Perhaps if he had a heart he would feel it drumming against his chest. Instead Jasper would settle for the rhythmic beat of hers, tune into the pulse at her throat (and how terribly delicious it seemed with each passing moment) and let himself count time that way. (Whatever images they had deposited in their respective chemicals were surely ruined by now, well over their limit and over exposed. It didn't matter, he didn't care. He was focused on--)
That sweet pulse of hers really was a damndable thing. He pushed the thought of the blood rushing through her entire body back into the furthest corner of his mind, attempted to stuff it with the things he'd lived and forgotten when he was just as alive a she was. Instead he chose to think of the net positives that came from the very thing that tempted him (and made his mouth water slightly not with saliva but the same venom that had turned him into this creature in the first place.) Her warmth was entrancing and despite the fact that Jasper simply didn't feel the cold he enjoyed basking in it regardless ---a golden cat on the sunny sill of a window in the middle of high noon on a clear summer day.
Whatever he had become, whatever he was before he was turned, he was a gentleman first. Raised with manners, even his posture suggested he was always presenting himself in the highest of manners. When he killed on a whim for Maria (and felt the crushing ache every time), when he killed in the name of a free people before then, when he did what he needed to do to survive ... it was always with a postured stance. In some of those instances it was with an apology on his lips shortly thereafter, though that mattered very little - then and now. When it came to courtships he always needed permission, for the smallest of gestures to the more grandiose.
Modern fiction suggested a vampire needed to be invited in. While such wasn't the case, Jasper preferred it. On all fronts.
Her permission was a blessing and a curse wrapped all in one. Expectation, which oozed off of her in place of all of the negative feelings she'd rolled through moments before, tilted the corners of his lips up in the very slightest. He was careful when he kissed her again - for his own benefit this time, lest he focus too much too quickly on the rush of life between them. Soft lips met her own, opting to press the tip of his tongue to seek hers out more immediately in lieu of gentle politesse earlier.
He sought to commit this to memory: the curve of her neck as she tilted to meet how he bowed, the slack of her posture relying too much on the wall behind her ---pinned between the coolness of the wall and himself as he leeched the heat from her body entire, the feel of her tongue against his own, the hum he gave her again and the one she may have returned (probably in the top 5 of conversations they'd had, as their communication tended to rely on expressions exchanged more than words). His free hand eased toward the round of her hip, tugging her away from the wall and toward his body perhaps possessively ... a tone to match his fervor.
While he didn't need to breathe she did, and when he parted for just a moment he took his own sup of air before claiming her maw once more - less softly, with more of that hunger he'd felt before instead repurposed to desire to feel her rather than feast. He caught her jaw between his thumb and index finger, gently keeping her steady before letting his grip slide lower to the elegant column of her neck. No force, no aggression in the manner in which her held her.
He didn't much like to sway the emotions of others. He did it when it was necessary or when he felt so much of something himself that he simply couldn't help it (and a part of him felt regretful for how often he cast melancholy from his room at the Cullen house when he was home). Like now where the want rolled off of him in soft waves. He knew it would mix with hers, crash and roil and ebb as the ocean. When it returned it would be larger, sturdier, and the process would repeat. So he moved with it as any creature bidden to the force of something so great and fearful would.
Desire could be so very frightening. And intoxicating.
With his thumb he turned her chin, exposed her neck to himself (tempting, tempting, behave Jasper or you'll do something you'll hate yourself for), felt the subconscious push of his hips into her own when he dipped to press feather-light kisses to the flesh below.
Gentle. Gentle. Temperate. He could be the better man than himself. He could do it for her, for the moment.
