Page 80 of How I Met Your Murderer

All right, then. Grand.

I still didn’t have lube, but when I’d gone to the kitchen for the peanut butter, I’d had some idea of where things might be headed, so I slicked my fingers with the coconut oil I’d found in the pantry. Not ideal, but it seemed safe enough and we were in a pinch here.

I kissed him on each cheek, then kissed his hole, already pink and glistening from all the attention from my mouth. Then I slowly worked a finger inside, waiting for him to tense up—but he never did. By the time I was up to two fingers stretching wide, rather than pulling away or asking for a break, he was demanding more.

Fecking peanut butter.

“You take that so good,” I whispered, and that made me realize he wasn’t the only one completely wrecked already. When I drew my fingers out, I couldn’t help admiring how flushed and open he was for me, and my hand went to my own cock.

“Wait,” he groaned at that, flipping around to look at me like he’d sensed what I was doing. “Come here. If you still want . . .?”

Oh, I did.

Especially because, as he kissed me and pushed my hand away like I’d done to him earlier, taking over for me, I was able to look him in the face and tell him, “I’ve never bottomed before, either. I’ve had fingers and toys, but not this.”

I couldn’t give him every first, but this one would do.

Assuming I lasted that long. Eric was completely insatiable when I traded places with him on the cushions, turning and spreading myself to give him access.

“You’re sure your knee is okay like that?” he worried for a moment, frowning at the couch like it had already wronged me, because he was my good boy.

But when I told him it was, he ate me like he hadn’t tasted anything so good in years, tonguing me in all the right ways. He was more cautious when he added an oil-slick finger, and much more worried he would hurt me until he saw how I was dripping from each perfect stroke on my prostate.

I was sure he’d read all about it. I wanted to buy him more books. So many.

He slipped his two fingers out, trading them for his tongue again and licking all around my oversensitive hole. I wasn’t sure if it was the Guinness or how badly I wanted him, but the room was like a carnival of colorful lights, the rest of the castle completely past my awareness.

“I’m ready for you,” I panted. “Any time you want me.”

Eric rubbed my thighs and breathed, “Then come down here and join me on this very soft rug, mo chuisle, mo chroí.”

My pulse, my heart. I didn’t know when or where he’d picked up the phrase, if he’d had one of the other ghosts teach him, but it didn’t matter.

Those words in Irish, from his lips, had me immediately sliding off the couch and into his arms, kissing his glistening mouth as he lined himself up and pushed into me, careful as could be despite the need clearly driving him. Careful with me, which I needed, not because I was nervous or unprepared but because this was the man I loved, for better or worse—and I knew there was worse coming for us, of course there was—and we didn’t have forever, so I needed every second of this to last as long as possible.

“It’s all right,” I rasped as he pushed the rest of the way in. The burn and the stretch quickly softened into the most wonderful, almost unbearably good sense of fullness. “Give me everything. I can take it.”

He kissed my sweat-slicked face as he found a rhythm, his hand stroking my cock in time with each roll of his hips. I didn’t know how long it lasted, because time lost all meaning with Eric fucking me deep into the expensive posh rug, my legs wrapped around him so tightly I was practically another of his tattoos.

After we came, he didn’t rush to pull out, or murmur anything about a shower or getting up off the floor. He just panted in my ear, his head on my chest, something that sounded like actual words but was too soft for me to properly make out. I think that part was deliberate, so I didn’t push. I had things I wasn’t saying to him, too, after all. Like how I could feel my love growing every time he showed me how he really saw me, every time he smiled, every time he reminded me to be better to myself.

Instead, I just ran my fingers through his hair, waiting for him to soften inside me. But he didn’t, really, because apparently The Handbook wasn’t joking about peanut butter.

“You want to go again?” I whispered, even though we’d need to snuggle and kiss for a while before I was ready for another round.

We had all night.

What we didn’t have was our whole lives.

So I let him have whatever he wanted from me, took whatever he would give me, until the world of the living threatened to intrude on us again and another day began.

From the Notebook of Rafferty O'Meara, ExorSquad Spirit Extraction Expert

9thof September

Updated the 24th of October

A FULL ACCOUNTING OF SPIRITS MET IN MY FIRST WEEK AT ARDRUIN CASTLE