Time, Death & Scar Tissue...

Author's Note: The Aeneid is an epic poem was written by Virgil sometime between 29 and 19 BC. It links the fall of Troy with the founding of Rome, as well as reinforcing the idea of return to traditional Roman values as espoused by the emperor Augustus.
psyche b.

25. Warmth

Kathryn shifted slightly and groaned at the aches that seemed to encompass her whole body. She snuggled closer to him and concentrated on waking more fully. It was more of a struggle than usual but finally she forced her heavy eyelids to open. She shifted again and the ache in her ribs and shoulder eased, the ache between her legs still throbbed dully.

“So you are awake.” He kissed her softly and Kathryn sighed against his mouth. His hand rested on the swell of her bottom. “I thought I was going to have to wake you.”

“You already did that once tonight.” She smiled a little and blushed deeply. Kathryn wondered why he had brought her over to the fire, but decided that it didn't really matter. She was warm and comfortable and he was there holding her. All was right with the world at that moment.

“You had objections?” His eyebrow rose.

“I didn't say that.” She squirmed a little. “I guess I was just a little surprised.” He handed her the large glass of juice and Kathryn reached to take it. For some reason though her hands seemed too weak and trembly to accept the large glass. She shook her head.

“I'll have it later.” She said.

“No, now.” He held the glass to her lips and Kathryn drank. The juice wasn't as cold as usual and she wondered how long she had been asleep. Even after she was starting to feel a bit better she let him hold the glass for her until she finished it.

“Thank you.” She said and rested against his shoulder again, her eyes were closed but she felt more alert than she had a few minutes before.

“You're welcome.” He kissed her softly and Kathryn shrugged out of the comforter. One leg rested casually over his, the comforter still covered her bottom.

“I've missed this, just being close to you like this.” Kathryn reached for an orange section.

“I've missed you as well, my Kathryn.” He moved the comforter off of her the rest of the way and Kathryn felt herself blush, but she didn't move to cover herself again. His hand wandered lightly over her back, hip and thigh as if he was refamiliarizing himself with her body. She sighed contentedly, her fingers stroking over the planes of his chest and stomach.

Kathryn heard his soft sigh and she brushed her lips lightly over his jaw. His lips toyed with hers lightly as his hand moved up the inside of her thigh. She whimpered and retreated slightly as they brushed against her hypersensitive lower lips. His mouth captured hers more fully and he drew her back against him. Kathryn's hand drifted lower on his stomach and she stroked his hardening shaft softly. One of his cool fingertips was starting to insinuate itself between her swollen lips, teasing and tickling her slick petals. She whimpered sharply as it pressed inside her, trying to retreat from the discomfort. His mouth had grown hungrier and her hand stroked him more firmly, hoping to draw out the release he obviously wanted and needed.

He moved her onto her back and opened her legs wide. His hungry kiss stropped her protests, but Kathryn could feel the tension in her body as well as the desire that his teasing touches had created. His lips and tongue teased her nipples lightly and Kathryn arched under him, moaning softly. His tongue trailed lower, exploring her wet folds. Kathryn closed her eyes, biting her lower lip as he brought her so close and then took her over the edge. She cried out, gripping his shoulders and pressing up against his mouth. As the intensity of her pleasure was easing his tongue pressed inside her leaking entrance. She tried to retreat but he held her still. She whined softly as he gently invaded her sore opening. Finally his mouth retreated and he pressed the head of his erection against her again.

“No, please, I hurt from before-” His mouth found hers, stopping her words and reassuring her at the same time. His hands stroked her quivering body, teasing her nipples and the nub of her pleasure until she relaxed. He entered her slowly, and Kathryn tensed and whimpered sharply. He pressed deep inside of her and stayed there, slowly she felt herself relaxing around him. He moved slowly and she moved under him, a sharp cry escaping her lips as she climaxed around him, her legs around his waist. He pressed deeply inside her and shuddered, his familiar low growl sending shivers through Kathryn. He moved her slowly to straddle him, still buried deep inside her. Kathryn shivered and snuggled close. There would be time to feel the deep ache later, right now she didn't want to break the connection between them.


