In the hushed stillness of the night, a lone owl hooted in the distance. Branches from hundred-year-old oaks swayed and bent, their leaves rustling against a cold breeze from the north. Fallen and dried leaves on the ground crunched against the pad of a rabbit's foot. On a pond, just a meter from the back of the mansion, a frog eagerly stuck his tongue out and caught a fly.

Moonlight crawled along the grounds of the manor, slithering over, trees, branches, vines, and walls. 

Then the locks on the window of Monique's room clicked, their metallic sound breaking the stillness of the room. The white curtain, billowing gently in the breeze, responded to the disturbance, its fabric coming alive with a soft rustle. Each fold and pleat danced in synchrony as if whispering secrets only the wind could understand.

And then, as if summoned by the wind, a presence materialized. He stood behind the swaying curtain, an enigmatic figure bathed in an ethereal glow. His features, reminiscent of a forgotten dream.

His eyes, deep and alluring, pools of darkness that seemed to hold the secrets of countless lifetimes scanned the room. Like twin orbs of obsidian, they glistened with a profound intensity as they finally rested upon a queen-sized bed. His long, flowing black hair cascading around his face and shoulders, framing his handsome features, swayed.

Fixing his gaze upon Monique, who lay serenely on the bed, he became transfixed by her slumbering form. The woman tossed and turned. She looked restless, yet in deep sleep. The sun had set and she had been in slumber for fifteen hours.

He wanted their first meeting to be cordial. If possible. But he couldn't wait.

With measured steps, he approached her, his movements graceful and deliberate. Each footfall was imbued with a sense of reverence as if he was stepping into a sacred space. His eyes never wavered from her sleeping figure, as if he was captivated by the very essence of her being.

And as he drew nearer, his face adorned with a mixture of fascination, he couldn't help but wonder why this woman felt like a sanctuary for a connection that transcended the realms of the tangible. A paradise. A perfect dwelling for a drowning man. No Van Welch had ever commanded attention from him this much. Not to mention, given his surroundings' brightness and color that he thought was not possible.

He sat beside her, his form ethereal and weightless, causing no indentation on the cushion beneath him. A pained expression immediately marred his otherwise handsome face, reflecting the agony of his intangibility.

He gazed at her intensely, and if he could even manage one, he would have gasped. Rogue of pure crimson painted her cheekbones and lips naturally. He could tell. They weren't artificial like those that colored the previous women who once laid on this very bed.

Fascinating, he thought. A compelling allure for such a desperate reprobate as he was.

Though he knew it was futile, he extended his hand with hesitant determination, reaching out to touch her cheek. At first, his movement was uncertain, as if he questioned the validity of his actions. But gradually, he summoned the courage to let his fingers graze her delicate skin, only to find emptiness. For he; a being of the ethereal realm, could not truly make contact with the tangible world.

Yet, despite the impossibility, he allowed his hand to linger, gently tracing the contours of her face. His fingertips traversed the bridge of her nose, caressed her cheek, and finally came to rest upon her lips.

Her lips. What an embodiment of beauty and temptation, they held a magnetic charm even in her slumber.
Their shape was exquisitely defined, and delicately curved along the outer edges. The upper lip possessed a subtle thinness, perfectly balanced with the fuller lower lip, creating a harmonious and enchanting symmetry. It was a sight that effortlessly burned something inside him.

No, it wasn't just a burn. It was more like an electric shock, sparkling, slithering, painfully sweet, and warm.

Warm. He felt warm.

"Bring me life," he whispered.

He knew he shouldn't, it was pointless. But still, he bent down and grazed her lips with his. As expected, he felt nothing. His lips merely went past her.

He wanted to cry.

Desperately, he ran his fingers through her hair. The result was the same. 

He touched her neck, then let his fingers slide down, down. Lower toward her chest.

He wanted to knead her twin mounds. But the gift of touch eluded him.

He swallowed. Imaginary saliva, pooled inside his mouth. Yes, he could pretend.

He could pretend.

His hand trailed down lower toward her abdomen, fingers penetrating skin, muscles, and bones.

Nothing. Nothing.

Pain.

Oh, how cruel they had been to him. To suffer this fate. This longing.

His hand went down further, toward her nether regions. He wanted something. He wanted more than what he used to have.

More.

More.

He wouldn't stand for this anymore.

He would do something. Something more.

He closed his eyes and bent down. Head now parallel to her hips.

He leaned closer.

Bent further.

He could smell her scent.

Wait, he could smell her? Was she...

Her eyes snapped open.

***

As Monique slowly emerged from the depths of her slumber, a lingering haze of longing clung to her senses.
Immediately, a flush of warmth suffused her cheeks, a delicate rosy hue that mirrored the embers of desire awakened within her.

