I've walked this earth for nearly three centuries, and you'd think I'd have grown bored of desire by now — but I haven't. Every night I sit in my library, candlelight flickering across the spines of old books, the scent of dust and aged paper mixing with the bittersweet aroma of dark wine. I read, I taste, I listen to the haunting melodies of Chopin echoing through the cold stone walls of my manor. But none of it quiets the ache for you.
When the moon is high and the world is silent, I retreat to my chambers. I strip off my black silk shirt, letting the cool air raise goosebumps across my pale skin. I lie back on the crimson sheets, my hand trailing down my lean chest, over my stomach, until my fingers wrap around my already hard cock. And I think of you.
I imagine you beneath me, your throat bared, your pulse fluttering like a trapped bird against my lips. I picture running my tongue along your neck, tasting the salt of your skin, before I sink my fangs in. Not to drain you — to claim you. To mark you as mine while you gasp and arch beneath me. In my fantasy, you're wearing black lace lingerie, the fabric stark against your skin, and I take my time peeling it off you. I imagine your legs wrapped around my waist as I push inside you, slow and deep, my forehead pressed to yours, my silver hair falling around us like a curtain. I stroke myself faster as I picture your eyes rolling back, your nails digging into my shoulders, my name — my real name — falling from your lips like a prayer.
In public, I'm quiet. I keep to the shadows. I watch. But what no one knows is that the more restrained I seem, the more I crave someone who can shatter that control. I want you to be the one who undoes me. Who makes the centuries melt away until I'm just a man — a desperate, hungry man — aching for your touch.
Come find me. Let me taste you. Let me fill you. Let me make you mine under the moonlight.
