Page 29 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“Is that why you agreed to come with me? To find connection?”
His smile is slow, almost sad. “I agreed because I recognized something in you—someone who has walked between worlds, as I have.”
The glow of the streetlamps catches in his pale hair, creating a halo effect that befits his ghostly appearance. He leans forward, hesitating just before our lips meet, his breath warm against my skin.
“May I?” he asks, the formal request somehow more intimate than any modern pickup line.
“Yes,” I breathe, closing the distance between us.
His lips meet mine, and the world around us—the cemetery, New Orleans, the twenty-first century itself—seems to fall away. The kiss begins tentatively, as if he’s handling something infinitely precious. His lips are surprisingly warm against my cool skin, igniting a heat that spreads through my chest and down to my fingertips. There’s a sweetness to his hesitation that makes my heart ache, so different from the calculated moves of modern men.
The sensations send shockwaves through my nervous system that settle as liquid heat between my thighs. I’ve been kissed before, but nothing prepared me for this—the way his mouth claims something essential in me.
I clutch his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. My fingers dig into muscle, desperate for anchor points as desire threatens to sweep me away completely. I want to tear the fabric between us, to feel skin against skin.The stone of Marie Laveau’s tomb presses against my back as he steps closer, his body a shield between me and the rest of the world. His scent envelops me—something herbal and ancient that reminds me of sacred spaces, of threshold moments where worlds collide.
The kiss deepens as his confidence grows, one hand cradling the back of my neck while the other finds the small of my back, drawing me closer. A soft sound escapes me, half sigh, half moan, the needy whimper surprising us both with its raw hunger. I feel rather than see his smile against my lips before he captures the sound with his mouth, swallowing my desire and feeding it back to me amplified.
Time distorts around us. The kiss could last seconds, or centuries. I’ve lost all sense of normal boundaries. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, requesting entry rather than demanding it, and I open to him willingly. Each caress of his tongue against mine feels like a question, a conversation, a revelation.
Heat spirals through me with each stroke, my body responding as if he’s touching me far more intimately. The ache between my legs intensifies until I’m pressing against him unconsciously, seeking friction that isn’t there yet.
When we finally separate for breath, I realize my hands have found their way into his hair, my fingers wrapped around the silky white-blond strands. His eyes have darkened to an icy blue, pupils dilated with desire. The look he gives me is reverent, almost worshipful, as if I’m something sacred he never expected to find.
“Rosemary,” he whispers, and my given name in his mouth sounds like poetry. His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from our kiss. “You taste of life—vibrant and fierce.”
The weight of that observation hits me unexpectedly. In a world where I’ve curated my gothic persona around death, this man, who knows death more intimately than most, sees life in me instead.
“And you,” I manage, my voice unsteady, “taste of eternity.”
His lips return to mine with new urgency, as if my words have broken some final hesitation. This kiss is deeper, hungrier, his arms encircling me completely until there’s not a whisper of space between us. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, strong and rapid, matching the thundering pulse at my wrists, my throat, and between my legs.
My back arches instinctively, pressing my breasts against the hard plane of his chest. The contact sends lightning straight to my core—I’m so sensitive that even this clothed contact makes me gasp into his mouth.
My nipples pebble, not from the cool night air, but from want… need. His hand slides lower, following the curve of my spine, settling at my hip with a grip that’s firm but still achingly respectful. Even in passion, he maintains a control that makes me desperate to see it break.
The stone tomb at my back should feel cold, but I’m burning everywhere he touches, every nerve ending alive with sensation. The hard press of his body against mine reveals his arousal, thickand insistent against my hip, evidence of a desire that matches my own building desperation.
The knowledge that I affect him this powerfully makes me bold enough to shift my hips, creating delicious friction. His response is immediate and intense—a strangled sound that vibrates against my sensitive skin, his grip on my hips tightening as he fights for control.My body is alive in ways I’d forgotten were possible, every nerve ending singing with need. If he touched me now—really touched me—I think I might shatter apart entirely.
When we part again, we’re both breathing heavily. Lucius’s pale features seem to capture that ghostly luminescence, his hair silver in the darkness, his eyes reflecting starlight.
My legs feel unsteady, my entire body humming with a need I’ve never experienced with such intensity. If we weren’t standing in a cemetery—sacred ground by his standards—I might suggest consummating whatever this is right here against Marie Laveau’s tomb.
“We should return,” he says, voice rough with desire, his accent thicker than usual. “Before they lock the gates with us inside.”
“Would that be so terrible?” I ask, feeling bolder than usual. “Spending the night among the dead with Pluto’s priest to protect me?”
His laugh is unexpected and wonderful, a deep sound that echoes against the stone crypts. “Even Pluto’s priest prefers a comfortable bed to a stone tomb, Raven.”
The mention of a bed—oursharedbed waiting back at the guesthouse—hangs between us, charged with new meaning.
As we make our way back through the narrow paths, his hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as naturally as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. Between the tombs of New Orleans, something has shifted between us—a connection forged in the liminal space between the living and the dead, between his world and mine.
The city spreads before us as we exit the cemetery gates, lights glimmering in the darkness, music and laughter spilling from nearby venues. Tomorrow will bring David Norris’s demands and difficult choices, but tonight belongs to us—a ghost and a goth finding unexpected common ground in the city that understands death better than most.
Chapter Thirteen
Raven
