Page 12 of Are You Scared, Krowe?

Ghost sex.

What the fuck has my life become?

I nearly laugh at that thought, the irony of it. It became nothing, and yet... somehow in this moment, I feel more alive than I can remember ever being.

We are made of nothing, except maybe the particles of light and dust that float in through the window in the old farmhouse, and yet we feel. Together, we feel amazing.

I don't know how to describe what we do. Sex feels like putting it too simply; like calling this thing between us strange when, in fact, it's the most potent thing I've ever felt... alive or dead.

There's no exhaustion, no limit to what we can do. And what we do is beyond the pale.

Each rippling touch from him sinks into my soul, permeating my very essence so that I don't know where the divide is between him and I.

Maybe there is none. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Logistics don't seem to matter much at all, considering that I just died, and I'm here chasing pleasure like it can unwrite pain and violence that doesn't even feel like it happened to me.

Part of me thinks I shouldn't be doing this, that it violates all reason and sanity. But those are the last things I care about clinging to right now. That doesn't keep me from soaking in the pleasure of his mouth on me, all over me.

I don't know how it happens or how long it takes before it does, but suddenly, I'm on my back on his bed and he's overtop of me trailing kisses down the valley of my body, which somehow feels more solid now that it's beneath his touch.

When he presses a kiss against my mound, I think I could come undone.

Whatever is holding me together seems like it's going to unravel and leave me in pieces to drift through the air like confetti.

"Spade," I gasp when his breath whispers against my flesh.

For someone who doesn't have a body, I sure can feel every little thing he does.

Maybe because my body isn't focusing on keeping myself alive, my heart pumping and lungs breathing.

All those little processes we do from the moment of birth are now irrelevant, and I think it lets me sink deeper into the bliss.

Nothing exists beyond what we're doing, his mouth and mine, our bodies moving in this dance like we've known one another for all of time. It's nothing short of magical... better than anything life ever gave me. And I can't contemplate that, because all I can do is soak in the pleasure.

Ecstasy ripples through me at the first flick of his tongue against my clit, and I dig my nails into his back, half afraid that the pleasure is going to wash me away from him.

"Spade..."

"Let go, little wraith. Let me love you."

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 this feels like 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 than sex. 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.

There's a strange sensation like a free-fall. It's short, but prominent enough that I open my eyes and realize the ceiling has moved toward us. But that doesn't make sense, so I glance down and realize it's us who have moved toward the ceiling.

We're floating a few feet above his mattress, and Spade hasn't noticed it yet.

His forehead is still pressed to mine, and his beautiful lips are pressed together in focus, so I decide not to tell him.

I don't want to take him out of the moment.

But I do want to take him out of his head.

So, I curl my fingers around his jaw, prompting his eyes to open and take me in for the half second I allow.

And then I crush my mouth against his, stealing a kiss that tastes like surrender… for him, for me, for the lives we lost.

And to hell with them, because this single moment is infinitely better than the sum of all the good things from life.

Ghosts can orgasm, apparently, because I do it... not once or twice, but almost infinitely, continuously.

I just make the choice to sink a little deeper into the bliss, and suddenly, I'm coming, awash in wave after wave of gossamer pleasure.

"Spade..." His name is a whisper from my lips which he swallows with his fervent kiss, and then I think he comes too, because he tosses his head back, his dark hair falling away from his gorgeous, sculpted, painted face.

"Gianna..."

He works us both through the heights of our orgasms and continues, unceasing as the pleasure recedes just enough to begin building again, like a tide washing out to sea and swelling higher.

If there was any doubt that we are not alive, it would be gone in this moment, because nobody is capable of going through all of that, orgasm after orgasm.

But he does; he doesn't tire, doesn't stop, just continues to carry me through the ocean of our mutual pleasure until some point, when our eyes collide and we catch each other's gaze.

A giggle slips out of my throat in the space where moans were previously.

He laughs too, and I tip my head, indicating for him to look in the direction I indicate.

When he does, his shock is apparent by the widening of his eyes.

We've risen more with each cresting orgasm, lifting higher and higher until we passed right through the roof, which is spread out below us, missing shingles and covered in dark spots.

The fields around us are dry and brown, nearly as devoid of life as the two of us.

Everything here is decrepit, decaying, abandoned.

It's clear the house is deserted, but I know it's not. It's not empty just because there's no one living in it.

But this town? It is empty. Soulless.

I guess there's a reason they named it Hollow Fields. The people here are as empty as the scarecrow they pulled down to throw me on the stake last night.

We are still connected, floating together as we slowly drift back down.

Spade tenses, wrapping me closer against him when the roof appears, as if he thinks we may crash. Instead, we pass right through it, drifting down to the bed like feathers dropped from the sky.

I don't know what keeps us from slipping through the bed, under it, down into the foyer below us, or the cellar beneath that. I don't care to figure it out yet.

"That was..." Spade shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

I smile, because that's a fair assessment. All of this is pretty unbelievable. We're dead and we just had ghost sex, which was the most potent thing I've ever felt.

I should have pegged him for a cuddler; he slips out of me and tugs me toward him with one arm draped around my back, the other coming round to circle me in his arms.

Silence falls between us, a peaceful ambiance that neither of us breaks as we soak in the afterglow.

But like everything else, eventually that fades, too.

In the wake of all that he gave me, the emptiness is back, and there's nothing to fill me. I'm hollow, full of nothing.

So, I turn my focus back to the only thing other than his touch that let me feel— the rage.