He recoiled when her eyes snapped open, he thought she would see him, but she did not.  As she blinked, he couldn't help but marvel at how soft her gaze was and how verdant her eyes were. He had never met a Van Welch with green eyes. They all possessed a deep, cold coal.

As she lay there, her body still humming with the echoes of pleasure, she couldn't believe she had, her fingers instinctively sought to retrace the ethereal path of feather-like touches that had graced her skin in slumber. Moaning as she did so.

His eyes turned wide as saucers. If he could blush, oh he would have at that time. Had she felt him? This early on the journey? Emboldened, he leaned close to her again, just an inch away, hoping she would feel something, a breath or perhaps a tingling of some sort.

Hot. She felt hot. Every part of her was burning. It felt like small bolts of electricity pricking her skin at every angle at the same time. Painful yet sweet. With a soft sigh, her hands moved on their own and continued to seek solace upon her cheek. Her face tingled with a lingering warmth as the pad of her thumb delicately brushed against it, tracing a sensual path from an unexplainable memory. With deliberate slowness, she allowed her fingers to cascade down the curve of her jaw, savoring the electrifying sensation that coursed through her.

Then guided by an instinctual desire, she tilted her head slightly, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. A gasp escaped her parted lips as a phantom warmth, like a flickering flame, danced across her skin, leaving a trail of tantalizing heat in its wake.

The sensations enveloped her, igniting a primal fire within. Her senses heightened, she could almost feel the brush of invisible lips, the gentle caress of a lover's touch. Every nerve in her body came alive, yearning for more. So she continued to trace circles on her skin, fingers dancing around her cheek, lips jaw, and neck.

Her breath, soon, came in shallow gasps. Her lips parted in a mixture of shame and longing. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and filled with a smoldering desire, gazed at the ceiling. This isn't right, she thought to herself. With difficulty, she stopped her hand from their dance and trapped them behind her back. However, the warmth and the lingering touches refused to cease. She stretched and coiled her body on the bed, all the while keeping her hands trapped behind her back. But it was futile.

He couldn't explain the sensations that coursed through his body. He felt alive. Watching her every movement was like a flare that seared the barrier between them, burning him in the sweetest way possible. An insatiable feeling rose within. It was something primal. Something long forgotten. Something he intentionally buried. Something dangerous. A need that he feared could never be sated, unless...

Frustrated, Monique scanned the room, seeking an outlet for the intoxicating energy that coursed through her veins.

A rustle of fabric caught her attention. She glanced to her right. Waft was seeping in from her window, forcing the curtains to dance against the breeze. The wind offered her reprieve.

With deliberate movements, she rose from her bed, her body moving with a languid grace that mirrored the lingering echoes of her dream. The silken fabric of her yellow dress caressed her skin as she languidly strode forward, heightening her awareness of every delicate sensation that persisted to linger upon her flesh.

He leered back as she started to rise from the bed, then shifted his position and sat at the edge. He kept his eyes on her, following her line of sight, trying to comprehend what she was about to do. He needed to see more.

Her face twisted and frowned one minute, then relaxed and held a sense of belonging the next. He couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy as he watched her. He had been trapped in this mansion for centuries, watching as generations of Van Welches came and went. They offered comfort and momentary reprieve. But this woman was different. There was something about her that made him want more.

As he sat there, watching her, that feeling of wanting engulfed him. He wondered what it would be like to truly touch her, to truly feel her warmth against his skin. To do things to her and have her respond with the same fervor she had shown now. With only those that lingered, she melted, he thought. What would she be like had it been in the now, he mused further.

Oh, no. Dangerous territory, he chided himself mentally. But her allure was a symphony that lulled him to follow her as she made her way toward the window.

He stood a meter from her. Eyes gazing, enthralled.

Standing by the window, Monique took a drag of breath, a desperate attempt to quench the smoldering fire that still lingered within her. The unrelenting desire wouldn't budge, yearning for release. She sought solace in a breeze that wafted by her. Tilting her head, she exposed her neck, inviting the gentle breeze to caress her heated skin, hoping it would offer respite.

She swallowed, gasped, and prayed that whatever she felt would cave against the chilly air.

In magnanimity to her plea, her locks of hair were tossed back in wild disarray as a sudden, strong gust of wind swept by. The sheer force of it caused her body to sway, her movements fluid and graceful, akin to a cat. Drawn by an insatiable craving, she leaned closer to the window, her fingertips grazing the cool glass, seeking any semblance of relief.

But it wasn't enough.

The uncontrollable longing, made her furiously push the window open wider, the hinges creaking in protest. Driven by frustration, she leaned over, her body precariously balanced, half of her frame hanging out into the open air. The rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins, heightening her senses, as she desperately sought the kiss of the cold breeze to extinguish the fiery passion that consumed her.

But the breeze failed her immensely.

