Page 1 of Satisfied By the Specter (Halloween Temptation #8)

Hunter

The thing about being haunted is that you don't always know it's happening.

Sometimes your ghost is subtle. Sometimes they're just good at making you think you're lucky.

Sometimes they watch you jerk off in the shower every Tuesday and Thursday like it's their personal porn collection, but you won't figure that out until much later.

“Hunter, how the hell do you do that?” Andi stared at the latte I'd just poured, where a perfect heart floated in the foam. Not just any heart—this one had wings, delicate feathers etched in micro-foam that belonged in those latte art championships they held in Portland.

I glanced down at my handiwork and shrugged. “Practice?”

Except I hadn't made those wings. I'd been aiming for a basic rosetta, the usual back-and-forth motion.

The wings had just... happened. Like they always did lately.

Like how I always found parking spots right in front of wherever I needed to go, even during peak hours on South Congress.

Like the way my rent check never bounced despite my perpetually optimistic math.

Like how I'd never gotten a single parking ticket in three years despite Austin's meter maids being notoriously ruthless.

Like every traffic light turned green just as I approached it.

“Practice my ass.” Andi hip-checked me away from the espresso machine, her zombie makeup from last night's pre-Halloween party still smudged under her eyes. “You're like some kind of coffee witch. Share the wealth.”

“Gotta respect the talent,” I said with a smirk, but fuck, if only she knew how close to the truth that was. Though 'witchcraft' might be generous for whatever was responsible for my supernatural barista skills.

Guardian angel? That’s what I thought at first. But angels probably didn't watch me strip after work. They definitely didn't make the temperature spike when I touched myself, creating heat wherever my hands wandered like something was tracking every stroke.

No. Whatever was haunting me was definitely not an angel.

The morning rush hit full force—a stream of office workers from the surrounding downtown buildings, state employees from the Capitol complex, UT students cutting through, and the usual collection of freelancers who'd claimed the corner tables as their personal offices.

“Medium oat latte for James!” I called out, sliding the cup across the counter. As James reached for it, the cup did this little shimmy-slide that positioned the handle perfectly toward his hand. Physics definitely didn't work that way, but I'd given up questioning it.

James dropped a five in the tip jar, the paper bill somehow landing perfectly flat instead of crumpled. “Keep the change, magic hands.”

Magic hands. Right. If only he knew what these hands did when I got home.

How I'd strip down to nothing, cock already half-hard from anticipation, knowing something was watching.

How I'd take my time, one hand working my shaft while the other played with my nipples, tweaking them until they were hard and sensitive.

How the air would grow thick and electric, invisible touches following my fingers like something was learning my body.

Three years of this, ever since I moved into my apartment down on East Cesar Chavez.

Three years of dates ending in disaster, hookups interrupted by “freak accidents,” and potential boyfriends mysteriously losing my number.

At first, I'd blamed Austin dating culture—all those tech bros and commitment-phobes.

Then my deodorant. Then my personality. But after Manny and the exploding wine bottle, Drake and the car alarm symphony, and Ryan and the indoor lightning storm, well, even I couldn't stay that oblivious.

My apartment was haunted, and my ghost was a massive cockblock.

“You coming to Kelly's party tonight?” Andi asked, pulling me from my brooding. “Everyone's going. Jordan's DJing.”

“Yeah,” I said, already mentally planning my costume from the sad contents of my closet. “I'll be there.”

“Good. You need to get laid, Hunter. You've been wound tighter than your espresso tamps lately. When's the last time you got properly fucked?”

If she only knew.

It had been over a year since I'd had a cock in my mouth. Fourteen months and six days, to be exact, since I'd been bent over and fucked until I forgot my own name.

Since then? Nothing but my hand and the bizarre sensation of being watched while I came.

Kelly's apartment was packed with every twenty-something in East Austin who wasn't already at the bars on Rainey Street.

Her place took up the entire top floor of a converted Victorian in Hyde Park, with original hardwood floors that creaked under the weight of too many people and windows that rattled with the bass from Jordan's professional speaker setup.

I'd gone with “sexy librarian”—my reading glasses, a cardigan that was purposely too small to show off my arms, and jeans tight enough to display exactly what I was offering.

