Vranphile was not a very tolerant individual, but he had oddly strong family values. This made it possible for Michelle to reintroduce herself back into his good graces - and infiltrate his lavish bedroom.
          He was in a particular mood tonight. Apparently the self-appointed monarch found his own moral decay very romantic, for he flaunted around the room in a most unusual way. He seemed to be on the verge of outright giddiness, which left his younger half sibling confused and intrigued. Her amused eyes danced after him as he paced anxiously about the room, lost in his own endless sea of conversation.
          Vranphile began to settle after a few drinks, becoming visibly more relaxed as the evening wore on. His voice no longer held that excited twitter; instead, he appeared at ease, and his words were carefully chosen. He was still just as boisterous as before, but more collected - now, his exhilaration was plainly evident in his lovely eyes, while the rest of him was cool, calm, and unruffled.
          Vranphile's mood was infectious, for Michelle found herself smiling earnestly in response to his impassioned opinions. As a woman who didn't consider herself a conversationalist by any means, she was surprisingly riveted to her older brother's words. Michelle felt herself being drawn into Vranphile's world, wrapped in the silky folds of his voice. And Vranphile, in turn, drank her in.
          It wasn't clear who kissed whom first, but suddenly Michelle was drowning. Vranphile's fingers were expertly intertwined in the laces of her bodice, slowly piecing her apart. She sighed as he exposed her, delectable hands lightly brushing across her elegant neck. He cupped her breast, drew his lips to it, and seemed mesmerized as he watched the nipples stiffen and harden beneath his feathery ministrations.
          Michelle found herself sprawled out on her back beneath his clever form, legs ajar and breathless. She stared up at him, head tilted and eyes bright with wonder as he stared back upon her equally intently. This usually shrewd man had a strangely pastoral air about him - he took everything slowly, gently, even as he slipped inside of her.
          Michelle found herself adrift, lost somewhere in the throws of passion and reality. Vranphile played her expertly and deviously, until her passion for him built to an aching, burning crescendo. He held her close to him as she came, her face buried in his silky hair as she moaned his name. And then she collapsed backwards, and he fell upon her, using his arms to brace himself before he crushed her.
          For a while they lay there languidly in silence while Michelle floated near to the brink of unconsciousness. Vranphile nuzzled her neck gently and seemed to breathe in her scent. His voice was muffled against her pallid skin but his words were unmistakable. "Oh, Delilah..."
          Michelle shuddered.