Page 103 of Trick Shot

I know what he’s asking. Why were you still a virgin if you’ve been talking to him for months?

"I don’t know what he looks like," I gasp, shame crawling up my face. "We’re only texting," is all I can get out before another moan escapes me as his finger curls.

"And what does he look like in your head?" he whispers against my neck.

"You," I breathe out the confession, almost not hearing my own whisper.

He goes still for a second, then his mouth claims me—tongue tangling with mine.

He thrusts his fingers deeper, his mouth devouring every broken sound I make. My moans are still echoing through the room when he grabs me.

He lifts me with one arm, carries me to the bed and tosses me onto it.

My towel slips off mid-air.

I gasp as I hit the mattress, breathless, completely bare. And he stands there for a second, staring at me. His chest rises and falls, his eyes dark.

Not playful, not teasing, and my entire body tenses in anticipation.

He climbs onto the bed, over me, hands braced on either side of my body. The mattress shifting under his weight.

"What’s his name?" he says, voice low and steady. But underneath it is something sharp.

"I... I don’t know his real name," I stammer, realizing how ridiculous I sound.

He tilts his head, lips twitching.

"What do you call him, then?"

"Ghost." My throat goes dry.

"Ghost," he repeats, drawing out the word like a promise, his hand sliding down my thigh, spreading my legs beneath him.

“How did you meet him?”

“Why are you asking me this?” My brows pull together.

“Answer the question.” He kisses the underside of my jaw, then bites down gently.

“I… it was Halloween. He wore a mask.”

“What do you talk about?” he murmurs.

“Everything.”

“Do you talk about me?” He drags his mouth down my neck and over my collarbone.

“Only once.” My breath catches.

“Good things?”

“Mostly bad,” I admit.

His laugh is dark and soft, hot between my breasts. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand, his other sliding down to where I’m already throbbing. His fingers glide over me for a few moments before he pushes a finger inside me again. Then another, stretching me around him.

“Oh god.” My body arches, chasing his hand, but my mind wants to know where his questions are leading. “Why are you asking me?”

“I want to know,” he whispers, “what kind of man gets to own your thoughts.”