Page 5 of The Ghost of Christmas Present

Panties pulled askew by her stretched position revealed a hint of dark curls and deep mauve paradise.

If his heart were still beating, it would be racing.

“My love, indeed. If only you knew, my dear Louisa, how much I love you. How I’ve fallen in love watching you day after day. How many times you’ve been here alone, but not truly alone. I let myself believe that you get some sort of comfort from my presence, that you sense me,” he murmured, returning to the spot behind her, bending low to whisper above her hair.

He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead, warm tingles radiating through his not-quite-solid form.

Louisa moaned in her sleep. “Hm?”

Maybe it is time for a Christmas Eve miracle, Mortimer thought to himself. When the brain is relaxed, slumbering, it often perceives the truth, too at ease to force out a logical explanation.

“Hello, my love. My Louisa,” he murmured, swallowing hard as he knelt behind her.

In her sleep, she smiled and twitched a cheek, a sweet dimple forming.

“It’s Mortimer, my dearest.” His hand crept out and dared to caress her soft dark hair, moving it back from her beautiful face. “How like an angel,” he began but left the rest of Hamlet’s speech unsaid.

A sleepy chuckle huffed from between parted, pouty lips.

“Ah, I know. I know that there are times you are a naughty angel.” His voice changed, warring with himself to keep things sweet and affectionate instead of giving in to the lustful urges that instantly doubled when he touched her. “If only you knew that I existed. That I would cherish you. Spend my days with you. I would make you happy, I think.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s not impossible for me to be the companion you wish for—mentally or physically.” A warm, not-quite solid finger trailed down her arm.

“Ohhh, yes.”

He rose, a sharp, unneeded intake of air in his spectral lungs. Louisa writhed and her eyebrows lowered when he pulled away.

Intelligent minds are most receptive to the unknown, to the truth of things. They want to learn.

He could talk to Louisa like this, convince her he was real, that he wasn’t just a happy dream, perhaps.

Or he could make sure she had a very, very happy dream, indeed... Or both.

“Why don’t you let me read to you, my Louisa?” he whispered, taking a book from her pile to his lap as he settled behind her once again. With deft motions, the pages flipped without him touching them, simply moving the air around them. He found a steamy section in one of the dark, hedonistic novellas among her unread books, pages fanning as he gently traced the sleepy curve of her shoulder.

Over the years, the aging academic had learned to put thoughts of propriety aside when needed—and convincing Louisa that he was real and could please her was of the utmost necessity.

Mortimer’s voice was a dark whisper, throbbing as his own manhood began to pulse with the energy that flowed through him.

“‘There’s a quiet cacophony. Leo and Robbie make their own sort of primal, pleasurable noises, Tessa and I gasp from the spectator seats, which become instantly less spectator-y.

Robbie has a death grip on Leo’s arm with one hand, and his other reaches back to snag me in a grip that screams “Mine,” possessiveness and sex and heat, all in five fingertips.

Leo’s hand digs into the patterned pink fabric between Tessa’s thighs, dragging it up as he pulls her closer, bruising grip turning into kneading. Any second, I imagine his growl will turn into a contented purr as his jaw goes slack and his eyes turn into black pools of pleasure.

“Fuck...” Leo breathes out.

“That’s next,” I say, not thinking clearly. Leo’s reclining. His dark cotton pajama pants are pulled taut in the front. Tessa licks her lips, gasp turning into a moan.

“Is it that good?” she asks, rubbing Leo’s shoulders.’”

“Ohhh, God, yes. So good.” Louisa squirmed in her sleep, her hand traveling to her panties and sliding in between her legs.

“May I keep going?” Mortimer whispered.

“Mm. Never stop.”

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