and soft. The next night, the pair had gone further in her dream, his hands sliding inside of her bra to cup her small chest, and rub her nipples til she screamed. And so on and so forth, until they had almost consummated their burning desire this night.
Her mother had warned her about these dreams, the sendings, the unearthly desires they held. She had told her to block them, keep herself vigilant, to burn white candles, and anoint herself with rose oil and lavender, and to whisper the words only her coven knew to repel those who would send these things. But her curiosity got the best of her, as was usual. She had always been curious.
The shadows shifted in the dark beyond the light of her lamp. She shuddered, her eyes closing halfway, and she uttered words so soft, no one would be able to hear them. She felt the magic sing in her blood, and run over her skin, like armor prickling and weighing her down. Her mother stepped from the shadows, red glistening in her eyes. "What did I tell you!" She shrieked, her athame pointed at her youngest daughter. It burned blue, shimmering in the light of the lamp, the dagger a deadly weapon and also a tool used to direct a witches power.
"Aria, why do you never listen to me," she said, softer, letting her athame drop. She edged closer, and sat down on the side of her daughter's bed.
Aria saw for the first time just how old her mother was getting. Her green eyes were sunken into her skull, lines radiating from their edges. Her mouth was set in a firm line, and her cheeks sagged, drawing the corners down on her mouth. Her hair, which had once been a fiery red, was streaked with gray and white. Aria reached out and touched her shoulder. Her age rang off of her, like counting the lines on a tree stump to see how old it had been when it had been cut down. She was almost three hundred and seventy now. How had it happened? How had she become so old, when Aria felt she was never changing? She was barely twenty years old now, would she be like her mother and live for so long, seeing her loved one die, only days after her last daughter had been born?
"Now, I want you to set your protection circle, gel, and do it tight, then go back to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day, I can feel it in me old bones," her mother said, leaning forward and kissing her daughter's forehead. She stood, her athame sliding into her pocket, and she exited that way she had come, melting into the shadows.
Aria smiled at her mother's retreating figure, and rolled over on the bed, her eyes staring past the lamplight's glow. She could feel sleep prickling over her skin, making her feel tired and woozy. She started to weave the protection spell, her words mumbled and soft. With a tired hand, she flicked her light back off and fell back into her dreams.
***
Tristan groaned as she popped out of existence yet again. He had been so close, so close to claiming that which was rightfully his. He pulled his jeans back on slowly, wincing as the zipper grazed his still-tender erection. He left his shirt off, and sat back on the bed, low and white, letting his back hit it with a soft thump. He conjured a mirror above himself, and winced at his still golden eyes. Usually they were a deep blue, like the oceans on a stormy night, but when aroused he was unable to control their hue. His pallor stood out in stark contrast to his dark hair, long for a man, and his eyes wandered down his body, which was hardened with muscle. He didn't understand, being so attractive as he was, how she was able to leave the lust filled dreams he gave her.
She should never want to leave,
he thought silently, a growl ripping through his throat. His canines slid out, and he sighed, and tried to think of other things besides the feel of Aria's body pressing against his own, her slit heated with desire, and wet for him.
He had been so close!
He had kissed the vein on her neck, dragged his teeth against it, but hadn't bitten her, had waited until he was seated deep within her virgin depths. What a fool he was for waiting. The next time he had her in his arms, he would waste no time, and strip the little blonde haired minx, have his way with her, and make her his mate. He felt his fangs retract and his erection ebb away, as he continued to stare into the top of the white void he lived in. He could conjure anything here, could do what he pleased, could watch her, and learn everything about her. But it was his prison until she was his. And then, then he would kill the witch who had put him here when Aria had been born. "Laciela," he called out softly, his voice hoarse. Yes, the red haired woman would burn, slowly, for keeping Tristan away from his destined mate.
