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“If I’m gonna fit” —Ghost squeezes your flank— “you’re gonna have to relax.”
Now, you’re a grown woman. You’re in your late twenties. And yet you whine. “I’m fucking trying.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Ghost thrusts his two fingers down, and you arch your back involuntarily.
“Tha—at’s what the lube’s f—for.”
“You got lube? For me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s been used before.”
Ghost withdraws his fingers. “Where’s it?”
You purse your lips so you won’t whine — again — at the loss of warm pressure. After a second, you say, “Bedside table.”
Ghost leans over, opens a drawer, and tries to open the cap.
You both hear his nail scrape against the protective plastic.
Humiliation burns through you.
“‘Used it before,’ eh?”
“Just shut up and fuck me.”
“Oh, believe me,” Ghost says, ripping the plastic cover off, “when we’re through, it’ll be the other way around.”
You smirk at him over your shoulder and wiggle your hips. You knew what he’d meant, but still. You can’t resist. “Oh? You’re gonna let me fuck you with the strap like a big boy?”
Ghost snorts once, the sound completely reactionary. He gives you an arch look as he uncaps the bottle and says, “In your fuckin’ dreams.”
“I don’t know,” you tease, wiggling again, “I think you thought about it for a second.”
Ghost doesn’t reply. He squirts lube on his fingers and then tosses the bottle by your head. “Alright . . . now, relax. Deep breath.”
You face forward again and inhale deeply. When Ghost rubs his fingers through your pussy again, you both hear how slick it is. You choke down a mewl, clutching the sheets. Everything in your hips feels tight but loose, warm but cold — an oxymoron. When his fingers press in, you exhale and arch your back. You don’t even realize you’re trying to fuck yourself on his fingers when he uses his other hand to steady you.
“Eager?”
You grunt and reach blindly for his wrist, and when you finally find it, you clasp it and hold it closer to yourself. “Harder.”
“I can’t move when you’ve got me in a death grip, sweetheart.”
“Nng—”
Ghost uncurls your fingers from his wrist and thrusts faster. He uses his free hand to hold your wrist against your lower back, and your eyes widen at the mild restraint. You clench around his fingers, each thrust stoking something wild and dangerous below your breastbone, threatening to topple you.
“F—fuck, Ghost.”
“Thaaat’s it.” He picks up the pace and thrusts down, aiming for your g-spot.
You try to shout, but all that comes out is a pitiful, garbled sound. Your throat thickens — constricts around all the sounds you’ll make if you—
“Breathe,” Ghost demands, really throwing himself into it.
Bastard. You gasp involuntarily, and once your throat opens, once your lungs expand, you’re a moaning mess.
“Good girl.”
You grunt shrilly, and your eyes roll back. Your hand, still held against your back, spasms. You can’t quite explain how right Ghost’s fingers feel inside you. All you can think is, “they’re not mine,” and yet they know how to make you feel good, and they’re bone and flesh and heavy and calloused, all washed and trimmed nails, just for you, covered in strawberry flavored lube you thought he’d hate.
The realization that strawberry lube is covering Ghost’s hand, the same one used to kill dozens of people, makes you giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Ha . . . That’s a . . . great . . . question.” Your cheek squishes against the duvet, and you whine in the back of your throat when Ghost slows his thrusts down but keeps going deep. “Uhh, like that. Fuck. Please.”
“Alright.” Ghost releases your hand against your back and taps your thighs apart. “Let’s see how relaxed you are after you come.”
“Hu—uh?!” Your whole body jerks when he places his fingers against your pussy, specifically your clit. Because when he thrusts inside now, you’re rubbing against his fingertips, and everything feels like it’s stacking way too fast—
Your knees start drawing together, and your pussy flutters around his fingers. Blood roars through your ears, and you find yourself gasping and squirming, each breath shallow, barely keeping you conscious. Your pussy throbs and tingles, and when Ghost hits you just right again, and when his fingers pinch your clit, you start groaning through an orgasm, your hips jerking against his hands. You clutch the sheets and scream, letting him guide you through it.
“Fuck!” you wail, unaware you just squirted all over the place.
Ghost swears under his breath. When you start struggling against him, he stops, watching you, his chest heaving.
He tries to disguise the smugness in his voice when he says, “I don’t think we need any more lube.”
You flip him off over your shoulder, and he chuckles.