The idea of her alone in her bedchamber was a
temptation too far. He landed silently on the narrow
balcony, crouching to look in through the fine muslin
insect screen guarding the half-open sash window. She sat
at a walnut dressing table, her back and three-fold
reflection directly before him. He swept the fabric aside,
ducked through the gap and stepped into her chamber.
As she turned to look at him, her expression
curious not afeared, he captured her dark-eyed gaze with
the vampire’s iris-less stare.
“Remain calm, My Lady. There is no one here but
you, no reason to pause,” he murmured and settled on the
wide windowsill, lifting his jacket tails behind him as
though it were his box seat and the orchestra was warming
up.
Unwinding the twist in her waist, she straightened
in her seat towards the mirror and gently shook free the
dark, loosely pinned mound of fragrant hair. The sudden
intensity of scent washed over him and caressing the skin
of his cheeks, brushed his eyelids closed. Arriving earlier
would have witnessed that hair wet enough to drip… he
pictured a single drop of water running from her scalp,
down her cheek and slowing the imagined physics, he
watched it roll with tortuous disrespect to gravity down
the neck of her night gown.
Of course, he could have her wash, or at least wet
her hair again… and open the tiny pearl buttons as to best
display the effect.
92