Page 22 of Ghoul Me, Maybe

SIENNA

T he salt-stained sheets scratch my bare thighs as I straddle him. Elias’s hands float up my sides like he’s mapping driftwood—reverent, aching. Everywhere his fingers brush leaves trails of goosebumps beneath my skin.

“You fade more when you touch me,” I whisper.

His thumb skims my bottom lip. “Do I?”

I bite his finger just to feel the sharp hitch of his breath. His cock twitches against my inner thigh, solid as betrayal.

“Less talking, Thorn.”

His laugh is sea breeze through rigging. “Ever the commander.” His hips tilt upward, heat brushing my damp folds. “But you’ll need to open for me, darling.”

I sink down slowly onto his cock, stealing the air between us. My nails carve half-moons into his shoulders as he stretches my pussy—a burn edged with saltwater sweetness. His mouth finds the pulse at my throat, sucking dark promises into my skin.

“Saints,” he groans when I clench around him. “You’d undo me twice.”

“Once more,” I correct, rocking deeper. “For symmetry.”

He surges up, rolling us in a sweep of stolen momentum. The night air licks my sweat-slick back as he braces above me, hair falling like a storm curtain. Moonlight gleams through his torso where the ritual’s grip weakens.

I dig my heel into the small of his back. “Don’t you dare dissipate now.”

His teeth flash wolf-sharp. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His next thrust steals coherence. I arch off the sand, fingers tangled in his phantom hair as he drives into me with merciless precision. Every stroke cracks my voice into shattered syllables— yes, there, God . His mouth seals over mine, swallowing the sounds I’ll deny tomorrow.

When his hand slips between us, calloused thumb circling my clit, I break the kiss to snarl at the stars. He laughs against my cheekbone, the vibrations skittering down my spine.

“Come for me, little storm,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue along my jaw. “Let me feel you burn.”

I shatter silently, back bowing as pleasure crests like a rogue wave.

But he's not done with me, not yet.

He rolls us mid-thrust, sand plastered to his back as I bite his shoulder.

Our rhythm breaks into something desperate—knees sinking into wet grit, his fingers bruising my hips as he pulls me onto his cock with each upward snap.

Moonlight gutters through his collarbone like seawater through a sinking hull.

"Look at me." His palm slides rough under my damp hair, cradling my skull. "When I?—"

"I know." I drag my teeth along the blade of his jaw, tasting ghost-salt and shared sweat. "You vanish a little more each time."

His laugh strangles into a groan as I clench around him. "Not...this time..."

I trap his lower lip between mine, swallowing the century-old prayer that vibrates against my tongue.

His hands roam my ribs like a man reading braille, relearning curves eroded by time.

When he bucks upward, I let him flip me again—always this dance, this struggle for dominance that leaves us both wrecked.

"Elias." His name scalds my throat as he pushes my knees toward my ears. "Don't you dare?—"

"Quiet, stormcloud." He sinks deeper, the stretch bordering on pain. "Let me love you properly."

The waves pause. Even the gulls mute themselves. His thrusts slow, each retreat making me twitch for friction. I claw at his forearms, the faint translucence there making my gut tighten.

"Stop holding back."

His forehead presses to mine. "Not holding. Savoring." A rogue wave of a thrust punches the air from my lungs. "Every second you let me stay."

I hook my ankles behind his waist, pulling him into the hilt. His choked gasp sounds too human, too alive. "You're staying," I growl against his mouth. "Until dawn."

"Command me."

Our hips find a rhythm older than his death—ancient, inevitable. His thumb circles my clit in counterpoint until I'm trembling like a storm-shook mast. The sounds he wrings from me aren't pretty. Broken vowels. A sob trapped behind clenched teeth.

He licks my hand. Bites the base of my thumb. When I jerk away, he captures my wrist, pinning it above my head as his hips snap faster. The other hand slides between us, fingers painting slick circles that blur my vision.

"Let go," he whispers, breath skimming my ear. "I've got you."

The orgasm crests slow and vicious, wringing a ragged scream from my throat. Elias follows with a groan that shakes the salt-crusted air, his body bowing over mine like a sail catching wind. For three shuddering heartbeats, I swear I feel his pulse.

He collapses sideways, dragging me half atop him. My cheek finds the phantom beat where his heart should be. The sea resumes its whispering.

"Still here?" I trace the fading silver edges of his shoulder.

His fingers weave through mine, pressing our joined hands against the sand. "Still here."

The surf hisses against our tangled legs. He catches my wrist, pressing my palm flat against his chest. Where his heartbeat should be, I feel the relic’s hum—a vibration like plucked violin strings.

“I’ve been thinking?—"

“Dangerous hobby for a dead man.”

“If the ritual works?—”

“When.” My nail digs into his collarbone. A bluff. The ritual requires sacrificing the relic, and neither of us knows what happens to ghosts who lose their anchors.

He tucks a wind-whipped strand of hair behind my ear. “ When I survive…” His thumb lingers on my jaw. “I’d like to take you to Marseille.”

I snort. “Hate Marseille.”

“Then where?”

“Ever ridden a Ducati?”

“I’ve ridden you.”

“Different thrill.” I sit up, seawater sluicing down my spine. “Picture this—you, straddling 200 horsepower, screaming into the Nevada desert.”

He splays his hand over my lower back, anchoring me against the tidal pull. “You’d let me drive?”

“I’d let you hold my hips while I drive.”

His laugh tastes like salt and possibility. “Devious creature.” His lips graze the hinge of my knee. “And after this hypothetical road trip?”

The relic shivers between us, its chain cutting into my thigh. I watch a translucent fiddler crab scuttle through his calf. “You really think once you’re flesh and tax forms, you’ll still want this?”

He stills.

“This isn’t four-poster beds and sonnets, Elias. I burn out motel TVs and steal airport whiskey.”

“Sienna Vale.” He hauls me into his lap, grip firm enough to bruise if he weren’t half mist. “I watched you threaten a seagull with a switchblade yesterday for stealing your chips. Do you imagine I find you tame ?”

I pick a shred of kelp from his hair. “Most men prefer their girlfriends less feral.”

“Most men,” he growls, teeth scraping my earlobe, “are sheep waiting for slaughter.” His hands slid up my thighs, grounding, demanding. “If I live— when —I choose the storm. I choose you . Even if you vanish into another desert.”

The relic pulses hot. His mouth finds mine, dissolving the next objection into something sweeter. When he pulls back, his edges glimmer faintly. Dawn’s verdict.

I press my forehead to his. “Promises are a currency, Captain. They devalue quickly.”

He nips my bottom lip. “Then let me open a line of credit.”