I shouldn’t be thinking about this. About him. About the way my body betrayed me, the way I surrendered to something I still don’t fully understand.
I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, willing the memory to fade, but it doesn’t. It lingers, teasing, pulling me back into that room, to the way his touch burned through every layer of professionalism I’ve ever built. To the way his lips brushed against my ear as he whispered words that made me shiver.
My breath hitches, my pulse quickening. I tell myself it’s just the wine, the late hour, and the stress of the day catching up to me. But I know that’s a lie. It’s him. It’s always him.
Ghost isn’t just in my thoughts… he’s in my body now, too. A temptation I can’t seem to escape, no matter how much I try to rationalize it or push it aside. And as much as I want to hate him for it, I can’t.
I’m the one to blame because I know better.
I grip the edge of the blanket, my knuckles whitening as the thought creeps into my mind, unbidden but persistent. The idea of him here, now. His hands instead of mine. His voice instead of silence.
My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a betrayal of the control I’ve fought so hard to maintain. I press my thighs together, a weak attempt to stifle the growing ache, but it only makes it worse. The memory of his touch lingers like a ghost itself, haunting and unseen, leaving me trembling with the weight of what I know I shouldn’t want.
Desire rises, insistent, drawing me further into the fantasy: what it would feel like to surrender completely, to let myself go. To let him take what he’s already claimed in my mind.
My lips part, a sigh escaping as I imagine him here, watching me, whispering my name like a prayer. I slip my hand beneath my long t-shirt to the apex of my thighs, where the evidence of my desire has already soaked through my panties.
I shudder at the first brush of my fingers, the sensation both relief and torture. It’s not enough.
It’ll never be enough.
With a frustrated groan, I push the fabric aside, baring myself to the chill of the night air. My skin prickles, pebbling with goosebumps, and a tremor runs through me as I circle my clit, the movement slow but with purpose. And need.
My eyes flutter closed, my mind filling in the gaps of my reality. His hands. His touch.
“God, you’re beautiful,” his voice breathes, soft and reverent. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
I slip two fingers inside, pressing deeper, imagining it’s him. Imagining his fingers curling and thrusting, coaxing me toward release.
“Fuck, Geneva,” he murmurs. “You’re so tight. So fucking wet for me.”
“Yes. God, yes.”
His hand covers mine, guiding me, urging me on. His grip is strong and firm, his movements relentless, drawing out the pleasure until it’s almost unbearable. I arch my back, grinding against his palm, desperate for release.
“Come for me,” he demands, his voice rough with lust. “I want to hear you scream.”
I do.
His name tears from my lips, echoing off the walls of the room as my orgasm crashes through me, leaving me shaking and spent. My breathing is ragged, the sound harsh in the silence.
As the last waves of pleasure recede, shame begins to creep in. But before it can take hold, something else washes over me… anger.
How dare he make me want him? How dare he invade my thoughts, my dreams, my desires? How dare he leave me like this.
Wanting.
Aching.
Craving.
“Fuck you, Ghost, for making me want you,” I say, my voice hoarse and trembling, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the room. It feels good to let it out, to give voice to the emotions clawing at my chest, so I press on, the words spilling out like poison needing to be purged.
“Fuck you for making me feel this way. For making me question everything I’ve ever known about myself, about control, about boundaries. Most of all, fuck you for leaving me to deal with this… thisobsessionwith you.”
The echo of my voice hangs in the air, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve taken back some small piece of myself, wrestled free from the grip he has on me. I mentally congratulate myself on how cathartic that was.
“If that’s the case, then come fuck me.”
