Chapter 1 #3
“And ghost hunting!” I finish triumphantly.
“But not the boring EMF-detector kind. I just wander around creepy places with a Polaroid and demand they show up in my selfies. Sometimes I swear I catch orbs. Sometimes it’s just dust. Either way, great content.
Though, usually I get the most activity when I’m doing the nudes.
I think most ghosts are kinky bastards.”
I bounce excitedly in my seat, unable to hold still for a second longer, his eyes stay frozen on my chest now, throat bobbing. “Oooh! Ooh Ooh! And I love horror yoga.”
“…Yoga?” he interrupts faintly, like that’s the lifeline he’s clinging to.
“Yes! It’s where you put on an entire horror movie soundtrack, lay out a tarp covered in fake blood, and stretch in dead body poses until it’s done!” I grin. “I love yoga. You’d be surprised how flexible I am.”
The fork actually slips from his hand this time, clattering against the plate. His cheeks go pink, his gaze snapping down, then back up again like he’s trying to be a gentleman but his cock already RSVP’d to my Monster Muff Mash.
Inside, I hum happily. Nothing tastes quite like nervous lust, and he’s got it in spades. He’s four scotches and five waters in, but his dick is probably weeping right about now.
He’s still blushing when the waiter swoops in to clear the plates, hovering just a second too long, eyes glued to me as if I might break into song or shed my dress right there.
He lingers long enough to make my date bristle again, jaw tightening, shoulders squaring like he’s about to challenge the poor man to a duel.
I beam at them both. I love a little competition.
But now I’m realizing I don’t remember my date's name. Was it Tim? Tom? No, Henry! That was it! Dessert menus arrive, but I wave mine away. “No thank you,” I chirp. “Unless it’s pumpkin pie. Or men.”
His eyes widen. “Men?”
“Mhm.” I rest my chin in my hand, lashes batting.
“Men are like Halloween candy. Some are sweet, some are nutty, and most of them melt under pressure. I like them all. You? You’re like a…
uhhh, Butterfinger! Messy, slightly annoying, but oddly satisfying.
Maybe. I still have to make it to that last part. ”
I wink.
His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. The poor man looks like his brain’s been unplugged and rebooted, but his body hasn’t gotten the memo—his legs shift under the table, his hand twitches against his scotch glass, and I can practically hear the argument happening in his skull: run away, she’s insane vs goddamn, she’s hot.
I twirl the stem of my wine glass lazily. “You’re thinking too hard,” I sing-song.
He clears his throat, voice coming out rough. “I, uh…yeah.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, cleavage a careful invitation. “It’s okay. I like it when men overthink. Makes it easier to surprise them.”
“Surprise?” His voice cracks on the word.
“Mhm.” I smile sweetly. “Like a jump scare. You never see it coming, and then—bam.” I clap my hands together, making him jump in his seat. I giggle, delighted. “See? Fun, right?”
He scrubs a hand over his face, muttering something like, “Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t worry,” I coo, kicking my heels lightly under the table until one grazes his shin, and I let it linger and trail higher. “I won’t bite.” I pause, my grin stretching. “Unless you ask nicely.”
The poor man nearly knocks over his scotch.
I sip my wine, humming happily. Dinner’s winding down, the plates are gone, and I know what’s next. It’s always the same dance: the awkward pause, the maybe-I’ll-call-you, the excuse to leave before things get too weird.
But not tonight. Tonight I’ve got him exactly where I want him: half-terrified, half-hard, one wrong word away from making the worst decision of his life.
I lean across the table, voice dropping low, playful, conspiratorial. “Want to come to my place? It’s very…festive.”
He blinks. “Festive?”
“Oh, yeah.” I nod enthusiastically. “Think Haunted Mansion, but with more glitter and fewer lawsuits. I’ve got a collection of twelve-foot skeletons, a fog machine in the kitchen, and a bathroom mirror that screams when you flush. People take Instagram photos there like it’s an art exhibit.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “That…sounds…fun?”
“Fun,” I repeat, tasting the word. “Exactly. It’ll be like a little field trip. I’ll even show you my pumpkin family.”
“Your…pumpkin family.”
“Yup. Gus, Petunia, little Harold, and the extended family members too.” I grin proudly. “They’re seasonal, but they’re very supportive. You’ll love them.”
He opens his mouth, shuts it, then drains what’s left of his scotch like he’s bracing for a plane crash. I know that look. I’ve seen it a dozen times. That split second before men decide if they’re about to get lucky or murdered.
I lean forward, chin propped in my palm, and let my smile soften into something syrupy-sweet. “Relax. No weapons or restraints will be making an appearance tonight,” I let the pause hang just long enough before adding, “not unless you beg for it.”
His pupils blow wide, like floodlights in the dark. Ohhh, there it is. The horny override. Men are so predictable—give them one filthy breadcrumb and they’ll follow you straight into the woods.
I giggle, innocent as a cherry flavored hershey's kiss.
Which is obviously the most kinky and not at all innocent candy that it pretends to be.
“Kidding. Mostly.” I trail the tip of my nail along the rim of my wineglass, slow, deliberate.
“But I will show you the lace hidden under this dress—or lack thereof. Just saying.”
That does it. His scotch glass wobbles in his grip, and he swallows hard enough I can hear it. The forked road in his brain—run or fuck—has officially merged into one.
“Check?” he croaks, waving the waiter over like the restaurant is suddenly on fire.
Inside, I hum happily. Hook, line, and…it's officially time for the undead spread.
Even if Halloween is still three weeks away.