14
Tristan
Demi didn’t come home last night, and her cat spent hours following me around, meowing pathetically. Mittens was lonely, and to be honest, so was I. The manor is too quiet without her, too dull. She brings life to these old halls, and without her, this place feels like nothing more than a tomb.
I’m not sure where she spent the night. Plenty of ideas crossed my mind through the long, dark hours, and none of them felt very good to think about. What if she were with another man? What if she went back to that asshole ex of hers? Worst of all, what if something happened to her?
The night was endless, and my worry for Demi kept me on edge.
Now, as dawn fades into the golden hour of morning, my front door opens, and I’m flooded with relief.
I watch from the staircase as Demi comes home, wearing the same clothes she wore to work yesterday.
She looks a little disheveled, but she’s still so beautiful I’m at a loss for words.
Most importantly, she appears unharmed, and the sight of her soothes the torrent of worry I’ve been swimming in for the past twelve hours.
Before I know it, I’m standing right next to her, as if my spirit can’t bear any more distance, and the staircase just isn’t close enough. Being near her makes me feel whole, whatever that means .
She’s not wearing any makeup, her hair is wet from a shower, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more stunning. But she smells like someone else’s shampoo. The scent of her is clean and cold like the sea, unlike the particular earthy, floral perfume I’ve become obsessed with.
Jealousy and longing are two sides of the same coin, and they both hit me at the same time. I feel it almost physically. Demi spent the night with someone, and in no world could that someone ever be me.
My mind is rampant, taking me down a thought path that is wholly unbidden.
I find myself wondering if his hands were rough or gentle with her, and which she prefers.
Did she make those sounds for him that I heard from her room the night of the storm?
Did he make her come? Most painfully, I wonder whether he held her in his arms afterward, or if he took the incredible gift of holding a woman through the night for granted.
I wish I could touch her, hold her. I wish I could be that man for her, if she’d have me. If nothing else, I wish simply for the chance ?to try.
Mittens comes running into the foyer, meowing with unabashed glee. Demi laughs and crouches down, pulling the giant cat into her arms and holding it like a baby.
“Did you miss me?” she asks. Mittens meows and sets her big paw on Demi’s chest. “I fell asleep on Auntie Blue’s couch last night. I’m so sorry I left you all alone!” She peppers the top of Mittens’ furry head with kisses.
Jesus Christ. She was at Blue’s, and here I am spiraling to the depths of despair, thinking of someone’s hands on her. I’m a goddamn mess .
“Well, not all alone,” Demi adds, looking around, as if she’s trying to find something. “Hi, Tristan.”
What I would give for her to look at me, ? ?really ? ?look at me, and say my name.
Without thinking, I reach for her and touch her cheek.
She gasps softly, and her clear blue eyes light up, searching the space in front of her for a sign of my presence.
Her skin looks smooth, and I’m certain that touching it for real would feel like silk.
The place my hand rests turns a soft, rosy hue, as if a cold wind nipped her there.
Another gasp releases from her full lips as her shoulders tremble with a shiver.
I’m standing so close to her, close enough to kiss, and, god, there’s nothing I want more.
It’s been so very long since the last time I felt the power of a really good kiss, and I just know that with Demi, it might just be the best I’ve ever had.
I want to tell her that I missed her, and I want to wrap my arms around her and press my mouth to hers.
She leans forward, spilling Mittens from her arms onto the floor. When she straightens, I notice a slight flush on her chest; her eyes are bright and curious.
Demi points to her other cheek. “Touch here.”
Her command unravels me.
I do as she says, that phantom heart at the center of me pounding like a drum.
My knuckles caress her cheek, and I watch her skin turn rosy under my touch.
The air between us and around us becomes heavy and charged.
There’s a hitch in her breath, her chest rises and falls unevenly, drawing my attention to the swells of her breasts under her shirt.
Christ .
Demi runs her fingers through her hair to demonstrate, then says, “Here.”
I step closer. If I had a body, mine would be pressed right up against hers.
I can feel the rhythm of her breathing. As I set one hand on the curve of her hip, I drag the other through her hair as she showed me.
Her golden locks gently blow back from her face as if on a breeze as I slide my fingers along her scalp.