Kathryn was working and LaCroix was pretending to read as he observed her. The house had impressed her, but not in the way that one is impressed when they are out of their element. The rudimentary research he had done about her father told him that Kathryn Paige was most definitely accustomed to the finer things in life, she simply chose to live modestly. Now, seeing her barefoot and comfortably at ease among the artwork and antiques, he wondered if there was anywhere that she would be completely out of her element.
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Her eye had impressed him. For one who claimed little knowledge of art she had the uncanny ability to pick out the especially rare pieces in each room. She also made mention of other pieces though, the ones that held less intrinsic value and more personal value. How she knew which those were mystified him. When he asked her she hadn't been sure herself.

“It's different for every piece.” She had answered after thinking for a few minutes. “Some are displayed more prominently. Sometimes you stand in front of the piece, even if it's not the most obvious place in the room to stop. Sometimes the object just strikes me in some way. I know that's not very helpful.” She laughed then and he realized how he had missed her easy laugh in the past few days.

Her eye had startled him as well. When he brought her into the conservatory, instead of being drawn to the view from the glassed in cupola she walked immediately to a bust that was shrouded in shadow.

“Is that you?” She turned on a nearby lamp and looked more closely before he’d had a chance to respond. “No, I see it's not now. This person is too old and kind of jowly, still, there's something about the brow and the shape of the nose that resembles you.”

He had smiled, but the fact was she was right. It was him and it was not his favorite image of himself either. The sculptor thought the face of a general should hold more 'age and experience' than his own face held. Being that he was not fat or elderly he had been understandably offended. Perhaps some would consider the revenge he exacted extreme, but if the man had used his hands properly he would have been allowed to retain them. He knew he should have destroyed the ugly thing then, but something had interrupted him, exactly what was gone from his memory now. Whatever it was had seemed important at the time, and his attention had been taken long enough to save that particular piece.

When it was unearthed he had gone to great lengths to possess it. Not because he was glad to see it again, but because he couldn't bear the idea of strangers looking at it in some museum and believing that General Lucius Terentius was a soft old man. Now, ugly as it was, it had become one of the few tangible pieces of his mortality that he had left, and he was loathe to destroy it. He had explained it away to Kathryn as a lucky find. That he had seen the slight resemblance and decided he had to have it for that reason. She had accepted that, the age of the piece was clear to her when she was having her closer look so there was no reason to think he was being dishonest. Privately, he knew that if his heart COULD race, it would have been.

He had saved the library for last. It was easily his favorite room in the house and he was curious to see her reaction. She did not disappoint him. She stood in the middle of the large room and turned slowly, taking it all in. The room itself was the largest in the house, the glass fronted, climate controlled shelves started three feet off the floor and continued to where a ceiling would have been, but in here the second story was open as well. A spiral staircase led to a catwalk circled the room to access the upper shelves. He hadn't read many of the books on those shelves in several centuries. There were probably still a few he had never read. She had explored for a time and then started writing.

LaCroix didn't think that he would ever understand what inspired her. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it and when he asked he found the answers she gave even more confusing. He was sure that it had something to do with the blending of the female mind and the mind of a writer and he had settled himself to the idea that it would always be a mystery to him. Whatever the process was though, what she produced made it seem as if she was staring into the past itself instead of the screen of a 21st century laptop.

He was always careful with the comments that he made, and it still surprised him how she welcomed his criticisms. It was obvious that she had done her research, but she had not had the span of time he had to familiarize herself with his shelves. Often she overlooked sources, other times they were in languages she didn't read yet. He had already made the determination to teach her, even if he hadn't told her. One thing he could never fault was her attention to detail. Her scenes, though still rough in places, held a sensual quality that surrounded the reader with a moment out of time that left a palpable sensation on the skin. When he reached the end of the passages she had given him he always felt somehow jarred back into the present and dearly wanting more of her vision of the past.

