Chapter 26

Twenty-Six

Kyrith

“ B OSSSS!”

“Keep. Your. Voice. Down. In. My. Arcanaeum!” I snap for the hundredth time, rubbing my temples.

I can’t physically suffer a headache, but the books I’ve been poring over for hours have certainly worn me down. So I’m not secretly glad for his presence after a heavy day of sifting through ensorcellment texts and star charts. I obviously just needed the break.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I just thought since no one was here?—”

“Rules still apply,” I mutter, shuffling the papers on my desk to avoid his too-sweet stare.

It’s a ridiculous lie at this point. I’ve been granting so many exemptions to the five of them that it’s clear the rules have gone out of the window. Only for them, of course. Only because it would be tiresome to issue all of the strikes they’d otherwise earn on a daily basis.

Lambert’s the second to find me since what I’ve come to think of as ‘the incident.’ After a day hidden away working on the runeforms for Leo’s curse, I’d hoped perhaps the others would get the hint and not turn up for tutoring tonight.

Jasper dropped off a box of origami book roses earlier, murmuring a quiet, uncertain apology and hasn’t approached me since. Dakari and North also seem to have honoured my silent demand for space. Unfortunately, Lambert is like a puppy with a bone. ‘Leave it’ just isn’t in his vocabulary.

He’s wearing his magiball uniform, and there are enough dirty smudges and scrapes on his body that I can tell he’s spent the day in practice. If I try really hard, I can catch the faintest scent of masculine sweat, but smell has never come easily to me as a ghost, so perhaps it’s simply my over-eager imagination.

He’s holding both hands awkwardly behind his back, like he’s hiding something, but I refuse to play into his hands and ask what it is.

I drop my focus back to the damaged index cards. A patron spilled one of those ridiculous newfangled inept water bottles all over the drawer today, and now they have to be fixed one by one.

A first strike offence, but my fingers itched to banish the moron.

“Soo, Boss?” he ventures. “I got you something.”

He…did?

I glance up again and freeze.

“Lambert Winthrop, is that a…”

“A Shrieking Spine plant.” He grins, poking at one of the cactus-like arms of the shrub, causing it to emit a shrill screaming sound that makes me wish I could cover my ears to block the sound. “I even got you this fancy book-themed pot for it too! And a book that?—”

A book that the pot is resting on top of . I hiss in panic, snatching both from him and examining the dirty ring left on the cover with dismay.

The Arcanaeum can fix it, but stars! Why would anyone do that in the first place?

It’s a hand-written field guide to the proper care of magical desert plants, and it’s in remarkably good condition—pot ring notwithstanding.

“Oh, and the shopkeeper wanted to get rid of this one as well.” He pulls out his other hand. “Apparently, it’s called Muddlevein or something? He seemed keen to be rid of it, to be honest. Something about a bargain he made in a bar…”

The second plant is a little underwhelming in comparison to the swollen, spiky limbs of the shrieking spine. It’s little more than a wilted shrub.

I take it as well, grimacing as I feel the brush of magic that doesn’t belong to any arcanist.

Only Lambert could go plant shopping and come back with something from another realm.

Putting the poor abused plant to one side, I let the Arcanaeum claim the book with a sigh. It rifles through the pages with grateful glee that’s tempered slightly by the knowledge that I’m still mad with it for allowing last night to happen in the first place.

“So,” Lambert drawls. “In case it wasn’t already obvious, I’m really sorry that I saw something you didn’t want us to see. I’m more sorry that you have to go through that in the first place. It sounded—Shit. Boss, you shouldn’t have died like that. I hate that one of my relatives was responsible. Can I… Can I stop it? Help with whatever Leo’s doing? I know I’m not smart, but?—”

“Lambert Winthrop,” I interrupt, ignoring the imagined heart flutters taking up residence in my chest. “You are incredibly smart. Don’t try to make me believe otherwise.”

“But I failed?—”

Oh, for magic’s sake.

“Academia is not capable of measuring intelligence. It’s only there to weed out students who struggle with standardised tests. Some of the smartest arcanists to pass through these doors have never passed a single exam.”

His gaze drops to his feet, blond hair swinging down to hide his reddening cheeks.

“Yeah, well, my grades?—”

“Improved rapidly once you were interested. You didn’t fail. Your teachers failed you.”

“If you say so, boss.” He shoots me a charming but sad pearly white smile. “But what I was trying to say was… I’m sorry, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“It’s not something that can be undone.” I soften my tone. “Now. You’re a sweaty mess, and it’s stinking up the Rotunda. Go take a shower, and I’ll consider forgiving you if you do well with your tutoring.”

I mostly blame the Arcanaeum for his nosiness, anyway. I’m pretty sure if it hadn’t invited him in, he wouldn’t have snooped.

He shoots me a true trademark grin this time. “Yes, boss lady.” He steps away, then pauses, turning back to me. “Just putting it out there…but I did win that match.”

Galileo’s words float back to me. Magiball is important to him, but I can’t blow up his already insufferable ego too much.

“You played well.” Better than well. “Leo was concerned that I might damage the projector when that ref?—”

“Fuck! He’s such a douchebag, right?” The last of the tension falls from his wide shoulders. “Well, if you want to join me to celebrate, you know where I’ll be.”

There is far too much cocky swagger in his step as he walks away for my liking. That doesn’t stop the smile haunting my lips.

Why not? that traitorous part of my mind whispers. Why not shower with the golden god who is the first arcanist in centuries to look at me like a person? Why not enjoy what time I have left?

Lambert, despite being an incorrigible flirt, has always respected me. If I told him it would never happen again, he’d accept that. If I told him not to touch me, I believe he’d honour my request.

There’s safety in his simplicity.

I’m already drifting after him without realising it, fiddling with the collar of my shift.

