Chapter 36 Geneva
GENEVA
The glass of wine dangles precariously from my fingertips as I recline on my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. The screen’s glow is harsh against the soft lighting of the room. I stare at the blank document in front of me, the blinking cursor mocking me with its persistence.
My keynote speech. The one everyone is so excited about. The one they’re certain will showcase my brilliance, my insight, and my objectivity.
The outline sits neatly in a document, a skeleton of ideas waiting for flesh, but I can’t make the words come. Every time I try, the same thought rears its head: How do I talk about him without exposing myself?
I take a sip of wine, the warmth spreading in my belly. It dulls the edge of my nerves but does little to quiet the noise in my head. They want to hear about Ghost, about the man behind the diagnosis, the enigma wrapped in danger and control. They want to know how I unraveled his psychopathy.
But how do I make sense of him when I’m still trying to understand? And where do I even begin? How do I distill months of studying him into something academic and detached?
I exhale sharply and reread the first sentence: “Psychopathy is a condition defined by control.”
It’s a good start. Clean. Professional. Clinical.
I take another sip of wine and lean back against the headboard, staring at the words on the screen. Ghost is nothing if not controlled. Every smirk, every word, and every movement is deliberate and calculated. It’s what makes him so fascinating. And so infuriating.
But he wasn’t controlled the last time I saw him…
Ghost looked at me as though he was dying; his pain was so raw it felt like a boulder pressing down on my chest. I swallow hard as the memory of his gaze appears in my mind.
Vulnerability. Longing. Empathy.
Things he shouldn’t be capable of.
I set the wine glass on the nightstand and run my hands over my face. Focus, Geneva. The speech isn’t about him. It’s about his condition, his behavior, and the way he manipulates and deceives. It’s about what makes him a textbook case.
Not the exceptions that make him human.
I type another line and then read it aloud: “Psychopaths thrive in environments where they can exploit weakness. They adapt, manipulate, and control with alarming precision.”
My gaze drifts to the wine glass, the deep red liquid catching the soft light. The alcohol isn’t helping. If anything, it’s making things blur even more.
Turning my head, I glance at the scattered notes around me, papers strewn across the bed like fallen leaves. Quotes from past lectures. Clinical terms. Carefully worded descriptions that strip the humanity from the subject, leaving only a puzzle to be solved.
I pick up one of the papers, scanning a highlighted passage: “Psychopathy is the absence of connection, the inability to form genuine bonds with others.”
Frustration bubbles up in my chest, so I drop the paper back onto the pile. None of these notes or observations account for Ghost. The file doesn’t explain why he saved me, why he let me see him in a way no one else has. And it certainly doesn’t explain why I let him touch me.
I press my palms against my thighs, grounding myself, but the memory of his touch keeps replaying in my mind. The way he said my name like it meant something. Like I meant everything.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it?
Except that look shattered something inside me. Ghost isn’t just a simple answer anymore. He’s the question I can’t stop asking.
I reach for the wine again, taking a long sip before setting the glass down. I’ve spent years telling myself I could maintain control, that I could navigate the darkness without it touching me. But now I’m not so sure.
The cursor blinks, urging me to continue, but I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I close the laptop gently, resting my head back against the pillows. The wine hums in my veins, offering a false sense of calm, but the truth simmers just beneath the surface.
Ghost isn’t just the focus of the keynote. He’s my focus.
I close my eyes, letting the silence of the room wrap around me like a cocoon, but it doesn’t bring the tranquility I hope for. Instead, it brings memories. That day. That moment in the interview room when the boundary between us dissolved completely.
His hands on me. Not manipulative or detached, but intimate and claiming. His voice, low and rough, commanding while laced with something deeper. The way his fingers moved with purpose, igniting sensations I’ve never felt.
I inhale sharply, my thighs pressing together instinctively as the memory flickers like a flame I can’t extinguish.
The look in his eyes as he stood behind me, watching me in the reflection of the glass.
Yes, there was power in that moment. But there was also something else.
A vulnerability that mirrored my own, a shared understanding.
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… this obsession with 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.”
The words slither through the darkness, low and smooth, dripping with amusement. I jerk upright, my heart hammering as I scan the room. Shadows stretch across the walls, the glow of the streetlight outside doing little to illuminate the corners of my bedroom.
“Ghost?” I whisper, my voice shaky and barely audible.
There’s no answer. Nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the hum of the city beyond the window. My hands shake when I lower my t-shirt while continuing my search for any sign of him.
Finding nothing, I sigh. It was nothing more than my imagination. My mind’s desperate attempt to make him real.
“Hello, Doc.”