Her Paul interested him as well. He knew that the character was far more than a cookie-cutter immortal from her previous books, but this one revealed even more about the man. LaCroix had been shocked to learn that Paul was a Roman contemporary of his and he thought for a painful moment that she had read his own past in some way. When he read on he realized that while there were loose similarities there were more differences. Still, he could easily see himself socializing with Paul if they had found themselves in the same part of the Empire at the same time. Of course he had asked her where she got the idea. She had looked at him like the thought had never crossed her mind. “I don’t know, that’s always been who he is.” Was all she had been able to say and he could tell that it was as much of an answer as she could give. Paul did have his quirks that made him a bit “off” as a vampire, but that just meant that he could let her ripen fully before plucking her into eternity.

He also noticed that when she was deep in thought she rubbed at the wounds on her neck. Her unconscious knew they were there, and he wondered if her unconscious also knew what they were and how they got there.

LaCroix glanced up when he heard the music she was listening to stop. He was still amazed by the range of her musical tastes. This evening she had been listening to something that might have fit in at the club, though he was unable to put a name to it. Later the conversation might turn to one of Debussy’s lesser known pieces and she would be as involved in the discussion as he was. She yawned and stretched carefully before moving over to the couch where he was sitting. She curled up next to him, her head resting on his thigh.

“Tired, my Kathryn?” He asked, one hand moving through her hair lightly as he smiled down at her. Very few people felt so free to approach him, once he had gotten over the initial shock he found that he rather enjoyed it when she would curl up with him unexpectedly. The buried and defended warmth in him responded to her as it had responded to so few others. Nicholas had the power to reach it, and if he had been a wiser man he would have let the boy see it.

“Yes. I hope I'm not getting sick, I'm cold and achy and I just can't seem to concentrate.” She yawned again as she spoke. He wanted to reassure her that she was not getting sick, that it was just the affects of her injuries and depleted blood volume, but he knew that would bring up more questions than he wanted to answer. He took the throw from the back of the sofa and put it over her. She relaxed and sighed softly. “Thank you.”

“You haven’t slept properly in days. A nap would do you good.” She nodded and he watched her breathing deepen. His fingers curled idly in her hair and he was surprised to feel his body beginning to respond to her nearness, in spite of how well-sated he was from earlier in the evening. Even before his conversion he had passed the age of boundless sexual energy. After, he was pleased to find that the passage of time brought no more decline, but the change had restored nothing to him either. The way she excited him earlier had been a pleasant surprise, even if it had been unintentional on her part. She was bruised and fearful the second time and he had felt a pang of guilt until she responded and welcomed him. Kathryn moved a bit and then sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“Something wrong?” He asked.

“No, I'm just not very comfortable. Recent football injury.” She laughed softly and he pulled her gently into his arms.

“Better?” He smiled slightly as she snuggled against his chest. LaCroix found himself smiling against her head.

“Much, but now you can't read your book.” He could feel her body relaxing and molding to his. “What are you reading, anyway?” She squinted at the book.

“Virgil's Aeneid. Have you read it?” He asked, stroking her back.

“Yes and no. I had to translate part of it in school. You know how it is though; when you HAVE to read something you never enjoy it as much as when you WANT to read it.” Her eyes were slightly open, but her voice was relaxed and had taken on the dreamy quality it held before she fell asleep.

“You should pick it up again. But for now, relax and listen.” He kissed her forehead softly and opened the book. He barely needed to look at the words, but she might question why he knew them so well. “Arma virumque cano,-”

“I'm not awake enough to translate-” He laid a finger lightly on her lips and she fell silent again.

“Don’t think of it as translation, just listen. You understand more than you think you do.” He waited for her to put her head down and then began again, speaking in quiet tones as one would to a sleepy child. She sighed deeply and he smiled at the comfort of the moment.