8. The Ghost
The Ghost
Not only was she doomed the moment she stepped within this estate’s gates, but so was I the moment she caught my attention.
I find myself seeking her out, wondering where she’s wandered off to in this house, wondering who she’s wasting her time speaking to, waiting, holding my breath, for the next sound of her slim fingers coaxing music from the piano.
It’s a shame that she’s not had a chance to play much, preoccupied as she is taking care of the kid.
Henri.
I hate it, this guise that she is here for him, when it is inevitable that she will succumb to me.
It wasn’t until night fell that I realized I’ve followed her all throughout the day—every moment eager to hear her voice, hoping she’ll glance at me, find me, even though I’m hidden away.
Will she scream? When she finally sees me, will she run in terror?
The glow from her laptop throws blue light across her features. Pretty dark hair that fades to an artificial blonde hue at the end, strands begging to be wrapped in my fists. A sloped nose, long lashes, the rest of her so, so soft.
I wonder, when her pupils dilate in fear, what color her irises will reveal? I want to get close enough to see. I want to count her freckles. I want to taste each breath.
I wonder how easily I’ll be able to get that pretty face to blush. I wonder how red I can make her.
She nods off some time past midnight, still sat up against the pillows, her laptop’s screen dark.
I tell myself it’s concern for that elegant, thin neck, leaning against the solid wood headboard, that draws me into the room. I’ll just set her laptop to the side, pull the throw blanket up to her chin. Make her comfortable.
But really, it’s the chance to hear each gentle inhalation, the faint, breathy noises stalling in her throat. It’s the chance to be within reach.
It’s the chance to touch…
All while she’s unaware, pulled under the heavy curtain of sleep.
The door falls shut silently behind me, but I brace my palm against it just in case.
Her soft lips are parted, her chest rising and falling slowly. Tonight her legs are exposed, the quilt rumpled beneath her figure, and she’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts that do nothing to hide what’s underneath. Her nipples are peaked beneath the fabric, a scattering of goosebumps across her skin.
Like she can sense me.
Like even her subconscious knows.
Her legs are parted. How easily I could push her knees apart. Settle myself between them.
Just a taste.
I’ve become intimately familiar with her scent—it overpowers me in this room, utterly maddening—thanks to that scrap of fabric you could hardly call underwear, back in my rooms, thoroughly used.
Mine, now. Finders keepers.
Barely a thought, and I’m hard. At the foot of her bed, gazing at her dozing form, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, the sweet innocence of it, but I know she’s not innocent. And it takes everything in me not to climb up onto the mattress and sink into her.
I can’t help it.
She’s mine to do whatever I want with, isn’t she?
I’m reaching for the waistband of my pants and palming my dick. Immediately my spine tightens.
Vaguely aware there should be some feeling of remorse here. Some disgust at myself. A normal person would. But there’s none. Only a red-hot craving for her flesh and everything else inside of her.
I’ve never felt so fucking ravenous. The need to squeeze, to bruise, to hurt. Dormant urges awakening with a vengeance, this carnal hunger for flesh drawing me closer. The promise of her pain is so exquisite it’s all I can think about.
The friction through the fabric is not enough. My hand will never be enough when I’m looking at her. Laid out on the bed, in the most vulnerable state—knowing I need only to wait a little longer—
The heady, intoxicating lust has me reaching beyond the waistband. I nearly hiss at the feeling, grabbing myself harshly, so close already with one more stroke. Squeezing, tugging on the head, willing myself not to blow so soon.
My eyes trace the bow of her lips, the curves of her breasts; her fingers twitch at her side, and for a moment I imagine what I’d do if her eyes shoot open. She’d force my hand. If she saw me—really saw me—then there would be no going back.
She would know the Ghost is real.
Her brows crease, lashes fluttering, the sight of it going straight to my cock. Every breath is erotic.
My free hand falls to the foot of the bed to steady myself. I’m only a couple feet away. The closest I’ve ever been to touching her.
Each slide of my hand down my cock, I imagine how tight her cunt would wrap around me, how wet she’d be, giving in. She’d squirm under me, opening up those lean legs wide, letting me find my way inside. And I’d push myself so deep she’ll never think of anything else.
It’s pathetic how quickly my release barrels through me, and it’s all I can do not to groan aloud, gritting my teeth hard enough to crack.
I could make a mess of her, leave her wondering in the morning just how she’d been violated without noticing. But I hold back, fisting the blanket in one hand and my twitching cock in the other. I forget to breathe.
No one’s captured me like this.
No one has even seemed half as interesting.
I’ve wanted to mar flesh my whole life. But not like this. Not until she showed up.
Heaving breaths expand my ribcage. My cum is warm and sticky on my stomach. A waste. It’s all for her. The thought of filling her—
And then anger flares in my chest, because I’ve never let myself get so wrapped up in something or someone.
I’ve never let someone distract me the way she has.
I’ve never let myself fall into obsession.
I’ve… never had the chance.
My fun has been found in death. In tormenting the living. Not in craving.
And that’s what this is—an obsession as deep as a black hole, a coveting as strong as the need for air, because for the first time in a long time, I want to feel alive.