Is this the reason for the tension that's been building these many, many years? How did they both fail to notice? Neither of them are particularly inattentive. It baffles him... Or rather, it will baffle Iseul when he's back in his house, when all his guests have gone and he's alone to think on it. Right now? There's no thought in his head but being closer to Damian, kissing Damian, touching Damian, how very, very much he desires Damian.
They're hidden enough unless someone stumbles to the center of the hedge maze. Private enough for his hands to release the vampire's suit coat in favor of tugging at his shirt, to pull the hem free of being tucked and delve his hands beneath it. A moan bubbles up in his throat the instant his too-warm hands feel that cool skin. Iseul presses his palms to Damian's stomach, plays his fingers and slides them upward. More, more, more is all he wants. More of Damian, more of this vampire he's been locked in 'battle' with for centuries. More of the only being he perceives as an equal.
More of the only being who makes his blood burn in his veins. No lover, past or present, can set him ablaze like this. None of them can obliterate thought with nothing more than a kiss.
Iseul's hands push against Damian's chest as if he can shove him back any further with the tree behind him. He himself presses so close it's almost uncomfortable with his hands between them. Why, oh, why must they be clothed? Foul, odious garments keep them too far apart and he longs for more closeness. No, he needs. Needs it the way he needs sustenance and air. Needs it to live.
All too soon he finds he needs a breath again. His lips remain so close to Damian's they could share that sip of air if the vampire had any need of it. One hand slips free from under his vampire's shirt to lay a warm palm against his cheek. Tipping his head away just enough to peer at Damian without going cross-eyed, he stares at him through half-lidded eyes from under a thick fringe of dark lashes.
"Damian," he whispers. No, it's less than a whisper, barely more than breath in the shape of a name; a name spoken with all the reverence of a prayer meant only for the ears of some unknown god. Except in this case, the god is right before him and certain to hear. "Be mine. Mine like this garden, not to own, but to care for and tend..."
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They're hidden enough unless someone stumbles to the center of the hedge maze. Private enough for his hands to release the vampire's suit coat in favor of tugging at his shirt, to pull the hem free of being tucked and delve his hands beneath it. A moan bubbles up in his throat the instant his too-warm hands feel that cool skin. Iseul presses his palms to Damian's stomach, plays his fingers and slides them upward. More, more, more is all he wants. More of Damian, more of this vampire he's been locked in 'battle' with for centuries. More of the only being he perceives as an equal.
More of the only being who makes his blood burn in his veins. No lover, past or present, can set him ablaze like this. None of them can obliterate thought with nothing more than a kiss.
Iseul's hands push against Damian's chest as if he can shove him back any further with the tree behind him. He himself presses so close it's almost uncomfortable with his hands between them. Why, oh, why must they be clothed? Foul, odious garments keep them too far apart and he longs for more closeness. No, he needs. Needs it the way he needs sustenance and air. Needs it to live.
All too soon he finds he needs a breath again. His lips remain so close to Damian's they could share that sip of air if the vampire had any need of it. One hand slips free from under his vampire's shirt to lay a warm palm against his cheek. Tipping his head away just enough to peer at Damian without going cross-eyed, he stares at him through half-lidded eyes from under a thick fringe of dark lashes.
"Damian," he whispers. No, it's less than a whisper, barely more than breath in the shape of a name; a name spoken with all the reverence of a prayer meant only for the ears of some unknown god. Except in this case, the god is right before him and certain to hear. "Be mine. Mine like this garden, not to own, but to care for and tend..."