Page 19 of Grave Expectations

“I am.” Alaric moved his hand from side to side, the tiny drops of blood swaying in his palm. They didn’t disperse like they would into real skin, they just sat there, like atop a glass table. “Another test,” Alaric said. He held his hand over hers, tilting it so her blood dropped onto her skin. He then reached for her, his fingers brushing a strand of black hair behind her ear.

It moved, and his touch was so concrete, so real.

“So, no blood lockets like Angelina and Billy,” Roz said.

“Who?”

“Celebrities. How long do you think it will last?” Roz asked. Alaric’s hand was still at her temple, his fingers gently brushing against her skin rhythmically. She resisted the urge to nuzzle into his hand.

“Another experiment,” he said, his voice quiet and low. “I’ll just have to touch you every day.”

Roz’s lower abdomen tightened and she had to shift her weight to displace the feeling. The seam of her jeans dug into her clit as she moved, which only amplified the feeling.

Alaric pulled her face to his, his lips a breath from hers. “Rosalin,” he said softly.

“Yes?”

“May I kiss you?”

She answered by pressing her lips against his, hoping she didn’t fall through him. Alaric groaned when they made contact, an indecent noise that sparked another wave of fire in Roz. Her fingers curled in his robe, pulling him closer. His kisses were the ravenous kisses of a man who couldn’t get enough.

He left her lips for her jaw, his teeth grazing her skin as he nipped gently. Roz cried out and he stopped suddenly, pulling back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, straightening. “I just…”

Absolutely the fuck not, thought Roz. She tightened her grip on his robe and pulled him toward her. Alaric was on her once more, his mouth on hers, his body flush against her. He pulled her onto his lap without breaking the kiss, her knees on either side of his hips. She ground onto him and he moaned when she met his hardness.

He cupped her ass, pulling her closer. She sunk into him, matching the ferocity of his need with her own. His mouth moved to her neck and collarbone, kissing and biting in equal measure. Can ghosts leave a hickey? She didn’t give a shit.

His hands moved from her ass to the bottom of her shirt, his cold palms trailing across her stomach. He guided her shirt upward and over her head, tossing it somewhere else in the room. Alaric tried for her bra, mumbling something about modern inventions under his breath.

“I got it,” she said, reaching behind to undo the clasp. The material slid off her shoulders and she was naked from the waist up, her large breasts at eye level. Alaric’s face was one of worship as he gazed up at her, his mouth partially open.

“You’re exquisite,” he said.

Roz didn’t know what to say to that. No man had ever called her exquisite. Most men her age didn’t have the vocabulary, anyway. Alaric was reverent as he touched her, his movements a contrast to the feral way he moved before. He took a nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the surface. Roz’s hand grasped the back of his head, pulling him to her. He alternated between each nipple, lavishing them with bites and sucks. Roz’s head tilted back, her hips moving against him with abandon.

Then his hands moved to the button of her jeans, then her zipper. “Stand up,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Roz stood before him, her chest heaving. He pulled her jeans off her hips, then down her legs. She stood before him in just her underwear, which was currently soaked with her arousal.

“I want to taste you,” he said.

“I want to see you,” she breathed. She’d been dying to know what he looked like under that disgusting robe. Could he take it off? She hoped to the goddess he could, otherwise she was going to lose it.

“Another test,” he said, standing before her. She took a step back, nearly knocking into the coffee table.

“My room,” she said. Alaric nodded and followed her into her room, shutting the door behind him. Roz sat on the edge of her bed, her head tilted back to look up at him. He grabbed at his robe, pausing just before he lifted it.

“Here,” Roz said, standing. She placed her hand over his, guiding him as he pulled the robe off. It was a clumsy endeavor; the robe was thick and crusted with blood. It was off at last, a heap on the floor at Alaric’s feet.

“It worked,” he said, staring at the fabric.

“You’ve never been able to take it off?”

“No. I’ve tried, believe me. Now…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to Roz. He wore a tunic, also crusted with blood and dirt, and long shorts. He pulled them off quickly and was naked before her.

Roz didn’t know where to look first. She could tell he did manual labor before he died; he was broad with a thick waist and lean, practical muscles. Her gaze snagged on the bruises along his body, especially his ribs. She reached out to touch them and he grabbed her hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss.