Chapter 7 #2
I reach into my pocket to grab a hard candy and pop it into my mouth while he watches me with silent curiosity and a little bit of awe, like he’s still trying to convince himself that I’m actually standing here in front of him.
The familiar, sweet butterscotch taste melts on my tongue, chasing away the tension in the back of my throat that carries the memory of choking on liquor and my own vomit.
I drag my gaze over him, trying to figure him out.
I clock the bulge near his ankle, and the far more exciting one between his thighs, but the rest of the pieces don’t quite fit with the man who wears silk briefs and waxes his wood floors.
“What?” he asks, glancing down at himself then back up at me.
Damn, he is sexy though, with those hard hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones.
He has just a hint of dark stubble on his cheeks that tempts me to pull off my glove and feel the roughness of it under my fingertips.
Even now, I can see that submissive spark in his eye, the desperation to know what I find so amusing so he can change it to please me.
Fuck. This Moretti might be more trouble than he’s worth.
“Nothing, I just didn’t picture you as the kind of guy who would go out to a club dressed in sweats,” I confess, crunching the candy between my teeth.
“I wasn’t exactly planning to come here tonight.” He bristles, and I bite back the urge to grin.
No, he wasn’t. But he came anyway. Maybe I should be a little jealous of his interest in The Ghost if he’s so willing to come running at the chance to catch a glimpse of him.
And, yes, I realize it’s bordering on padded room territory to be jealous of myself.
But he doesn’t know we’re one and the same.
Would he have come running if he’d known I was the one who would be here?
The image of him writhing on the couch, jerking himself off with my leather glove on his hand brings another half smirk to my lips. Yes, he still would have come to the club tonight, I’m sure of it.
“Oh? What brought you here, then?” I ask innocently, dying to know what kind of lie he’ll spin when he’s on the spot like this.
He sits up a little straighter and a hint of dangerous authority overtakes the submissive gleam in his eyes. The slightest shift and in an instant he’s all Moretti, even if he is wearing sweatpants instead of an expensive suit.
“I was looking for someone I thought might be here.” The answer is casual and dismissive, but it’s the opening I was hoping for.
And here I thought it would be hard to get information from him about where they stand on the Sleepless Reaper issue. Two minutes in and he’s ready to offer it to me on a silver platter. The urge to praise him is strong again, but I need to play it cool.
It’s not even hard to put on a flirtatious smile for once, running my leather-clad fingers up his forearm as I lean in even closer.
“Someone you’re planning to take out?” I purr.
Maybe I should be afraid of his answer, but instead there’s a pulse of excitement in my gut.
I don’t know if it’s because I already died once and there’s a powerful, almost invincible feeling that courses through me at the thought of anyone trying to hurt me again, or if it has more to do with the way he automatically tilts his face towards mine like he’s hoping I’ll kiss him.
A smile stretches across his lips.
“Careful,” he murmurs, a hot flutter of his breath ghosting over my lips. “Questions like that might make me wonder who you’re working for.”
Shit. This might be harder than I thought after all.
I chuckle and bump my nose against his, bringing my hand up to cup his jaw, just the way I imagined doing after he licked his own cum off my glove the other night.
“I don’t work for anyone but myself.” I tilt my head and nip at the edge of his jaw, feeling his stubble briefly against my tongue. He lets out a low, quiet moan that would have been drowned out by the music and the other sounds of the club if we weren’t so close together. “Tell me your name.”
“Alessio.” He answers automatically, then blinks like he’s coming out of a fog. “Fair’s fair, I want to know yours too.”
I laugh again. “You’re supposed to make demands before you give up your leverage, Alessio,” I growl his name and his eyelids flutter. “‘Sir’ worked just fine before, why don’t we stick with that?”
I start to move back and his eyes snap open with a hint of fear and a fresh wave of desperation in them, like he’s afraid I’m about to vanish right in front of him.
“I’ll call you Sir when I’m on my knees,” he says. I don’t miss the when of it all. Not if he’s on his knees for me again. Such a good slut. “But I need something else to call you the rest of the time.”
“I don’t have a name,” I whisper, my throat tightening involuntarily. “I’m just a ghost.”
I’m dancing dangerously close to outing myself, but I don’t know what else to tell him. I could make up a name, but nothing feels right, and I don’t want to hear a fake name on his lips.
He studies me quietly for a few long seconds, like he’s trying to strip away all my layers so he can see my secrets. I look away just to be safe, to make sure he can’t see the haunting visions in my eyes.
“There are two words for ghost in Italian,” he says, and I look back in his direction now that he seems to be finished trying to probe me.
“Fantasma is the word you use when you’re telling a ghost story or maybe talking about a dead loved one.
Spettro is a specter or a wraith. It’s menacing and terrifying. ”
He makes a move like he’s going to touch me, then balls his hand up into a fist at his side. One corner of my lips twitches, and I cock my head, waiting to hear where he’s going with this.
“Take me back to my place, Spettro?” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, just on the edge of begging. “Make me kneel for you again.”
How could I possibly say no to a request like that? Even ghosts deserve to feel alive every once in a while, don’t they?