The jeans left nothing to the imagination, my cock clearly outlined against my thigh.

Low effort, but it worked. At least three people had already asked if I could help them with their “late fees,” and one guy had straight-up grabbed my ass while suggesting we find somewhere quiet to “study.”

The apartment smelled like craft beer, legal weed, and that specific mix of competing colognes that meant everyone was trying to get lucky.

I spotted the tarot reader in the corner, at a card table covered in black velvet, ornate deck that looked actually vintage rather than Hot Topic.

I recognized him from the coffee shop; he came in a couple of times a week, ordering cortados with a slice of lemon loaf.

Tonight he wore all black except for a deep purple vest that should have looked costume-y but somehow seemed natural on him.

When he looked up, scanning the room like he was reading everyone's energy, our eyes met.

He smiled, this knowing little quirk of his lips that said he saw something interesting, and I felt my cock twitch in my too-tight jeans.

Those eyes weren't just brown; they were the color of expensive whiskey in good lighting.

His hands moved over the cards with practiced grace, long fingers that made me imagine them wrapped around my dick.

Then his client said something, pointing at the cards spread between them, and he turned back to him.

Too intense, I decided, even as my hole clenched at the thought of those fingers inside me. The kind of guy who'd want to sage your apartment before fucking you raw.

Which is how I met Vampire Guy instead.

His name was Brett, and he had shoulders that filled out his vampire cape nicely.

We talked about nothing while standing progressively closer until I could feel his erection pressing against my hip.

We drank. We grinded to the music, his hands palming my ass, pulling me against him so I could feel exactly how big he was.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked around midnight, breath hot against my ear, and I was already nodding before he finished the question.

It had been too long. Way too fucking long since I'd successfully brought anyone home.

Tonight would be different.

The walk to my apartment was all foreplay. Brett kept pulling me into doorways to kiss me, his tongue fucking into my mouth while his hands grabbed my ass, fingers sliding between my cheeks through my jeans.

“Gonna wreck you,” he promised, and I nearly came in my jeans right there.

By the time we stumbled through my front door, I was ready to drop to my knees and swallow his cock right in the entryway.

Then the lights started flickering.

Not subtle—full strobe light, rave-style pulsing that made Brett's face look like a horror movie.

“Whoa,” Brett laughed, looking up at my ceiling fixture. “Sexy mood lighting?”

“Yeah, totally intentional,” I lied, pulling him toward the bedroom. The flickering followed us. Then the temperature dropped twenty degrees in two seconds.

“Is your heat broken?” He rubbed his arms.

“It's been weird lately,” I started, but then my bedroom door slammed shut. By itself. While we were both five feet away from it.

Brett took a step back. “What the fuck was that?”

“Wind?” I tried, reaching for the door handle. It was ice cold and wouldn't budge. “The building has weird pressure differences—”

Every picture frame on my wall started rattling. My laptop opened and closed like an angry mouth. The empty water glass on my nightstand cracked clean in half.

“Your place is haunted as hell.” Brett was already backing toward the exit. “I'm out.”

“Wait, it's not—”

But he was gone, vampire cape trailing behind him. The moment the front door closed, everything went still. The lights steadied. The temperature normalized. My bedroom door swung open with a cheerful creak.

I stood in my suddenly peaceful hallway, my cock still hard and aching in my jeans, fury replacing arousal.

“Seriously?” I said to the empty air. “You're going to ruin Halloween too? What is your fucking problem?”

No response. There never was. Just that feeling of being watched that I'd grown so used to I barely noticed anymore. Like someone was always just behind my shoulder, close enough to breathe on my neck if they had breath.

Fine. If I couldn't have company, I'd take care of things myself. Again.

I stripped off my costume slowly, knowing I was being watched, making a show of it out of spite.

My cardigan hit the floor. Then my shirt, revealing my chest with its trail of dark hair leading down to my jeans.

I popped the button slowly, dragging the zipper down tooth by tooth, letting my cock spring free.

I'd gone commando, hoping to get lucky.

“Like what you see?” I asked the empty room, wrapping my hand around my shaft, already slick with precum “This is what you're keeping me from sharing. Happy?”