Play with the Phantom (Midnight #2)

1. The Phantom Letter

The Phantom Letter

Ari

I lick my hand and reach down between my legs, finding my clit and circling my fingers around it furiously. Across from me, Asher watches. His expression is neutral. Almost polite. Like fucking always. Even when I lift my hand and slap it down against my pussy, he doesn’t react. The sharp sting sends an electric shock through me, and my whole body shudders.

“Yes,” I whimper, rubbing myself harder. “Just… like… that…”

Asher’s brows shoot up.

When I glance down, his cock is still soft.

That’s a problem.

Pausing, I sit up slightly. “Is something wrong?”

He exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s forcing himself to stay engaged. “Ari, you don’t have to hurt yourself.”

I groan as I flop back onto the bed, exhaling with frustration. “That’s the point, Ash. I like it.”

His mouth forms a tight line, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Reaching between my legs, I press two fingers inside myself this time. It’s not enough. It never is when I do it myself.

Asher leans forward, reaching out toward me like he wants to contribute, but I swat his hand away.

“Pay attention,” I growl. “I like it fast and furious. And hard. Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, rolling his eyes.

My frustration spikes.

I remove my hand and gesture for him to try. “Go on. Try again.”

His gray-blue eyes bore into mine, and I swear I can feel the impatience broiling underneath his good-natured, golden retriever persona.

He slips his large hand between my legs, circling my wet clit.

“Spit on it,” I tell him.

He stares at me like I’ve suggested something illegal. Instead, he inserts one finger into my cunt and uses my arousal as lube instead.

Fine.

“My clit,” I direct, placing my hand on top of his and pressing down. “Focus on the clit, and you’ll be golden.”

Why is it that I’m the one who’s always carrying the burden of making sure things go smoothly? Work, life… and now, apparently, sex. Even in bed, I can’t catch a break.

Asher’s finger moves in slow, careful circles, and I suppress a groan.

“Harder. Slap me. Pinch it, if you need to.”

“Ari—”

I groan and shove his hand away. “You always say you’re willing to learn what I like, and yet you always get frustrated by what I try to teach you.”

He drags a hand down his face as he sighs. “Can’t we just… do it normally?”

I press my lips together. What’s the point of a man having a massive cock if he doesn’t know how to use it? Because, sure, his dick is big. But I’ve never gotten off from it. Not once. I’m a clitoral orgasm girlie, and Asher isn’t too pleased about having to learn my hot buttons.

And honestly, I'm tired of teaching someone who clearly has no desire to learn.

I sigh and tilt my head. “Yeah, sure. Just fuck me, then.”

He kisses me, but it feels forced, his hand jerking at his cock in frustration. It takes a few minutes—too long—before he finally positions himself between my spread legs.

I press a hand on his chest before he can push in. “Let me go on top.”

He nods immediately, and something in me deflates. He always acquiesces.

I slide off him, walking toward my bedside table, yanking the drawer open. I grab my clit sucker, because if he can’t bother to learn how to do it, at least I have this magical invention. Climbing back on top of him, I straddle his waist but I don’t let him inside me yet. Instead, I turn the vibrator on and press it against my clit.

The sensation hits me instantly. I jerk, my body tensing with pleasure.

Asher groans beneath me, his hands coming to my hips, dragging me against his cock.

At least he’s pretty.

At almost six-foot-five, he’s massive compared to my petite five-two. And sure, he makes me feel safe. Sure, the sex is okay.

But we’ve been dating for two years without progressing forward, and I keep wondering why I’m still here.

“Ari,” Asher mutters, squeezing my hips as I slide against his shaft. “I want to be inside of you.”

“Then you know what to do.”

His brow furrows slightly. But then he lifts me up, and I angle his cock against my entrance. I don’t give him time to gently set me down on his cock.

Instead, I slam down on him.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Are you okay?”

I huff a laugh as I grind down on his cock. “I’m a big girl, Ash.”

Then, I lean forward, whispering in his ear.

“And I like it when you hit my cervix.”

