20. Charlie
twenty
Charlie
My entire body thrummed with need, every nerve ending screaming for release.
I’d been so close. So bloody close—another five seconds and I would’ve come down Bat’s throat like a proper mess.
But the promise of something better, of Bat buried deep inside me while I fell apart around him, made the wait worth it.
“Wait.” I forced myself up on shaking legs, my cock bobbing obscenely as I stumbled towards the wardrobe. “Just in case Brad comes looking for me.”
I wedged myself between the wardrobe and the wall, braced my shoulder against the solid oak, and pushed. Hard.
Nothing. Not even a wobble.
I groaned, putting my full weight behind it. The bloody thing didn’t budge. Probably weighed more than my entire flat’s worth of furniture combined. I bet Brad could shift it with his little finger, the bastard.
“Having trouble there, gorgeous?”
“Shut up.” I abandoned the wardrobe and grabbed the flimsy bedside table instead, shoving it against the door. It looked pathetic—a toddler could knock it over—but it would have to do. I placed my glasses on top of it for good luck.
“You know, we could just put a sock on the door,” Bat said, grinning while whipping off his shirt and shimmying out of his jeans with impressive haste. “That classic signal.”
“Sure, if you want a fistful of salt to the face when Brad kicks down the door.”
“Point taken. Now get that cute ass of yours back to this bed before I drag you here.”
I ignored him, rooting frantically through my rucksack instead. Where was my toiletry bag? Had to be in here somewhere. My hands shook as I dug past spare pants and crumpled T?shirts.
There. At the very bottom, squashed beneath everything else.
I pulled out a tube of lube so battered it looked like it had survived a small war—half the lid was snapped off, the container horribly sticky.
“Lovely,” I muttered, holding up the sorry excuse for lubricant.
Bat’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, aren’t you prepared.”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s almost older than you are. I obviously don’t have condoms, but—”
“Oh, I’m definitely getting you pregnant tonight,” Bat interrupted, his grin turning wicked. He brought his hand to his cock, taking it in hand whilst his eyes remained glued to me. “Gonna pump you so full of my ectospunk you’ll have twelve ghost babies.”
My knees nearly buckled. Jesus, he had a mouth on him.
“God, yes. Breed me.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
Bat’s hand stilled. “…What?”
“What?”
“Breed you?” His nose wrinkled.
Heat shot to my cheeks. “It’s—never mind. It’s a sex thing.”
“A sex thing.”
“From this decade, apparently. Forget I said anything.”
“No, no—I’m filing this away for later mockery.” His smile turned filthy again. “You kinky thing.”
I crossed the room on unsteady legs, blood rushing through my ears, heart hammering almost painfully. This was insane. I was about to have sex with a ghost. Pretty sure that this was strongly advised against in the ExorSquad handbook.
I collapsed onto the narrow single bed, the springy mattress dipping under my weight.
“I… haven’t had sex in a while,” I whispered, as if it were some shameful secret.
Bat’s forehead crinkled. “And who do you think I’ve been fucking for the last few decades? Lady G?”
I hooked my finger under Bat’s thin leather collar, dragging his mouth to mine.
The kiss was desperate, all tongue and teeth and barely restrained hunger. He tasted like nothing and everything, like the memory of cigarettes under starry skies and the ghost of mint.
I pulled back just enough to speak, my mouth brushing his soft, cool lips. “Now breed me like you promised.”
I pressed the tube into Bat’s palm. Climbed onto my hands and knees as he shifted down the mattress. The single bed barely contained us—my knees jutted past the edges, precarious, like I might topple sideways at any moment.
“Christ, this bed’s tiny.”
“Good thing I don’t take up much space.”
His mouth found my hip bone. Lips dragging across the jutting ridge, soft then sharp—teeth scraping skin. My spine curved without permission, body chasing his touch as he worked across to my other hip. Lower.
He kissed the flesh of my butt. Alternated between gentle and vicious—little bites that punched gasps from my throat. Each one a live wire straight to my cock, hanging heavy and wanting between my thighs.
I braced for the chill of the lube. That familiar clinical slide, fingers working me open.
Instead—something else. Still cold, very cold, but not liquid.
Wet. Soft.
A tongue.
“Oh!” The sound ripped out of me, surprise and want tangled together. “You don’t—fuck—you don’t need to do that.” Should I mention I hadn’t showered since this morning? Would that completely murder the mood?
“Are you kidding?” Bat’s voice vibrated against my skin. “I can’t eat crisps. May as well eat your ass.”
