The hot water made me gasp as I gingerly lowered myself into it a couple of minutes later. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. And it wandered straight back to Detective Michael Malak. Annoyed, I opened my eyes again. I so not needed to complicate my already complicated existence. And falling for a man… a damn cop of all things… would be the complication of all complications. I sighed and grabbed the bottle of shampoo and started to wash my hair. The delicate scent of linden flowers and chamomile filled the bathroom as I worked up a lather.
I caught the blurry reflection of myself in the glazed tiles and quickly averted my eyes. Seeing visions wasn’t something that happened to me very often. A thing to be grateful for, if you ask me since most witches gifted with the Sight looses their sanity eventually.
Joy and I hadn’t been very close, but she was one of those persons who were friendly and kind to everyone whether they deserved it or not. She was a good person, and she hadn’t deserved such an ugly death. At least she was avenged. I comforted myself with the thought that the pain and suffering was over for her while her killer would suffer for an eternity.
I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and climbed out of the tub, pulling out the plug so the water could run out. Having dried off and wrapped a towel around myself, I found myself in front of the mirror.
My wet hair hung in dark ringlets down to where my breasts were covered by the towel. My skin was flushed from the hot bath, pink and rosy, giving the illusion of life. For all intents and purposes I looked like a young woman in her late teens to early twenties.
But I wasn’t alive, nor was I young. I was over 300 years old, and even though I had only been seventeen when I died, times were different back then. At seventeen I had been a woman. Most of my friends were already married and had given birth, some with another child on the way. I had been considered odd, the rare bird, who preferred the plants of the forest to men. The truth was that my mother had raised me to value freedom. And in the 17th century, a married woman was not free. She belonged to her husband like she had belonged to her father or brother. If she was lucky, her husband was kind, but most men back then were not.
But times had changed. Women had changed, and so had men.
Unable to stop myself, I slid my hand across the mirrors’ fogged up surface, conjuring up the essence of Michael Malak, and the view in the mirror changed. No longer did it reflect the image of me with my wet hair and my white towel. Instead it showed a bedroom with sand-coloured walls and warm lighting. An inviting king sized bed with a black modern headboard made a nice contrast to the reproduction of the Raphael’s The Three Graces that hung on the wall above it. A book lay open on the night stand next to the lit lamp, but I couldn’t make out the title.
A part of me wanted to step through the mirror and into that warmly lit bedroom. I wanted to pick up the book and leaf through it, then curl up on the bed so I could breathe in Michael’s scent. But I remained where I was, watching, unseen.
The object of my desire and curiosity stepped into the room. Like me, he was only wearing a towel, and I discovered that I had been right. His body was magnificent. He was as ripped as any of the male dancers at the House of Mirrors, and I greedily let my gaze roam over the broad back, the narrow waist, the gorgeous chest… The shadow of dark chest hair seemed only to enhance the muscles further. The star-shaped scar of a healed bullet wound right above his heart told me that he’d had is own brush with death, and I wondered if he had been shot trying to save someone. Or if he’d just been unlucky enough to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
I watched as Michael ran his fingers through his short black hair. It was still damp from the shower or bath he had taken and it curled slightly at the nape of his neck. I held my breath as he turned and came up to the mirror, giving himself one of those casual, almost unconscious looks before heading over to the bed. When he let his towel drop, my breath hitched in my throat.
He fulfilled the promise of Michelangelo’s David; a divine work of art made flesh. My gaze ran down his body, lingering on the well-developed pecs before sliding down to the defined lines of the abdomen, following the trail of dark hair down to his cock.
A gasp escaped me when he lazily let his fingers follow the same trail my eyes had taken. Heat tingled low in my body as I watched those strong yet sensitive fingers slide down tanned skin. My face flushed as he cupped himself, yet I didn’t close the portal and make the image disappear.
I watched as he sat down on the edge of the bed, then lay back against the pillows. He wrapped his fingers around the slowly growing erection and started to caress himself. My body reacted with an almost painful intensity as a low moan escaped Michael. It was so easy to imagine what it would be like to slide my hand down his chest and feel it heave under my palm, the heat of the skin… the racing heart.
Michael threw his head back and arched slightly, his eyes heavy-lidded, and I could almost pretend that he knew I was there on the other side of the mirror. That it was because of me he was pleasuring himself with long hard strokes. That it was my face he saw before his eyes as he moved his hand faster and faster, twisting his wrist at the end of each stroke. He moaned again. I could see the eruption build up inside of him. Precum beaded on the head of his cock, making it glisten. Then his hips flexed, and I bit my lip as he gave a moan that ended in a grunt, lost in his ecstasy.
My fingers was clutching the towel and I was breathing almost as hard as Michael was. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. I flinched as our gaze seemed to meet through the glass. Startled I moved my hand in front of the glass, breaking the connection. I stared into my own widened eyes, taking in my parted lips, my flushed cheeks.
Had Michael somehow sensed my presence? God help me, but there was a part of me that wanted him to.