Asher exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking psycho.”

Turning my vibrator up, I slide up and down his cock, rolling my hips as I lift myself and slam back down. The rough friction brings me close and I throw my head back, lost in the sensation.

“Pinch my nipples,” I beg. He reaches up and gently twists my right nipple. “Harder.”

He twists it a bit rougher, but not how I like it. I push his hand away and grab my own breast, rolling my nipple between my fingers, tweaking it the way I actually like.

Pain and pleasure, sharp and perfect.

I’m close, and I close my eyes as I ride him. His hands squeeze my thighs, and I can tell by the way his breathing changes that he’s close too. I wish he’d talk dirty, or moan, or something. It’s like he holds it all inside.

Silent. Detached. Always holding back. Like he’s doing this for the sake of doing it, not because he actually craves it.

I crave it. I always crave it. But no one ever seems to crave me back the same way.

“Talk to me,” I beg, my voice tight as I open my eyes. “Say something dirty.”

“You’re so hot,” he says, sounding unaffected. “So perfect, so sexy.”

“Call me your little cockslut,” I whisper. Adjusting the clit sucker just so, my mouth drops open as the different angle makes my climax creep up quickly.

“Jesus, Ari.”

“C’mon, humor me. Just once. For science.”

He groans instead of answering, so like every time I have sex, I close my eyes and imagine a different scenario. I imagine someone claiming me. I imagine the noises, and maybe even them pushing me onto my back and taking charge from above me.

I imagine how it would feel to have strong hands holding mine above my head as I’m fucked relentlessly.

Sometimes I even imagine it’s not consensual. That the person I’m fucking is taking me—overwhelming me. Leaving me powerless beneath their touch, lost in the intoxicating mix of fear and desire.

Strong hands grabbing my hips, forcing me down harder.

A rough, desperate pace that leaves me gasping, completely at his mercy even when I’m the one on top?—

“I’m coming. Oh, fuck?—”

My orgasm slams into me like a goddamn wrecking ball.

I writhe against him as I ride out the wave of ecstasy. The clit sucker pulls everything out of me, and I moan, shaking and twitching as I contract around him. I open my eyes and don’t look away from him as it rolls through me. I drop the clit sucker off to the side, completely spent.

I blink down at him, still perched on his cock. “You didn’t come?” I ask, moving gently on top of his cock.

He shifts beneath me, his expression tightening. “I’ve had a busy day at work.”

Then, he lifts me off him and sits up, his dark blond hair slicked back as he reaches for his clothes. I watch him for a beat, admiring the way his muscles contract along his back, that perfectly round ass I could bounce a quarter off of, and those thick, long legs.

He pulls his pants on, and something deflates inside me.

“Do you want a blow job?”

He pauses. “I have a meeting soon. I should get back to the office.” He continues putting on his button-up, not even meeting my gaze.

I swallow something bitter, forcing a small smile. “Maybe you could come over after work and we could watch a movie?”

He smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’d like that. I’ll call you, okay?”

With that, he leans down, presses a light kiss to my forehead, and leaves.

A minute later, the front door clicks shut. I stare at the ceiling.

Yeah. He’s not coming over.

I roll onto my side, frowning at my dresser. Something like disappointment coils in my stomach.

Two years of this. Two years of careful space, of lingering just outside of something real. And now, I don’t even know how to close the gap—if it’s even possible anymore.

I shove the uncomfortable feeling down.

Then, I push myself off the bed and head for the bathroom.

I clean myself up, change into pajamas, and wander into the kitchen for a glass of water.

The mail from earlier is still sitting on the counter. I sort through it mindlessly—bills, junk ads, and an envelope with handwriting I don’t recognize. I pause, my brows drawing together. It’s not a bill, or spam, or one of the many postcards my grandma sends me from wherever the fuck she is in the world right now.

It’s a white envelope.

I flip it over, scanning for a return address— nothing .

Huh.

My stomach squeezes. I peel the envelope open, letting a piece of lined notebook paper flutter onto the counter.