My mouth opened—protest half formed—but then his tongue swept across my hole, one broad deliberate stroke, and thought shattered like a guitar string snapping mid-solo.
“Fuck.” The word dissolved into the pillow.
He worked me over with shameless enthusiasm, tongue circling and pressing, dragging moans from somewhere deep inside me. The bed springs creaked ominously under our combined weight—well, my weight and whatever ghostly physics kept Bat solid.
My legs trembled. Threatened to give out entirely. Every inch of my body sang, a crescendo building note by impossible note. Fuck. How was he making me feel this good?
I’d never dated someone who was into rimming. I’d been rimmed exactly twice before—both times awkward, perfunctory. This was very much something else entirely. Bat attacked my hole like he was starving, like this was the first meal he’d had in decades.
Which, technically, it probably was.
“Bat. That’s… oh god, that’s…”
“Good?” His breath ghosted cool against wet skin.
“Understatement of the bloody century.”
He chuckled—vibration shooting straight through me, making me jerk forward. Then his hands gripped my ass, spreading me wider as he dove back in with renewed determination.
I buried my face in the pillow, muffling the embarrassing sounds pouring from my throat. His thumb hooked around my rim, pulling gently. Opening me. The stretch sent sparks up my spine as his tongue pushed deeper, working me from the inside.
“Bat!” I fisted the sheets as tightly as I could. “Please, just shove it in me.”
“Not yet.” He murmured against me. “That was just the first course.”
The snick of the lube bottle made me twitch. Then his thumb—properly slicked now—pressed against my entrance. Far colder than his tongue. He worked it in slowly. Carefully.
“Still good?”
“More than good.” My voice barely worked. “Please, just… more.”
His thumb pumped in and out, stretching me gradually whilst his other hand stroked soothing circles on my lower back. The dual sensations—pleasure and that bright edge of pain—had me trembling.
“Please, Bat.” My fingers twisted in the sheets. “Just get inside me. I really fucking need to come.”
He pulled back slightly—the loss of his mouth a physical ache. “How do you want this?”
I twisted to stare at him over my shoulder, exasperated. “Literally like this.” What else did he need? I was on my hands and knees, ass in the air, prepped and begging for it. “What more instruction do you require?”
His grin turned predatory. “I mean, do you like it gentle or rough?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Oh, definitely not gentle.”
Bat’s laugh came low and dark. Crack. His hand slapped against my thigh—fierce, stinging—before his fingers dug in, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
“Splendid.”
I barely had time to process before he hooked his thumb into my rim and pulled down. Opened me roughly. My knees buckled, dropping me lower as my cock jerked between my legs.
“Fuck!” The word ripped out.
The ancient bed springs protested, frame groaning like it might collapse under my sudden weight shift. I buried my face into the musty pillow, breathing dust and decades of other people’s dreams whilst I shook.
Bat moved behind me. Positioned himself, blunt head nudging my entrance—cooler than living flesh, but solid. Real. Surprisingly thick for someone so scrawny. The stretch was going to burn. Leave me feeling it for hours afterwards. Maybe days.
I really, really, hoped we could do this again later. And maybe again after that.
“Bear down for me, baby.”
I pressed back, muscles relaxing as much as they could. The tip slipped past my rim—tears pricking hot behind my eyelids—but I ignored the sharp edge of it, pushed myself back, encouraging him deeper, quicker, harder.
His hands locked on my hips. Impossibly strong as he stilled me. He leaned forward, teeth grazing my shoulder blade. “Be good for me and stop that.”
“But—” Words failed me as he pushed inside. Slowly. So bloody slowly I thought I might fracture from it. The curve of his cock dragged against me, and I could already tell—he was going to hit my prostate dead on. This was going to absolutely wreck me.
I panted into the pillow, small whining sounds escaping despite my best efforts to stay quiet. He filled me inch by devastating inch, the burn of the stretch making my toes curl.
Then Bat gripped my hips and drove the final inches home in one brutal thrust.
“Yes!” The cry tore from my chest as my hole clenched around the base of his cock. So full. So utterly owned. Like he was splitting me open, claiming every part of me. His fingers dug into my hip bones, holding me fast, keeping me from pulling away from the overwhelming fullness.
He shuffled forward, closing every gap between us. Cold legs pressed against mine, hip bones sharp against my ass. My nipples scraped against the threadbare duvet, another layer to the sensory assault.
“Like this?” he whispered against my ear.
I tried to answer but only managed a broken whimper. My aching cock hung heavy beneath me, precum already beading at the tip.