Chapter 2 #2
I blame it on Halloween and my recent marathon of holiday-themed movies. Last night, I watched Haunted Mansion from the early 2000s, drawn to the love story between a ghost and the woman who had the same face as the love of his life he lost more than a hundred years ago.
A ghost.
Is it a ghost?
Or have I gone insane?
It’s possible. I got turned on by vampires, and I like the idea that I’m being followed by an invisible ghost for more than the suspicion that my very human stalker might’ve finally found me.
Ryan…
His deceptively charming grin. His handsome face and muscular build. Eyes that seemed so kind in the beginning, and longish hair that I used to run my fingers through…
For the first time in ages, I let his image pop into my brain. There. If anything will kill this sudden, unnatural lust, thinking about him should do the trick. He’s still stunning, but any attraction I had died a fiery death when I saw his violent side front and center for the first time.
I think of Ryan, and while my stomach does a nervous flip-flop, my imagination erases his face, replacing it with an unfamiliar man with shocking blue eyes.
My stomach jolts as my knees go weak.
Fuck. Forget my overactive imagination. I need to come, and I need to come now.
I pad inside my bedroom, keeping the light off, but turning the TV on just to have some noise. Usually the distraction helps, but I’m not so sure it will tonight.
I’m too far gone.
My fingers twitch to strip out of my uniform at last; I’d been too exhausted earlier to do it when I first came home. It suddenly feels like too much against my feverish skin. The dress is too tight. The fabric too itchy, too hot.
I’m suddenly way too aware of my body.
God, what is fucking wrong with me?
Shit. I know what’s wrong with me. I swear to God, I’m being haunted by Casper the horny ghost. That makes more sense than anything else, and since it’s Halloween, I decide to just go for it.
Even so, I snort as I shuck the uniform, letting it fall to the floor. Em gave me two so that I can swap them between washes. I have a fresh one in my closet. I’ll wash the other one at the laundromat at the end of my street tomorrow, but for now? I just need it as far away from me as possible.
Standing there in my underwear and my socks, a breeze wafts over my skin. I shiver, and then I suddenly go still. A breeze? Where did that come from? There shouldn’t be one… unless my window is open.
It isn’t. I knew it couldn’t be. I’d checked the whole apartment earlier, but I must be almost delirious if I’m imagining how good it would feel to have it caress my overheated flesh.
Perching just out of sight of anyone who might be looking up at the window, I peek out of the glass, checking the street below. It’s empty.
No Ryan.
I crack the window open, hoping the cool October breeze will cut through the room. I wait a few moments, but it doesn’t help. Fuck. I’m flushed. My thighs are pressing together without me even realizing it, the front of my panties covered in a damp spot.
And, still, that feeling. It’s only gotten worse. Like a warm breath on my neck, tickling my skin. Hands ghosting over my flesh, not-quite-touching my boobs, my hips, my ass.
It’s a possessive touch, and the only way I can get rid of it is by cupping my tits in my hands instead.
A sliver of relief flashes through me and I know what’s coming next. I make quick work of my panties, my bra, and my socks until I’m standing there as bare as the day I was born.
I throw back my comforter, lying down on the rumpled sheets. I bite my lip as I brush my thumbs over my nipples. Slide a hand down… slowly, slowly… over my belly. I don’t exactly mean to. Not really. I just… damn it, I need to do something to take the edge off.
But the second my fingers slip through my wet pussy, the instant I let my eyes flutter shut at how hot and swollen I am, I know I won’t be able to stop until I find some real relief.
And that’s what I do.
Blue eyes—the same blue eyes that I might’ve seen in the mirror—flash through my mind again as I rub a little faster.
My breath hitches, my legs spreading wider so I can use three fingers to masturbate.
I start out slow, gathering moisture, pushing against my mound, flicking my clit with my thumb, but it isn’t enough.
I need more.
Dipping my middle finger into my mouth, adding saliva to the slickness covering the entire first knuckle, I plunge that finger inside of my pussy. I fuck myself with it, still playing with my clit for the added stimulation.
“Cassidy…”
I hear my name whispered on the breeze, a faint echo in time to the blood pounding through my ears. I add a second finger because, hell, one just isn’t enough and I lose myself to the sensations—both of them.
My arousal, and the ghost who is making me so fucking horny.
The idea that some unseen spirit is watching me play with myself doesn’t even seem ridiculous as my lower body tightens, legs trembling, every inch of me ready to climax.
If I don’t, it’s like I might die, and as I have that thought, I arch my back off the bed, digging my heels into the mattress, crying out a sound that could be a plea for help or even a sob.
Then again, as sweat breaks out along my hairline, and I collapse onto my empty bed alone, I think: both.
It might just have been both.