Page 93 of Liminal

“There are rules,” I whisper, then clear my throat and try again. “Rules. No touching.”

He pouts. “Not even my cock?”

My traitorous eyes dip down before I can stop them, coming to rest on the erection that is literally bobbing with eagerness before me. Stars. He’s perfect there too, with no tan lines anywhere and even… runeforms. He has spells inked onto the shaft. I’m pretty sure there’s one on the heavy sack between his legs, too.

“You can touch yourself,” I find myself saying. “But not me. If you try to touch me, this ends. And if you treat me like one of your conquests afterwards, I will banish you every morning until the Arcanaeum listens to me and keeps you out.”

He spreads his hands wide in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t brag about my conquests. They brag about me. Besides, if anything, you’re doing the conquering since I can’t even touch you. Now, get over here. Water’s perfect.”

I would give anything to remember what the perfect temperature felt like, to feel the steam caressing us.

My fingers search out the cuffs of my sleeves, tugging anxiously.

Taking off my clothes in ghost form used to be something I clung to religiously—along with most facets of being alive. For years, I was convinced that every night I had to undress for bed and rest just like the living, until one day I just stopped.

What was the point when, every time I died, the clothes just turned up again?

I’m not stupid enough to get within hugging distance of him, so I settle on the other side of the glass screen, and Lambert impatiently swipes away the condensation between us to see me properly.

“Next time can we do this without the glass?” he asks, so honestly, that I pause midway through toeing off my shoes.

“That’s a bold assumption.”

“Undo your hair for me, boss.”

The screen was a mistake. There’s a layer of condensation between me and that mouthwatering view. Protecting me from him. My logical self knows it's for the best, but she’s not really in control right now.

My fingers go to the ribbon at the end of my messy braid, tugging free the bow and slowly unravelling the strands one by one. When I finish, it hangs in heavy waves, hitting the backs of my thighs.

I’ve never done this before, though I know the purpose is to make the act of undressing somehow alluring. My fingers fumble at the hook and eye fastenings at my throat, the lace partlet falling away down my arms to land on the floor.

Lambert Winthrop must be the first man to see my uncovered collarbones in hundreds of years. Given the hungerwhich has turned those blue-green eyes as dark as a storm-drenched sky, he doesn’t mind the view.

His arms have moved. One of them is a dark shadow braced against the glass over his head, and the other is flexing slowly as he fists himself, stroking leisurely.

Emboldened, I untie the ribbons at my shoulders, slipping free my sleeves to reveal the white linen beneath, then unpin the side of my bodice, revealing the hidden lacings beneath the stiff fabric of my stomacher.

Unlacing them is harder by myself but not impossible. I was unused to such finery when Mistress Ruby helped me into it, but over the centuries, I’ve become adept at pulling the strings free and allowing the heavy outer gown to fall away, leaving me in just the kirtle, petticoats, and shift.

Lambert groans like I’ve wounded him, his arm movements stalling, then restarting faster than before.

“It comes in layers?”

Is that exasperation or desire making his voice hoarse? Perhaps it’s both.

I look up from fiddling with the ties of my kirtle and grin. “I thought this was a tease?”

The incredulous look on his face makes me smile.

“You’re lucky you’re on that side of the glass, boss,” he tells me, the tempest in that gaze gaining in intensity. “Because if you were in here, I’d have those skirts around your ears and my dick buried so deep you could taste it.”

He forgets, yet again, that my ghostly nature is an obstacle, but I don’t mind. I’m lost to my imagination, and the rhythmic bunching and tensing of his muscles behind the steam-fogged glass. In my head, I’m dripping for him. My breasts would be heavy for his attention, nipples hard and begging behind the starched linen. Memories of my body’s responses are creepingout of the shadowed corners of my mind where I stuffed them to spare myself.

My chest rises and falls on a breath that does nothing to still the trembling in my fingers as I pluck free the final knot and allow the kirtle to fall, followed by my petticoats. Then, stalling for time, I perch my foot on the edge of the tub and untie the ribbon garters holding up my stockings, exposing one leg at a time.

Finally, when I can stall no longer, I tug my shift over my head.

Lambert’s forehead thunks against the glass, gaze unblinking as he takes a ragged breath, arm working his cock violently.