ME:Did you?
His reply comes instantly.
GHOST:Every night. I might tell you about it if you promise to make it happen.
I drop my phone in my lap and cover my face with both hands, smiling into them. My chest warms the way it always does when I talk to him. Which would be fine if I hadn’t spent all of last night mentally undressing an NHL player in my brother’s house with my eyes.
A very real, very hot, very not-Ghost man.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I bring my phone back up and type out my reply as I chew the inside of my cheek.
ME:You’re not even going to wait until lunchtime before you start sexting?
Three dots appear instantly before his message arrives.
GHOST:And not have you pressing your gorgeous thighs together at breakfast?
My face hits the pillow as I groan into the mattress. And maybe whimper just a little.
I crack one eye open and peek at the screen.
ME:Already am.
I double-text before he has the chance to reply.
ME:But I’ll let you use your imagination for the rest. Time to go press my thighs together at breakfast.
One beat. Two.
GHOST:Want me to come and pry them open?
I choke on my own breath. My hand flies to my mouth like I can shove the gasp back inside. My entire face goes up in flames. The tight ache in my core only sharpens as my fingers fly over the screen.
ME:Isn’t that sexual assault?
I don’t even have to wait for his reply.
GHOST:No, it’s textual assault.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes me.
He does that—goes from filthy to funny in one text flat. From “press your thighs together” to a joke that actually makes me laugh out loud.
Still smiling, I text back, slowly inching closer to the edge of the bed until one of my legs swings over.
ME:Go take a cold shower while I file a report for textual assault.
I hit send and toss my phone onto the bed, but it buzzes before I even have the chance to get up.
I glance at the lock screen with the same giddy smile.
GHOST:You’re going to need my real name for that.
My smile falters immediately. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he looks like, his address, none of it. And that scares me. Because if I ask, if I push for more, if I meet him… What if it ruins everything? What if he sees me and realizes I’m not what he imagined? What if I see him and all of this magic collapses the second it has a face?
I pick up the phone slowly but don’t unlock it. I just stare at his message, heart ticking a little faster.
