After the Fall Read Online Free PDF

but he shook his head. “Not yet. It is time you had another massage.” He drizzled oil scented with lavender and camphor on each breast, then across her stomach and hips. Putting the carafe aside, he spread the oil in slow, firm circles, rubbing his thumbs across her nipples, then kissing them when they rose, fanning her flames down below.
    He turned his attention to her hips, spreading and kneading the oil into every fold and crevice, exploring, touching, tasting. The camphor created a heat of its own, and Gigi couldn’t help but writhe beneath his attentions.
    When at last he rose over her, she reached for the oil and poured some into the palm of her hand. As he hovered, watching, she spread oil on him, working it in with both hands, cupping him, gently pulling, then pumping up and down, faster and faster.
    With a strangled groan, he whisked her hands aside and plunged into her, both of them gasping at the impact. Time and luxury lost all meaning as they moved together, finding their rhythm, seeking their bliss.
    Sensing her peak was near, Gigi thrust her hips against his, again and again, wanting all of him inside her, hard, pummeling. They cried out together, a sustained, searing explosion of release.
    Magnus collapsed beside her, but after only a few minutes of rest, he took her chin and turned her face to his. “You are all that matters,” he softly repeated. “I have been truly blessed to find one such as you. And if Placidia can also find such happiness, then who am I to question her choice? I will celebrate their union, should it come to that, no matter his bloodline.”
    “I love you, Magnus.” Gigi moved over him, kissing him, taking her time, making him beg for more.
    The embers had died, and the bath water was cool by the time they used it, but, after the heat of that night, they didn’t mind.
    • • •
    Athaulf stood in the wine cellar of the House of Livia and scanned the selection. He picked an amphora painted in the Greek style of black and orange, depicting beautiful women dancing amid grape vines. He turned to go, but the servant who’d followed him in, and bobbed and shifted while he’d made his choice, seemed ready to expire from a nervous condition.
    “Have I taken a special vintage?” Athaulf asked pleasantly. “I would not want anything too valuable, as I am no expert in wine.”
    “No, no, my lord. It is a white wine called Tears of Christ. This vintage is good, but not extraordinary,” he squeaked.
    “Tears of Christ?”
    “It is said Our Lord wept for the wickedness of Pompeii and grape vines sprang forth in the region.”
    Athaulf wanted to scoff at this Catholic notion of Jesus’s divinity, but he was too tired to argue on the side of his Arian Christian faith, and besides, he thought, each to his own.
    “My lord, is there something else you desire?”
    “No.”
    The man shrugged. “It is my duty to serve you. Let me open it, and I’ll bring it to your room with something savory, which will bring out its greatest attributes. Does that please?”
    “Fine.” Athaulf handed the amphora over. “But make it quick, and no fancy goblets. An ordinary mug will do me well enough.”
    “Indeed, indeed. Most assuredly, my lord. Ordinary, as you say. I shall be back straight away.”
    The little man scampered off, and Athaulf returned to his room. Several oil lamps lit the interior, and he took a moment to look at the brightly painted walls, the deeply padded bed and its silk draping, the pair of lemon trees in pots, and the multitude of other luxurious tidbits. He felt awkward here, gritty and uncouth. He’d never considered himself that way before, never thought about it at all, until now.
    Until her.
    A tap at the door broke his train of thought. “Enter.”
    The man bobbed in, all smiles and bows, and set an alabaster tray on the table. Varieties of cheese and sliced peaches were artfully arranged on a plate beside an open flask and mug, the set made of beautiful blue glass.