Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Park sighed. "Fine. But you’re going first."

Emmeline turned in the doorway and regarded him as though he had proposed something faintly medieval. "Don’t be weird. It’s an enormous bathroom, and it isn’t as though this is our first time sharing it."

"Yes, and we always go separately." He pushed a hand back through his hair. "You take the sunken pool, I take the shower, and we do it in shifts like a pair of civilized people who respect the concept of a door. If I go first, you’ll come wandering through halfway and see all of me. We can’t have that, now can we?"

She considered this with her head tipped.

"Well," she said. "We could..."

"Emmie—"

"But you’re the fun killer." One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Whatever."

She reached down without any ceremony at all, pinched the satin bow at her waist, and pulled.

The ribbon came away with a small hiss.

The robe fell open down its whole length, the sheer panels swinging apart and hanging loose to either side of her, and Emmeline rolled her shoulders back and shrugged out of it the way she might have shed a coat in a warm room.

The lace came off her arms in one long unhurried slide, snagged briefly at her wrist, and dropped.

She gathered the whole cloud of it in one hand, balled it, and lobbed it underarm across the room at him.

Park caught it on reflex.

It weighed nothing as it settled into his palms like a handful of warm air, so fine that he could see the individual lines of his own fingers straight through the pattern, and it was still holding the heat of her body in it; carrying her scent up into his face without the slightest regard for his composure.

He looked up.

She had already turned away and was walking toward the bathroom door; Park’s entire nervous system stopped.

The morning light was coming in low and wide off the windows behind his sister and it was being deeply, criminally generous.

She wore nothing now except the two small scraps of white lace and an expression of complete indifference.

The band of the bralette cut a clean line across her back with the little bow at the clasp sitting dead centre between her shoulder blades, and above it the whole pale expanse of her back and shoulders lay open to the light with her dark hair swaying loose against it—soft, unprotected skin that looked warm enough to bite.

Below that the briefs were doing almost nothing:

They sat high on her hips, the scalloped lace stretched tight across the full, heavy curve of her ass, digging lightly into the soft flesh so that the lower half of each cheek spilled free and moved with every step.

The fabric was so thin it barely qualified as coverage; the deep cleft between her cheeks was clearly outlined, the soft weight of her shifting and bouncing slightly as she walked, the high-cut sides leaving the sides of her hips and the tops of her thighs completely bare.

Every slow roll of her hips made the lace ride a fraction higher, the thin material pulling tighter across her pussy and leaving almost nothing to the imagination—just a scrap of white that clung to her like it was trying (and failing) to stay modest.

Emmeline crossed his bedroom naked (almost) as though it were her own, and every unhurried stride of it was going straight into a part of Park’s memory that was never going to release it.

"Don’t take all day," she said over her shoulder, the door swung shut behind her.

Park stood in the middle of his own bedroom with his sister’s robe in both hands, staring at a closed door, while his body—new, obscenely healthy, nineteen years old—submitted its honest and entirely unsolicited opinion on what it had just witnessed.

In all both his live this had been the first time to see an actual living woman had stood in a room with him and taken her clothes off in front of his face without so much as a pause for thought and between the pair of both lives he had never once had a woman undress where he could see it happen.

And Emmeline had made nothing of it; there had been no glance to check whether he was watching and she had done it as casually as kicking her shoes off inside her own front door.

He was still holding the robe.

He became aware of this too late. His hands had closed around it somewhere in the last thirty seconds; the lace lay heaped in his palms, warm, weightless, still carrying her.

’Put it down,’ he told himself.

He lifted it instead, and breathed her in off the fabric, once, slow, with his eyes closed.

Warm skin. Something faintly floral off her hair. Under both of those, the unguarded animal sweetness she had carried here straight out of her own sheets, before she had put on a single thing designed to be smelled by anybody.

Park opened his eyes.

’Right,’ he thought. ’And that is enough of that, from all parties, effective immediately.’

He laid the robe over the arm of a chair with the exaggerated care, and stepped back from it.

Here was the thing:

He was a transmigrator who had arrived in this house as the youngest child and son of this housed her little brother;

Except the girl on the other side of that door had not felt a flicker of any siblings boundaries:

She had stripped naked in front of him and thought nothing whatsoever, because there was nothing in her to think it with.

She had not been testing him or teasing him or pushing at any line, because as far as Emmeline Bennett was concerned there was no line there to push at; it was as if this house did not hold that particular commandment.

Which left Park, alone, in the middle of his own bedroom, holding a taboo that nobody else in the building carried.

’I am the only prude in a house of pagans,’ he thought, ’and the pagans have better manners than I do.’

That wasn’t reassuring.

Water started up behind the door—the pipes waking with a knock, long steady rush, then a heavy churning splash as a serious volume of water met a serious volume of air.

"I’m in!" Emmeline called. "Come through."

Park pushed open the glass doors and stepped into his bathroom, and for a moment the boy from the cold studio flat with the kettle left plugged in on the last morning of his old life came all the way up in him and simply stopped.

’Wow,’ he thought. ’Rich people.’

The room ran long as a nave; it was all marble everywhere with pale veined slabs standing floor to ceiling on the walls, the floor laid in long planks of the same, all of it polished until the whole room existed twice—once in fact, and once as a soft reflected ghost of itself lying under his feet.

Down the left wall ran a vanity built for two, white counter, twin basins, matte black taps. Above it hung a pair of enormous black-framed mirrors with slim sconces standing sentry between them, each throwing a small votive glow onto the stone, so the whole wall read as a lit corridor of little flames going away from him into the dark end of the room.

And at that dark end, beneath a black chandelier that hung like something confiscated from a cathedral, stood a freestanding tub—a deep white oval sitting alone on the floor in front of a tall black-framed window with the garden lights burning small and cold beyond the glass.

On his right, walled in glass and framed in black, was a shower large enough to hold a committee meeting. Slab marble inside, a rainfall head the width of a dinner plate mounted overhead, a second handheld coiled on the wall, the floor tiled in small pale hexagons for grip.

Folded white towels waited on the bar beside it with the patience of vestments.

Park stood in the middle of it and did the arithmetic anyway, because he was going to be doing this arithmetic for years and he might as well begin now.

The bathroom he was standing in was three times larger than the entire apartment he had died out of.

He had spent that whole last morning worrying about the rent.

’All I had to do was bleed out on a pavement for me to start worrying about which of two sinks to use. If there is a god running this, he has an extremely dry sense of humour and I would like to shake his hand.’

There was a second door in the left wall, past the vanity, standing slightly ajar.

Through it came the low industrious hum of jets and the restless slap of moving water against a rim—and threaded through both, unmistakable, Emmeline lowering herself by degrees into something very hot.

A long breath in, drawn through her teeth.

Then out, slow, and shuddering at the end of it.

Then a low, luxurious, entirely private sound down in her throat as the heat took her, muffled and rising and going on longer than any sound made in a bathroom had any business going on for—and then, in the middle of it, a small helpless "oh"—she had genuinely stopped being aware that anybody else existed.

Park stood on the marble with the flat of one hand pressed to the vanity and stared very hard at a bottle of something expensive.

’She is having a bath,’ he informed himself. ’That is a very hot woman having a hot naked bath. How am I even able to make sense of any of this?’