Page 89 of Jaded

His tongue—

Jesus.

I shove the guitar back into its stand next to the bed and reach for the half-drunk bottle on the nightstand instead. Not like me to drink in my room like this, with Syd asleep just down the hall, but there’s no denying I’m in a strange headspace tonight.

Another few sips and my mind starts to soften around the edges. To let Olli seep back in. Maybe this is my final slip of self-control, the first crack in my sanity, and all my broken pieces are about to go jumbling together until I can’t sort them apart anymore.

I slide headphones into my ears, let the notes of someone else’s songs carry me away as the booze turns my head soft and fuzzy.

Bad Omens’ “Death of Peace of Mind” hums from my speakers, inviting me to drift. And I do. I relinquish all holds on my self-control to see where the universe takes me.

My eyes flutter closed, and I’m not surprised when my new little ghost hovers before me, smiling and pretty, the scent of strawberries and coffee brushing against my senses like the softest and most sensual caress.

He leans close, like a question, and like both nights at the bar, I’m the one to answer, to close the distance between us. Because I want it. I want him.

I want to taste him, feel his lips opening against me, plunge my tongue past his teeth to search the soft cavern of his mouth. Want to feel him pressed against me, hips rocking, rutting, sending heat and arousal spiraling through me.

I want to wonder what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled back. I want to know.

If we’d stayed against that wall, kissing, rocking in sync like a song in harmony, what would’ve happened? What would he have done? What would I?

Would I have liked it?

My breath escapes in a harsh sigh as I picture it, feel it. Him on me, and me begging with my tongue, my hips, the hardening of my cock against his thigh.

Does he feel it, my want for him? The way my body responds to him? My pelvis twitches up, but he’s not here, it’s just me and my thoughts and my cock starting to tent the front of my sweatpants.

Shit.

How is this happening? Any of it? And why don’t I mind? My fingers trail up my thigh and across the front of my pants to press down on my growing erection, sending heat through my body.

Why do I want so badly to let this little scene play out—with my hand wrapped around my cock, like his might have been. I press down again. Harder. Firmer. But I’m not seeing my own hand, not feeling it. No, my eyes slip closed and it’s him surging into me, grinding against my now rock-hard cock.

I taste him again—sweet booze, a faint suggestion of peppermint. Feel his coarse curls under my fingers, softer tongue in my mouth. Hard body meshed into mine, pinning me to that wall.

And when my fingers slide beneath the waistband of my pants, I imagine they’re his.

I imagine that he never pulled back to spare me from my own confusion, and instead slid his hand down, down, down.

Wrapped his fingers around my cock.

I gasp aloud as my own fingers curl around my shaft. But it’s not my hand sweeping up and down in light, dry, punishing strokes. No, it’s his, moving expertly over me like he knows exactly what I like. Still kissing me, still pinning me. Stroking, stroking, stroking. Making heat flare across my skin like fireworks, turning my breath to ragged rasps as I approach that proverbial edge.

I come too close.

I fall.

The orgasm steals my breath and my vision with its violence. Cracks across me, careens over me, so I’m not even entirely sure where I finish, until I ease down from the high several seconds later to find cum splattered across the front of my shirt, over my hand, trailing down onto my pants.

Jesus.

When was the last time I came that hard by myself, no lube, no extra fingers, no porn or magazines? Just my dry hand and my clearly overactive imagination.

Yet despite the strangeness, the wrongness, I’m sated.

Still thinking of that dark ghost.

My ghost.

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