Clothes have changed, and the clothes I died in…aren’t really suited to what I think he wants.

Insecurity hits me as I think back to the night I dressed for that stupid ball. Mistress Ruby—an inept, now long dead—pinned me into this gown. She helped me don the delicate lace partlet and hook it into place.

I’ve seen images of what people wear beneath their clothes nowadays. If Lambert is expecting skimpy undergarments and pieces of pretty string… Well, my plain linen shift might come as a shock.

“I’ll banish his too-firm ass if he looks disappointed,” I mutter to myself.

Perhaps this is a bad idea, but I haven’t stopped floating towards the bathroom. I pause outside, hearing his cheerful whistles that morph into poor renditions of popular songs intermittently, and rest my head on the door.

What if this is a mistake? What if this is opening the way to embarrassment, and hurt, and mockery?—?

The wood swings open without my permission and the safe seclusion of my dark slice of hallway is instantly flooded with the light from within.

Gah! Stupid meddling library!

Lambert looks up, his hair and tattooed muscles glistening beneath the spray, and flashes me an easy smile.

Like he was waiting for me. There’s a smidgen of egocentric satisfaction in his expression, but it’s not the look of a man eyeing a sure thing. More the look of someone who was content to accept rejection but hoped he wouldn’t have to.

“Hey, boss.”

The greeting, so familiar between the two of us, has taken on a deeper husky tone I don’t recognise, and I drop my hands as I struggle valiantly to keep my eyes above his waist.

Magic, what am I doing here? If the university found out I was soliciting a student—even if I’m not technically faculty—it would be a disaster.

“If you say anything about this—about me?—”

The light in his gaze fades, replaced by seriousness. “You think I want to share this experience with anyone?”

The door shuts behind me, and I realise I’ve drifted closer, again.

“Get in here, boss.”

“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 hunger which 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 creeping out 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.

“Fuck. No underwear.”

I’m confused about what he means before I remember that he doesn’t consider a shift an undergarment.

I give him a soft spin, pressing my ass out a little to tease him. “Is this everything you expected, Mr Winthrop?”

The coolness of my tone seems to affect him in strange ways, turning his breath choppy.

“Better, boss.”

He backs up, shoulders falling against the tile behind him as he cocks a finger at me. “Come see what you do to me.”

I float closer before I can stop myself, pressing myself through the glass until I’m within touching distance. Whatever tease I provided has backfired. I’m the one entranced by the sight of the red and angry head of his cock as it disappears rhythmically into his fist.

My tongue darts out to lick my lips before I can help it.

“Fuck. You’d suck me dry if you could, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, tracking the motion.

“Only if you were a very good boy.” I shrug, trying to maintain my composure, though in reality I want nothing more.

Lambert freezes at my words, and a pearl of white liquid spurts from the head of his cock, dribbling down his shaft in a mouthwatering trail I wish I could trace with my tongue.

Interesting.

I performed that particular act multiple times while I was alive, but I’ve never desired it as much as I do right now. Most of the time, it was simply a way to satisfy my partner when I wasn’t in the mood.

Something tells me that sucking Lambert’s dick wouldn’t be anything like those rushed encounters. I would savour tasting him, make him hold the headboard until I was thoroughly satisfied that I’d learned every vein on that gorgeous shaft.

“Fuck. Boss.” His free hand is fisted by his side, knuckles white and veins popping as he fights the desire to touch me.

I want to come. I want to feel arousal pool in my belly and my pussy ache from needing him. I want to ride the edge together, then fall over and shatter. The release I crave is coming for him full speed. The geometric designs of the runeforms across his body are twitching with every pump of his hand. I reach up to cup my own breasts, pinching my nipples even though the action is empty.

“If I could, I’d let you fuck these,” I murmur. “You’re long enough that I could lick you at the same time.”

His eyes are hooded, his body a study in barely leashed tension. It only makes me want to push him further.

“Kyrith,” he warns. “Your rules are looking pretty fucking breakable right now.”

“Would you paint my tits with your cum?” I ask blithely. “Or would you rather finish in my mouth?”

Lambert erupts, jets of white shooting through my body to paint the glass behind me in pearly streaks that make me shudder as the water washes away the beads dripping down his hand.

But it’s his face that captures me. He’s gone from wound-tight to relaxed and shuddering in the space of five seconds. I have to admit, satisfaction is a painfully good look on him. Beautiful, even. It’s a far cry from the practised smiles he usually wears—perhaps the most natural expression I’ve ever seen bless his face. It’s enrapturing. If he looks at every girl like he’s looking at me right now, it’s no wonder they keep coming back for more.

I would.

Then he shatters the moment by reaching for me.

I flinch back through the glass so quickly that his pursuing hands collide with it, the screen a painfully obvious metaphor for the real barriers between us.

“You can’t say you won’t snuggle me after that,” he says, pleadingly. “Fuck the rules, please, boss. Let me hold you.”

My breath huffs out of me as I shake my head to clear it.

That was close. Too close.

“You did well in your game,” I stutter.

He can see me running away. The relaxation that looked so good on him evaporates, leaving behind a complicated mess of emotions I don’t have the composure to read. This was probably one of the dumbest mistakes I’ve ever made.

“Wait! I want to stay with you.”

My head, already turned in the direction of the door, whips back around. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have to be alone.” He’s grabbing a towel, already in pursuit. “Every night. I’m too late to do anything to stop it, but you don’t have to be alone.”

He slips a little on the wet floor, thoughtfully choosing to hop over my discarded clothes rather than simply walking through them.

Perhaps the well-adjusted thing to do would be to remain, to talk it out, and turn him down gently.

But his approach is the final straw for my already active flight response.

Closing my eyes against the emotions bombarding me, I flee.