The handwriting is rushed—sharp—like it was written in a hurry.

I pick it up, scanning the words, my pulse thrumming unevenly.

A,

You don’t know me. Not yet. But I know you.

I know how light must fall on your skin, how the world must hush when you walk through it.

I know you the way a man knows the thing he was never meant to have—too well, too deep, too much.

They say time changes a man. That’s a lie.

Time only sharpens what’s already there.

And me? I’ve had nothing but time.

I’ll see you soon, angel.

M

I let out a breathy laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach my chest.

Ever since moving into my grandmother’s 1920s bungalow, I’ve received my fair share of strange mail. This isn’t the first strange letter I’ve gotten since moving into this house. I mean, my grandmother never married, had my father out of wedlock, lived on a commune for twenty years, and has recently decided to spend her retirement years hopping from one country to another.

And honestly? I admire the hell out of her for it.

Plus, now I can live in her house for half the price of other houses in the area.

I snap a quick picture of the letter for Frankie, my best friend. Then, I fold it up and set it on the counter.

I either have a stalker or this is another one for Anastasia’s collection.

Frankie

Oh my god. That is so ominous. You should frame it.

Why doesn’t Granny get normal mail?

Frankie

Lol. She’s lived a life. I’m a little jealous, to be honest.

Me too. Here I am, fapping myself raw in front of Asher so he can see firsthand where my clit is. My life is soooo glamorous.

Frankie

Frankie

I should send him a book on female anatomy.

Please do. Highlight the clitoris in yellow and write “X marks the spot” in the margins.

Smiling, I walk back to my home office and open up my email. I recently opened up my own virtual CPA practice, and the inbox is full of client inquiries.

A few hours later, I’m just wrapping up my workday when my phone chimes.

Asher

Hey, I’m sorry but I can’t come over tonight after all. Rain check?

I grimace at the screen.

No problem. See ya later.

Asher

Ari, come on. I said I was sorry. I’m completely exhausted from earlier.

Yeah, you did work hard.

Silence.

He doesn’t respond.

I smirk, tossing my phone onto the counter as I walk into the kitchen.

Maybe it’s because he’s older, but sometimes Asher’s linguistic tendencies remind me way too much of my father. And honestly? Nothing kills attraction faster than feeling like you’re dating a man who talks like a corporate email. He’s sweet. Stable. Predictable. Exactly what I thought I wanted two years ago.

And so goddamn vanilla it makes my teeth ache.

And me? I am most definitely not.

After heating up some leftover pasta, I walk into the living room and curl up on the couch with my iPad and eat. Opening my reading app, I tap the e-book I’m currently reading. I settle under the covers, shifting to get comfortable. Five pages in, the heroine is already being chased through the woods by an eight-foot-tall demon with morally questionable intentions.

Lucky bitch.

Five and a half chapters in, my eyes begin to droop.

Quickly cleaning up my dinner dishes, I turn the lights off, set my security system, and triple-check the locks on all my doors and windows. Once in bed, my body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to shut up.

About work. About Asher. About that letter.

Something about it itches.

Not the words, or even the tone.

But the certainty of it.

I exhale, forcing the thought away. If I don’t think about it, it can’t bother me. I curl deeper into the blankets, pressing my face into my pillow. Except my body refuses to shut up too.

There’s a persistent heat curling low in my stomach, an ache between my thighs that isn’t going anywhere. I let out a slow breath, pressing my legs together. My mind slips back to earlier. Not Asher’s hands or his soft kisses.

Something else.

Something darker. Firm hands grabbing me. Rougher edges, throaty male groans, sounds of desperation. Teeth scraping against my throat.

My breath catches.

I swallow hard, turning onto my stomach.

My thighs clench again, my fingers curling in the sheets.

Jesus. Why am I like this? Why is my brain wired to find danger hot? Why is the idea of someone being a little bit unhinged over me somehow deeply compelling? Probably something to unpack in therapy. Not tonight, though.

I force my breathing to slow, my body to still.

And eventually— finally —I fall asleep.