With your arm wrapped around Claremont’s, you slip through a door and into the darkened maze of the catacombs. Light flickers from sconces on the wall, projecting shadows of spiders skittering through their webs, and bats flying into the night’s sky. The dance of fire perched upon the wick gives life to the iron guards circling the sconces. To your eye, the spiders climb across the walls and up to the ceiling. The bats circle among the bricks, never coming to rest.
“Delightful place, no?” Claremont says waving his hand through the air. Blue lines trail him, the brocade on his vest shifting to a bright neon glow. It highlights the press of stone walls twisting around the room and vanishing into the darkness.
“Where are we?” you ask, clinging tighter to his arm. The fear of being turned around and never emerging rises in your mind.
Claremont pushes a single hair back with his pinkie finger, then he leans closer. You curl your toes in your shoes, waiting for his kiss, but he continues past and cinches a hand around something behind you. When the slosh of liquid appears and the light glints off glass, Claremont says, “The wine cellar.”
He puffs his lips up and attempts to blow at the label, but no dust moves. “The joys of an afterlife without breath. Could you be so kind?”
His lashes lower, an unexplainable amber flickering from inside his gray eyes. It darts around your face as you lean closer to the bottle and purse your lips together. With a gentle push, you shoo away the dust on the label. Claremont shivers in his boots, the ghostly gentleman letting his hand drift down the small of your back to nestle near the top of your ass.
Rising away, Claremont turns the bottle around and studies it. “A Riesling. Hmph. Ah, and here we have a merlot. Proper drinking wine for cold nights and…” Those inescapable eyes careen down your body, taking in every curve he can. “Warm bodies.”
“You sound about to combust,” you say, unable to deny the flush in your stomach.
“The grave can be such a lonely,” Claremont draws the tip of his pinkie down your arm, “unforgiving place. Would you damn me for wanting to feel a spark of fire?”
The whole of your arm tingles from his single touch, his eyes pleading for a yes. You open your mouth.
“Which shall we take?” Claremont interrupts, holding both bottles out. “The red or the white?”
Which do you pick?
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