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“I agree. We have so many other things we can talk about, like how soft your hair feels in my fingers, and how happy I am that you came out with me tonight.”
I let him lead me where he wants to go. The only sound is the rap of Ambrose’s stick on the ground and the hoot of a distant owl. We descend the path that winds around the back of the house, duck through the hole in the fence and find ourselves in Grimdale Cemetery.
My heart pounds as a soft smile plays on Ambrose’s lips. Our feet crunch over the fallen leaves that we never seem to be able to clear away.
Of course he would bring me to the graveyard. We both love this place, in our own way. And it’s blissfully free of ghosts. Ambrose was the only ghost who could ever get over his fear of death enough to walk in Grimdale Cemetery with me.
So it seems fitting that we walk here together now, under the pale moonlight, while our need for each other courses in our veins.
The tension coils between us like a spring. I can see Ambrose’s silver cord swirling through the air around us, the blue streaks inside it twitching with anticipation. Pure need dances down my spine and gathers into an insistent ache between my thighs.
We’ve waited so long.
I don’t want to wait any longer.
Ambrose must be thinking the same thing. He tugs me forward eagerly until we’re standing in front of the Witches’ Monument – that smooth, modern edifice of stone. We circle it, so that the monument’s height will hide us from anyone who happens to walk past the gate.
Perfect.
“Is this pleasing to you?” He gestures to the moonlit night, to the deserted cemetery, to the graves that tower around us like protective megaliths, as if it could be anything other than perfect. “I had wanted to take you somewhere comfortable, somewhere adventurous, somewhere that reflected the beauty in your soul. But I’m without means, and I am desperate, and I can think only to be impetuous—”
“Ambrose,” I laugh as I turn to him. “Stop talking and kiss me.”
“I only want you to be happy—”
“Ambrose—”
He pulls me to him and captures my lips in his.
The kiss is soft and slow, but under the moonlight, his lips take on a new power. As our bodies move together and our lips open with invitation, we conjure some kind of ancient fae magic that winds itself around us, cocooning us in this moment that is only for us to enjoy.
I loop my arms around him, standing on tiptoe so I can deepen the kiss. Ambrose’s hands hold my cheeks, his fingers stroking over my skin, threading through my hair, like he is weaving the spell with his touch.
Part of me could kiss him like this forever, suspended in this perfect moment. But my body is humming with need, and the dark magic we’ve conjured demands the ritual be complete. My hands roam over the planes of his body, tugging at the buttons on his shirt, skimming over his fly. Ambrose tenses when my fingers caress his length through his trousers, and the groan he lets slip is so exquisite that it hurts.
That moan of his frees all the fireflies trapped in the dark corners of my soul. Although I know, academically, that this thing between us is fragile and built of glass that can so easily shatter, I don’t feel that in my heart. I am safe with Ambrose. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt truly safe before.
“May I?” His hands tremble a little as he undoes the first button of my trench coat, but it’s not nerves. It’sexcitement.
“Please.” The need in my voice stuns me. And it makes Ambrose’s whole face break out into a gentle smile that makes me warm all over, inside and out.
He gets both buttons undone and shoves my trench coat down. I shrug it off, the moonlight kissing my naked skin as his hands roam over my body.
“You are so beautiful,” Ambrose whispers as his fingers graze my nipples until I moan his name. “I have been all over the world, but nothing I have experienced can compare to how you feel in my arms.”
I gulp down a swell of emotion that squeezes my heart.
I wish I could tell him that he’s the same for me, that I fled to every corner of the world to hide from this exact moment, because I’ve been so afraid to open myself up to him, to Edward, to Pax. I’ve been terrified that they would care for me as much as I care for them, and then I would lose them.
Because no one understands loss and loneliness like a Lazarus.
But I can’t push the words past the lump in my throat. And the way Ambrose is looking at me, his eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with magic, even though I know he can’t see me, it feels as though he sees something deeper, something beyond normal human vision. There are no words left for how beautiful he is.
Instead, I go for his clothes, because if Ambrose can strip me bare with just a few words, then I can do the same to him. I fiddle with his buttons. He hasn’t changed from earlier, so he’s wearing the new clothing I brought him. A pair of nice brogues, slim-fitting trousers with nice tailoring that he likes, and a black shirt with a textured weave that delights his sense of touch. Beneath the moonlight, his hair glimmers like spun gold, and I run my hands through it as he shrugs out of his shirt.
I toss his shirt into the rose bushes and run my hands over the hard dips and grooves of his stomach. He’s like a Greek statue, all perfect proportions and elegant panes.
I can’t believe that he’s mine.
