Page 78 of How I Met Your Murderer

Eric chose that moment to crouch down and put his mouth over my cock, the fabric of my overalls dampening where he was sucking. Lucky thing they were black, so the spot wouldn’t easily show.

“That’s very kind. Thank you,” I said, my voice so hoarse she might have thought I was coming down with something. “I’ll be there, cute date and costume and everything, assuming things line up.”

She frowned, finally noticing that something was amiss as Eric nibbled at me through my trousers and I tried to shift away.

“You should sleep more,” she said, like I hadn’t heard that before.

I tapped a finger next to my eye. “You as well. But I’ll work on that if you will.”

She stood and stretched, gazing at the many bottles on the table with a slight frown, and then said, “On that note, I’m for bed. I’ve still got a bit of a drive ahead of me. Best be off yourself, and don’t stay up too late, Raff O’Meara.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I groaned, grateful for the sight of her retreating back a few moments later, my thoughts so scattered that I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d agreed to about opening night.

Eric reappeared a few moments later—not that I’d had any questions as to where he was, even while scuttered, because his hands were on my thighs and his mouth was still on my bits, soaking my only uniform. I did prefer being able to see him, though. The sight of him on his knees in front of me took my breath away and made me forget for a moment how irritated I was.

But eventually, when he pulled back and blinked innocently up at me, I growled, “What was all that for?”

“Payback,” he said, giving me a slow and wicked smile before leaning forward again to continue to torment me with his mouth.

“Payback for what?” I demanded, even as I sank a hand into his hair to hold him in place.

“For breakfast the other day,” he murmured sloppily, and I remembered: the day I ate the full Irish for him, he’d told me he was going to get me back for working him up at the kitchen table, and now he had.

“I surrender!” I slurred, holding up my hands.

“You’re willing to meet all my terms, then?” Eric teased, his eyes darkening as he rocked back on his heels, hands still gripping my thighs.

I grabbed a fresh bottle of Guinness, just in case I needed it for whatever came out of his mouth next. Or whatever his mouth might do. “Try me.”

“I want . . . the full Irish,” he said, and it was clear exactly what he meant from the sudden, solemn set of his face. The air between us hummed with the charge of everything he wasn’t fully saying yet.

I reached out, pulling him back onto the cushions beside me, feeling slightly more sober now that I was catching on. “You want . . . me, inside you?” I didn’t have lube or anything that could questionably pass as such in the van, because no part of me had ever imagined ghost sex being on the menu at Ardruin when I’d taken the job.

“I do,” Eric agreed, brushing his nose against mine and sounding grateful I’d understood him so quickly. “That’s what number ten was on my list. You’ll be my first—and only. And trust me, I’m really, really okay with that.” His eyes were bright, glinting with something unspoken. “More than, actually. Because I—”

Something interrupted him with a low, deep growl. A sound born of pure hunger.

Instinctively, I grabbed the TurboPro and put my finger on the trigger, aiming toward the broken line of black salt I’d been too distracted to fix yet.

But Eric grabbed my arm, holding me back. He sounded as panicked and bewildered as I was when he panted, “No, it’s okay. It’s . . . I think it’s me.”

Slowly, I lowered the weapon. When I turned to him, he had a hand pressed over his stomach like it was hurting him, which was also concerning. Was this some symptom of moving on that Niamh had failed to mention?

My throat was suddenly tight, and the room swam. I regretted every single Guinness, because he couldn’t be implying what I thought he implied.

“I’m . . . hey, Raff, I think I’m a little bit hungry,” Eric said, his eyes wide and confused. “Let’s fix the salt line and then—do you think—could you grab me a snack and bring it back so I can eat it in here on the good couch?”

On my way to the kitchen, thinking back on all the times I’d eaten for him, I remembered that peanut butter was his favorite. I grabbed a whole unopened jar from the pantry, along with two spoons in case he felt like sharing, although I kind of hoped he didn’t. There was nothing I loved more than watching him enjoy himself.

Well—enjoying things with him was up there, too.

I toed our salt line back into place before setting all my gear aside. And then, as Eric stared at the spoon like he’d never held one before and I opened the jar, I recalled a certain passage from The Handbook. Rule #128: Never Feed a Ghost Peanut Butter. Thing was, I couldn’t remember why it was a bad idea. And Eric wasn’t, at least to my Guinness-soaked brain, an ordinary ghost if he was craving something to eat.

What could be the harm, really?

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered as he plunged the spoon into the jar and scooped out a generous bite.

I giggled. Actually giggled, because of all that Guinness. Then I used the extra spoon he had pressed into my hand, because eating something might help me sober up faster, and I needed to really think about what he’d said. What he wanted to give me. Number ten.