God help me, her eyes flutter, and another shudder moves through her. I keep her head cradled in my hand, and I swear she leans into it. Gently, I massage her scalp, and she closes her eyes with a sigh.
It’s an honor to touch her, to make her feel good, even if it’s only the whisper of sensation for the both of us. My gaze rakes down her body again, and I see the way her fists are clenched. Her nipples are hard, pressing against the fabric of her shirt.
I don’t even want to dare to hope for it to be true, but it feels like she’s turned on.
Like I’m ?turning her on. If I’m wrong, it will crush me, so I try not to overthink it, and I just stand there with her head in one hand and her hip in the other and pray to whatever deities exist to let me stay like this with her forever.
Her eyes blink open. “Your touch isn’t cold anymore. It’s becoming warm. So warm,” Demi says, her voice deeper, huskier than I’ve ever heard it.
I feel it, too. The warmth. It radiates in me and around me, just like it did the night of the storm when I watched her chase her pleasure in her sleep. Not just warmth, but heat.
She takes her hand and drags it down the front of her throat, across her collarbones. My eyes track every movement like she’s casting a spell on me. I’m bewitched.
“Here,” she says softly.
I would do anything for her.
Taking my time, I cup the front of her throat with my hand. The heat in me rises as her head falls back slightly and her eyes close again. Her pulse vibrates, and I feel the way it starts to race.
What started out as a simple touch as a result of my poor impulse control has turned into something else entirely.
It feels like a dream. How could touching her like this, without corporeal form and with only the suggestion of sensation, feel like the most erotic moment of both my life and afterlife?
In the nearly eighty years that I have existed on the planet, whether as a man or a ghost, I’ve never experienced desire as powerful as this.
Mustering the strength to move with intention and not maul her whole body with my hands takes a monumental effort.
My self-control and decency are hanging by a thread.
I want to see how it would make her feel if I press my hands to her breasts, how she’d react if I brush my thumbs over those nipples that look so pretty and needy for attention under her shirt.
Would she cry out if the warmth radiating in me met the warmth between her thighs?
With all the restraint I can muster, I trail my hand down the length of her throat, and her voice rumbles with a low moan.
It’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard: a deep, alto note that feels like music I could listen to for eternity.
I touch along her collarbones, first one side, then the other, and Demi trembles for me.
“Is this really happening?” she asks .
Yes, ?I want to reply. Yes, I’m here. Yes, my hands are on you. Yes, I want more—I want you.
Demi pulls her thumb across her pouty lips, and I watch with rapt attention.
“Here,” she says.
Fuck me.
The thought of kissing her unmans me. Her breath mingling with mine, her soft lips yielding to me, our tongues testing, dancing.
And yet… I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be the same.
If I press my mouth to hers now, it would only be the poor memory of a kiss, the hint, just a brushing of warmth and nothing more.
I fear being so close yet so far from the real thing might kill me all over again.
Instead, with no small amount of mourning, I caress her sweet mouth with my fingers, and the look on her face almost makes up for the grief of knowing I can’t kiss her.
Her expression is as beatific as it is full of desire.
There’s a fire in her eyes that mixes with the most tender wanting I’ve ever seen.
I can’t explain it, but I feel we are connected in a way that transcends the planes of existence to which we both belong. She’s a mortal, and I’m a ghost, and yet we’re meeting somewhere in the in-between, a liminal space that ties a thread between her and me.
And I know, after this moment, I will never again be the same.
For the briefest, most fleeting of seconds, her eyes catch mine, and it’s like she sees me. There’s awareness and recognition in those blue depths, and I want nothing more than to freeze time and stay like this forever. But then she blinks, and it’s over .
Demi’s phone buzzes, and she reaches into her back pocket to grab it.
I’m still standing in front of her, so very close, admiring the little cleft in her chin and the curve of her cheekbones.
Her phone buzzes again, this time in her hand, and I glance down to see "Unknown Number” flash across the screen—her ex.
She rolls her eyes and declines the call, shoving her phone back in her pocket. The air around us loses its charge, and the bubble of our intimacy bursts. I find myself deflating from the most incredible moment with her. Interrupted by a man who’s not worthy of any scrap of her attention.
This fucking guy.