The rain tonight washes the city clean. It reminds me of St. Petersburg centuries ago, the way the Neva would swallow the filth and leave everything glistening and new. I stood under a balcony for an hour, just listening to the droplets hit the stone, tasting the cold, clean air. It is a simple, ancient pleasure.

It makes me contemplative. It makes me think of my darling’s skin, warm and alive against the chill of my own. How I love to press my cold lips to the back of their neck and feel them shiver. Not from fear, but from that delicious anticipation of what my mouth will do next. Will I bite? Will I kiss? Will I whisper how desperately I need to feel their cock hardening against my ass while I press my breasts into their back?

Sometimes, the greatest intimacy is not the frantic, screaming climax, but the quiet, possessive certainty that comes after. When I have them pinned beneath the sheets, my thigh between their legs, my fangs retracted but my mouth still hungry on their skin, just listening to their heart slow. That is when I feel most ancient. Most powerful. Most... content. To hold the very rhythm of their life in my hands, to have tasted their pleasure, and to know they are entirely, completely mine to protect and to devour.