6Unseen
The mirror, smooth and cool beneath his fingertips, vibrated with song.
A soft, sweet melody, a childhood favorite from her homeland — one she never sang when she knew he was listening. She sat at her vanity, pulling pins from her hair and letting the glossy curls spill over her shoulders. Erik's breath quickened as she gathered her skirts and petticoats into her lap, her hands disappearing beneath the layers of cotton and lace.
Something hot and wicked twisted deep within his belly.
Her hands re-emerged, carefully — and so deliciously, agonizingly slowly — sliding a creamy silk stocking over the pale curve of her calf. She tugged it off and extended her bare leg, stretching and wriggling her toes with a throaty sigh.
A matching sigh escaped his lips before he even realized he'd made a sound.
Christine stilled, head cocked and listening.
Erik's breath caught in his throat. He stepped back from the mirror, certain that the pounding of his heart would give him away.
Neither girl nor ghost moved a muscle. The room beyond the mirror began to waver as the lack of oxygen made Erik's head swim.
Then, mercifully, she shrugged, shook her head, and went back to her work. Erik released his breath and collapsed against the mirror, warm and giddy with relief.
A second stocking was removed, and then she stood, hands reaching to unfasten skirts; one-by-breath-stealing-one, each layer dropped to the floor in a pool of fabric around her small, bare feet.
Erik licked his dry lips.
The bodice was next, followed by the camisole, until at last she stood in nothing but her corset and thin linen chemise. She bent to gather up the pile of clothes, the rounded flesh above the neckline threatening to spill right out of the aggravating confines of her corset as she dipped low. Erik pressed his hips against the mirror and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of the pressure — hardness against swelling hardness.
When he opened his eyes again, Christine was standing mere inches from the mirror. Erik swallowed painfully against a tight throat...but did not retreat.
With an assessing tilt of her head, Christine smoothed her hands over the dips and curves of her body, her plump bottom lip pinned between her teeth.
Gently, so very gently, Erik's hips began to move in time with the insistent thump of his heartbeat.
Reaching beneath her chemise, she slid down her white cotton drawers and kicked them away; she frowned, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh of her thighs. Erik grit his teeth against the groan building in his chest. He pressed the unmasked side of his face to the glass, exhaling ragged breaths silently through his nose, as his hips ground in small, tight circles, inexorable...building…getting closer, closer, so close.
And then suddenly, she stepped back, turning her head to call out the open door to the room across the hall.
"Erik, darling? I'm almost ready for bed! Could you come help me with these laces?"
Slumping, Erik peeled himself away from the mirror, rapidly, wretchedly deflating.
And before he slipped through his well-concealed passage to the parlor, where he would stealthily reappear and respond to his wife with an innocent "Coming, my love!", he trailed his fingers down the glass, still warm from his body, and sighed.
Old habits do die hard, don't they?
This was written for Timebird84's Spooky Phantober Tumblr prompt for Day 1: Creepers gonna creep
Yes...yes, they will. ;)