A sense of frustration and hunger washed over her face, threatening to overwhelm her. Tears welled up in her eyes, mirroring the unfulfilled desires that tugged at her soul. Why was she plagued by this insatiable yearning? What was it that caused this? She eluded anything close to sexual thoughts for the longest of time, fearing it would drive her to accept any man her parents might present to her. Why now?

Watching her struggle was blissful. It was wrong, but he couldn't control the darkness within him. He was sorry but happy. This dichotomy was asphyxiating. He loved this. Watching her drown in desire, a smile tugged at his lips. He had simulated the previous Van Wlech women fondly before, but never this much. He supposed, her effect on him was parallel to his effect on her. A balance that not once graced the walls of the manor. She could very well be the zenith he needed to bring forth his wish, his key against centuries of deprivation and heartache. But he was also absolutely aware, cognizant of his looming anguish in the heart of hell for even daring to excogitate her to fall into this life. But that was her fate. He couldn't be damned for something that was destined, right?

A heavy sigh escaped her parted lips, carrying with it a mixture of resignation. Then in the bosom of the night, amid the rustling of the tree leaves, and the innocent breeze that had done its ultimate best to ease her, her resolve manifested itself when she closed her eyes, lifted her hand, cupped one of her soft mounds and started to knead it. Instantly, her mouth fell agape and her face twisted in ways it never did before. It felt good. However, it wasn't enough. Urgently, she slid the strap of her dress and undergarment from her shoulder, exposing her flesh in the moonlight and midnight air.

She gasped as the chilly wind kissed her aching skin. Lost in her desire, she continued to touch her peaks; now hard and swollen.

It felt euphoric. But, a sound from outside broke her movement.

She opened her eyes and immediately her reflection against the glass of the window; hooded eyes, flushed cheeks, and mouth agape, mocked her for what was doing to herself. Her hair was also in disarray, like that of her personal maid whenever the woman's lover spent the night. Shame engulfed her, but it didn't hit home. It crumbled as her longing came crashing like a wave that scrubbed it away. Urgently she began to massage her mounds once more, fingers tracing her pink peaks, pinching, kneading followed by a loud moan that unabashedly escaped from her window, which she hoped would be carried somewhere far, to a place ignorant of her voice.

Her crusade upon her flesh made him step back, not because it scared him, but because he lost balance. Yes, his ethereal form lost balance, like he was hit by something imperceptible, but solid at the same time, enough to touch him. When a loud moan escaped Monique's lips he lost it. It felt like an invisible hand pulled him from his spot, forcing him to her. He hadn't done a thing like this before, not this early in their relationship, but his logic was lost amid her moans.

He sidestepped and inched closer to her.

She moaned louder.

He moved Closer.

Closer still.

Too close.

Too close that half of him was intertwined with her physical form. It felt like he was in her, melding his ethereal form in her physicality.  Instantly he was hit with the burning desire that coursed within her core, the yearning she felt was unbearable even to him. However, the bliss and relief as she twisted her pink peaks, as she kneaded her mountain of flesh, and the rocking of her body back and forth toppled them in an instant.

Monique shivered as he body responded shockingly to her movements. Her chest rose as her back arched, meeting her own hands upon her breast.

Just when she thought she couldn't feel any hotter, a new flare consumed her,  That flare started subtly at first, then it increased and increased some more until she moaned, and regardless of the consequences, she let her other hand drift down between her thighs, forcing an action she not once —even her dream — would have dared done. But that pearl of her which she barely touched during her showers ached so much, she had to rub it. So she did. She explored her own folds and aching crevice without restraint or inhibitions. Her neither region felt swollen, pulsating, and almost shaking. The need was beyond reprieve, but she continued to rub, until finally, she moaned a final time as something liquid dripped from her core, dampening her underwear. There was too much of it, a few drops trickled down her legs.

She knew what it was. But the shame she expected to come didn't come. She only felt, bliss. Slowly she pulled the strings of her dress back to her shoulder and repositioned her stretched underwear. Eyes lidded, mouth gasping, body covered with rivulets of sweat, and legs shaking, she laboriously made her way back to her bed. She dropped down and instantly she drifted back to sleep.

He remained rooted by the window even as she moved away and made her way to the bed. His mind was filled with nothing but the sensations she left. Her desire, her movements, her moans, her the scent. A liquid on the floor that dripped from her sent his mod spiraling. This woman, he thought as he glanced at the bed, would be his absolution and castigation toward a life he couldn't perceive. She was a contradiction. A powerful emblem of the Van Welch. "Perhaps," he murmured. After all these years, she was the moment, the prize that was promised to him. The payment for a crime from a crime.

He left the window and once more sat beside her slumbering form. Leaning down he whispered, "You scare me, Monique Van Welch, but you are the breath that would animate my existence.

He glanced at the window. Everything was now in motion.

However, now he had to choose. Move forth with the original plan or forge a path to his newfound resolve?