23. Julia
Julia
The first footstep reaches me through the half-open door.
It is quiet, little more than the muted pressure of a boot against the porch boards, but I have been standing in the middle of my living room listening for it long enough that the sound seems to travel straight through the floor and into my body.
Another follows a few seconds later, slow and measured, and my fingers curl at my sides while the cold air slipping through the opening brushes over my bare legs.
I have had almost twenty minutes to change my mind.
Twenty minutes to close the door, turn the lock and convince myself that opening it in the first place had been nothing more than some temporary lapse in judgment brought on by a black envelope and a man who has become frighteningly good at putting images into my head.
I haven’t moved. The letter is still lying open on the coffee table behind me, the last few lines burned into my memory strongly enough that I don’t need to look at them again.
If you open it, I’ll know you’re ready for me to come closer.
You decide when I am welcome.
So I decided. That is the part I keep coming back to while the footsteps move nearer.
Nobody talked me into this. Nobody made the choice for me or waited until guilt, obligation or somebody else’s disappointment became louder than whatever I wanted.
I read what he asked, sat with it until the first wave of common sense finished screaming, and then I got up and opened the door.
Dangerous doesn’t stop being dangerous just because I chose it. Apparently it can still be thrilling.
My breath catches. I don’t hear footsteps anymore, but I can feel him.
The weight of his presence in the dark fills the room like smoke, my chest fighting to breathe normally while every nerve in my body seems to stretch toward the entrance behind me.
He’s right there. I know because I left the door open on purpose.
I wanted this, but still, a terrifying thrill races down my spine as I whisper, “I know you’re here.”
The silence stretches until the soft click of the front door shutting behind him cuts through the darkness.
I left every light off. I don’t know why.
Maybe because I didn’t want to see his face, or maybe because some reckless part of me wanted the unknown exactly as it was, without giving it features that might make all of this suddenly too real.
Whatever the reason, the anticipation of what comes next has been vibrating under my skin since the moment I turned off the lamp.
Streetlights coming through the windows give me only pieces of the room, enough to turn the furniture into darker shapes against shadow and catch the faint outline of the open-plan kitchen beyond the living room.
When a tall figure moves closer, I can make out the faint reflection in the window glass of broad shoulders beneath a black jacket and the dark shape of a balaclava covering his entire head, his eyes barely visible where the weak light reaches him.
He doesn’t speak. Not really. When he does, his voice is low, rough and deliberately altered enough that the sound seems dragged through gravel before it reaches me.
“You left the door open.”
My stomach flips. I did. Now that he is actually here, fear and something else move through me together, one sharpening the edges of everything while the other settles hot and almost shameful low in my stomach.
I don’t answer. He steps in behind me without another word, and I feel the heat of his body before he even touches me.
One hand slides around my waist and pulls me back against him, firm enough that a breath catches in my throat at the claiming way he does it, while his other hand moves upward with far more patience, slipping beneath the hem of my T-shirt.
Rough fingertips brush over my stomach. Higher.
His palm closes around my breast without hesitation.
He squeezes once, testing the weight of it in his hand, thumb dragging slowly across my nipple until it tightens under his touch.
The broken little sound that escapes me seems obscenely loud inside the quiet room.
Heat rushes into my cheeks even though darkness hides most of my reaction from him, because this feels wrong and right in such equal measure that trying to separate the two seems pointless.
He doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t even turn me around.
He stays behind me with one arm locked around my waist as though he already knows my legs are going to become unreliable, while his other hand leaves my breast and glides back down my stomach.
I’m not wearing anything underneath the T-shirt.
The decision had felt bold while I was upstairs changing after work, before I knew whether he would actually come through the door.
Now, with his fingers reaching the inside of my thigh, bold feels suspiciously close to insane.
My legs draw together instinctively. His fingertips brush over my clit and I jerk against him with a sharp gasp.
He doesn’t give me time to think about it, or even enough time to adjust before two thick fingers push inside me and curl deep, finding that spot just behind my pubic bone and pressing there like he already mapped it from weeks of imagining this.
His palm grinds hard against my clit as his hand begins moving, fast and demanding in a way that has none of the teasing patience from his letters.
He fucks me with his fingers in short, possessive strokes, knuckles wet, the heel of his hand never leaving that swollen little point of nerve.
“Oh, fuck.” My knees buckle.
I reach out blindly and one hand slams against the near wall hard enough to sting, my palm flattening there because it is suddenly the only stable thing within reach.
He doesn’t let me fall. The arm around my waist tightens and pulls me harder against his chest while his fingers keep working me, relentless enough that every stroke sends another shock of pleasure through my body before the one before it has faded.
There is something almost punishing in the pace.
Possessive. As though all those nights standing outside and imagining this have condensed into the hand between my thighs, and now that I have finally let him close enough to touch me, he has no intention of pretending he hasn’t wanted it.
My head falls back against his shoulder.
The movement presses his body closer along mine, and that is when I feel exactly how hard he is through his jeans, the thick line of his dick trapped against the curve of my ass.
Another rush of heat spreads through me.
He is affected, too. That gives me an unexpected little spark of satisfaction, because the letters have always made him sound impossibly composed, like a man who can reduce me to reactions without ever having any of his own.
His breathing tells a different story. It is rough against the side of my face now, faster.
When I roll my hips against his hand, a low sound catches somewhere behind the mask.
That tiny break in his control makes me do it again.
His fingers curl harder. His palm circles my clit with brutal accuracy which makes my mouth open on a cry I can’t swallow.
He leans down until his covered mouth brushes against the shell of my ear, the fabric of the balaclava faintly rough against my skin, and his voice reaches me barely above a whisper.
“Come.” The single word moves through me like another touch.
His palm grinds harder against my clit while his fingers keep driving inside me, and pleasure rises so fast that there is no time to brace for it.
My hand slides down the wall, catches again, and then every muscle in my body tightens around him at once.
The orgasm hits hard enough that my knees give out completely but he catches me.
His arm locks around my waist and takes my weight while my body jerks around his hand, wave after wave tearing through me until a broken sound escapes my throat and turns into the only name I have for him.
“Ghost…” His breathing changes sharply beside my ear as if saying the name I gave him means something more to him.
For one suspended second, his fingers still inside me and the room seems to hold both of us exactly where we are, my body trembling against his while his heart beats hard enough against my back that I can feel it through his shirt.
I smile before I can stop myself. Apparently Ghost isn’t made entirely of control after all.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, enough to make another smaller shiver run through me, but his hand remains against the inside of my thigh while I catch my breath.
The arm around my middle loosens without disappearing, as though he is giving me the choice to step away while making sure I don’t fall if I try.
I don’t try to, instead, I turn my head slightly, curiosity finally winning over the fact that my legs still feel like they belong to somebody else.
His hand settles more firmly at my hip. Not rough, just enough to stop me from turning farther and I understand.
He is willing to let me feel him. Seeing him is going to happen on his terms.
His grip shifts and he turns me only after he takes a small step backward.
For the first time, I get something close to a proper look.
The darkness still does most of the work for him.
The black balaclava covers everything except the narrow opening around his eyes, and even those are difficult to make out unless he moves through the thin wash of streetlight coming from the windows.