She was his slave. Lucian smiled as he slowly drew his finger down the soft, soft skin, as she purred and stretched. And, yes, he was hers.
The irony did not escape him. He had been entombed. Now he was enslaved. But had there ever been such a bondage? His smile widened; every perfect white tooth showed.
"Lucian," she whispered, and her voice was as silky, as warm, as soft as her flesh.
Had there ever been a creature such as Mirin? Not in his memory. Not in his experience. Not even his mother, with her red hair and her green eyes and her willowy body and white, white skin. No, not even her.
He traced the length of a long, long leg, white and smooth and perfect as a statue's, and shuddered, even as she did. Flawless was his Chosen.
He could think of nothing else. He could do nothing else. He, who had survived a thousand years, who had planned a thousand years, who had wasted a thousand years, now lived for moments. He could not feel beyond a breath, a sigh, a touch. He could not see beyond golden hair and violet eyes and red lips and white, white skin.
He was her slave. Mirin smiled as his breath grew quicker, as his body began to shudder. And, yes, she was his.
It did not seem possible. She had been a whore. Now she was a goddess, worshipped, adored. Her body had been a tool; now it was a temple, a sanctuary, a holy place. She had felt nothing; now she was weak with pleasure, drunk with sensation.
Had there ever been a man such as Lucian? Not in her memory. Not in her experience. She'd known so many men; now it seemed she had known none. She had thought herself a master of the arts of love; she was but an acolyte.
She brushed her lips across the red-gold hair on his alabaster breast and trembled, even as he did. Perfect, was he.
She could think of nothing else. She could do nothing else. She, whose life, whose time had been punctuated by the toll of the bells, knew not, cared not, if it was day or night. There were no hours or minutes or seconds; there was only his touch. There was no sun or moon or stars; there were only his emerald eyes. There was no sound, no music, in all the world; there was only his voice.