Love.
It should scare me to hear him talk about something so huge. But in the grand scheme of existence, life and death and whatever the fuck this is, being afraid of something like that feels like a waste of energy.
No, I'm not afraid to hear my ghost lover tell me to let him love me. Because thisfeelslike love, in the most inexplicable way. Our bodies— or maybe our souls— are doing something more than anything I've ever thought to be possible. It's more powerful than anything that happened last night, which looks emotionless and clinical by comparison.
This thing that's blossoming in the space between us is more thansex. It's... transcendence.
"I need you." I tell him, gasping when his tongue slides inside of me, teasing my entrance.
He swirls it around there before retreating to run it along the top of my pussy, right up to swirl around my clit and make me moan.
"You have me, Gianna."
"No." I pant when he returns to stroking me with long lashes of his tongue. "I need all of you. Fuck me, Spade."
He pulls away to look at me, and his dark eyes shine with something I don't immediately recognize.
"Are you sure?"
"Please." I nod. I'm certain that this is what I want... what I need.
Every cell of my existence craves him... a craving that only grows as he licks his lips before dropping his head to mine. I think he means to kiss me, but he just stays there a moment, placing his hands on either side of my face, until I feel his hips move as he lines himself up with me.
I watch his mouth open and close before his eyes flutter closed, and I can tell he’s having a hard time holding on.
"You're sure this is okay?"
"Look at me." I urge him, watching as his eyes pop open immediately so that I can see the burning there, the smoldering need. "I want you. Don't think about anything except this, right now. Please... I need you."
It makes no sense, I realize that. But death doesn't make sense. Not mine, not his, not the family downstairs.
If I were alive, tethered to the physical body that was brutalized so callously, then this would be absolutely insane to want to do because of the pain. But I'm not alive, not trapped in the shell, not feeling anything other than the haze of desire.
I told him I needed him, and he gives me all of him.
My lips part around a moan as he slides into me slowly, driving me mad with each little bit that he burrows within me.
"Spade..." I moan, because already I can feel pressure low in my womb. If I come undone, what will I become?
Can ghosts have orgasms?
"Gianna..."
Devotion. Reverence. Worship.
His eyes are infinite, full of pleasure that words can't describe.
If all we are is our souls, maybe our souls are embracing, twining together in the darkness that is our afterlife. Maybe they're melding into one, because it sure feels like some sort of fusion between the two of us.
I'm hanging by a thread: a single, silken thread. I don't know how to put this all into words, so I quit trying and stop thinking. Instead, I focus on feeling.
Precious. Treasured. Ethereal.
When he's fully submerged in me, I think I could come apart already. And then he begins thrusting.
Each motion of his hips sends pleasure rippling through me, so that pleasure is all I become. I'm lost in a cloud of it, floating.
Literally, floating.
