Page 17 of Gone for the Ghost
“I am real,” I reply, covering her body with mine, skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat.“Real as you are.”
The first full contact of her skin against mine sends electricity through nerve endings I’d forgotten I possessed.After ninety-eight years of existing without sensation, every caress feels like revelation, every kiss like resurrection.Her hands explore my chest and my shoulders, mapping the physical form that love rebuilt from supernatural suggestion into solid reality.
I worship her with kisses, trailing my mouth down the column of her throat, across her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts.Every soft sound she makes drives me closer to the edge of control I’m desperately trying to maintain.This is too important to rush, too precious to waste on haste.
“Julian,” she breathes, her hips moving restlessly beneath me as I continue my exploration.“Please.”
“Patience, love,” I murmur, though my own need is becoming desperate.“I want to remember every moment of this.”
When I reach the apex of her thighs, she’s already warm and wet for me.The first taste of her essence makes me groan with pleasure so intense it borders on pain.She’s sweetness and heat and everything I never thought I’d experience again.Her hands fist in the sheets as I explore her with lips and tongue, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips rise to meet my mouth.
“Oh god, Julian,” she cries out, her voice breaking as I find the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes her body arch.I feel her climbing toward release, her thighs trembling against my shoulders as her breathing becomes ragged.
When she comes apart beneath my touch, trembling and gasping my name, watching her pleasure becomes my own resurrection—proof that I can still bring joy, still create connection, still matter in the most fundamental way a man can matter to a woman.
“I need you,” she whispers as the aftershocks fade, pulling me up her body for a kiss that tastes of desperation and love.“I need to feel you inside me.”
When I rise to cover her body with mine, she guides me to her entrance with hands that shake with desire rather than uncertainty.The moment I begin to sink into her warmth, we both go still with the overwhelming rightness of it.She’s tight and warm and perfect around me, and the sensation of being truly connected to another person threatens to overwhelm my carefully rebuilt control.
“You feel incredible,” I manage, my voice strained with the effort of holding still when every instinct demands I move.“Perfect.”
“Move,” she whispers against my ear, her legs wrapping around my waist and pulling me deeper into connection that transcends physical pleasure.“Please, Julian.I need all of you.”
So I do, slowly at first, savoring every sensation as we find our rhythm together.She’s silk and heat around me, her body welcoming mine with each careful thrust.The small sounds she makes—breathless gasps, soft moans, my name spoken like a prayer—drive me toward a precipice I’m not ready to reach.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her hips rising to welcome mine, our movements creating something larger than individual pleasure—communion, resurrection, the final proof that love really can transcend every limitation when two people choose each other completely.
“I love you,” she breathes, her eyes finding mine in the golden light.“I love you so much.”
“And I love you,” I reply, the words carrying the weight of centuries of waiting, of hoping, of finally finding someone worth becoming human for again.“More than existence itself.”
The rhythm between us builds, becomes more urgent, more desperate.I feel her climbing toward release again, her inner muscles beginning to flutter around me.The knowledge that I’m bringing her this pleasure, that my touch can make her forget everything but this moment, sends heat spiraling through my entire being.
“Julian,” she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders.“I’m so close.Please don’t stop.”
“Never,” I promise, changing the angle slightly to hit the spot that makes her cry out.“I’ve got you, love.Let go.”
When she tightens around me, crying out as climax claims her for the second time, I follow her over the edge with a groan that sounds like gratitude and amazement and the recognition that some forms of completion are worth waiting a century to achieve.The intensity of release after so long without sensation leaves me shaking, completely undone by the woman in my arms.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing patterns on her bare shoulder while we both process the magnitude of what we’ve accomplished.I feel her breath against my skin, hear the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, experience the simple miracle of sharing space with someone who chose to love me back to life.
“That was…” she begins but then trails off, apparently as overwhelmed as I am.
“Worth waiting ninety-eight years for,” I finish, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.“Though I hope we don’t have to wait that long for the next time.”
Her laugh is soft and warm against my chest.“I think we can manage something a bit more frequently than that.”
“Good,” I murmur, already feeling desire stirring again as she shifts against me.“Because I have nearly a century of lost time to make up for.”
She lifts her head to look at me, her eyes bright with love and mischief.“Then we’d better get started.”
And we do.We lose ourselves in rediscovering each other, in the miracle of touch and taste and the simple joy of being together without barriers between us.The afternoon dissolves into evening as we explore this new reality where love has made the impossible tangible, where a century of separation becomes nothing more than prologue to the story we’re writing together.
When hunger finally drives us from bed, we share takeout containers on the living room floor, feeding each other bites between kisses and laughter.Lily wears my shirt, the fabric hanging loosely on her smaller frame, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than the way she looks in my clothes, in our space, completely at home with the supernatural romance that’s become our everyday reality.
Later, as we lie wrapped in each other again, spent and content in the darkness that’s settled over Maplewood Grove, the euphoria of reunion begins to settle into something deeper—the recognition that what we have is real, permanent, and will require navigation of a world that doesn’t typically accommodate relationships between the formerly dead and the decidedly living.
“So what happens now?”she asks softly, the practical question of someone who’s learned that love requires planning as well as feeling.
