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The fog swirled thick and slow around the ancient walls of Gaunt Manor, as if the night itself wanted to conceal the sins brewing within its walls. That forgotten mansion, lost on the outskirts of a town where rumors spread faster than the autumn wind, had become the only place in the world still capable of making something stir inside Sebastian Sallow’s dead chest.
Ominis Gaunt.
Two months. Sixty consecutive nights in which Sebastian returned like an addict, positioning himself in the shadows of the main bedroom balcony, invisible to the world, his red eyes burning with pure hunger as he devoured every movement of the young man on the other side of the glass. They had never exchanged a single word, not even a casual brush in the cobblestone streets, and yet Sebastian felt that he already belonged to him.
He knew his routines as if he had written them himself in his immortal mind: the exact moment Ominis entered as the sun fell, the whisper of clothes sliding off his body, the almost ritualistic way he slipped into that white, fine-fabric pajama that clung to his skin with cruel innocence. That garment was torture. So light, so treacherous, it seemed made exclusively to drive a vampire insane.
Ominis was pure temptation wrapped in porcelain that set Sebastian’s thirst ablaze. His skin was perfect, fine and delicate, blushing with an ease that obsessed him. The slightest temperature change and that pink flush would appear on his cheeks, his neck, the inside of his thighs… areas Sebastian imagined biting, licking, marking with his fangs over and over again.
Every night was the same sweet agony.
Ominis would sit before the fire with his legs crossed, his long, pale fingers tracing the Braille pages with a slowness that seemed deliberate, his head slightly tilted in a way that exposed the long, vulnerable curve of his neck. Sebastian swallowed dryly, imagining the hot pulse beating just beneath that skin.
Do you know what you do to me, damn you?
Ominis would stretch his arms above his head with a soft sigh, arching his back almost unconsciously, and the pajama fabric would tighten over his slender torso, clearly outlining his pink, erect nipples responding to the heat of the fire.
It was as if Ominis provoked him on purpose, even though Sebastian knew —or wanted to believe— that wasn’t the case. Still, the doubt gnawed at him and aroused him in equal measure.
Some nights he would get up to make himself a cup of tea. He moved around the room with that feline, silent grace that drove Sebastian mad. The fabric slid over his thighs with every step, rising dangerously, revealing more skin than any creature with fangs could resist. Sebastian swore he could smell him from there —the sweet, warm aroma of his blood flowing beneath that pale surface, calling to him, taunting him.
Just one drop, only one… and I’d be lost.
But he still hadn’t touched him. Every time the thirst threatened to overcome him, every time he imagined sinking his fangs into that soft flesh while Ominis writhed and gasped beneath him, something stopped him. The terror of breaking that untouched perfection, of ending the nightly dance that had him completely hooked. He wanted to possess him, yes. To sink his teeth into that soft flesh while Ominis twisted and moaned under his body, but the fear of destroying the only thing he had managed to admire in centuries kept him nailed in the shadows, consuming himself in an exquisite and delicious torture.
And then came the moment that destroyed him most.
Ominis would lie down on the bed, stretching languidly like a cat under the warm firelight. Arms above his head, back arched, the pajama shirt riding up his tender thighs and revealing soft, pink, impossibly tempting skin. Sebastian could see the edge of his hips, the gentle line where the curve of his ass began, and he felt his sanity slipping through his fingers.
If only I could enter… if I could run my tongue over that skin until you tremble… if I could spread your thighs and bury my face between them while I hear you beg…
He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His dead body burned. His erection throbbed painfully against his trousers, hard, heavy, demanding. And yet he remained there, rooted in the shadows, consuming himself in an exquisite and delicious torture he never wanted to end.
He was obsessed.