Page 113 of Love at First Fright

This felt right.

“Mine certainly does,” I managed, rolling my hips against him for emphasis. Friction. Glorious, perfect friction. “Though it could probably use a reminder or ten.”

Charlie groaned again, fingers digging harder into my ass. His other hand traced patterns across my ribs. Abstract art.

“Can I take your clothes off?”

I froze again.

Was he asking permission? Or wondering if it was even possible? Because technically, yes, someone could undress me. But also technically, if I wasn’t concentrating, my clothes would just… reappear. Materialise back onto my body like a factory reset. One of the many annoying quirks of being incorporeal.

But explaining that right now seemed like a brilliant way to kill the mood.

So I just nodded against his shoulder. Pressed my face into the curve where his neck met his collarbone and inhaled. Summer fruits and something indefinably Charlie. Something I wanted to drown in.

His hands moved to my black tee. My second skin. Tugged it upward. The fabric peeled away as I lifted my arms to help him. He tossed it across the room.

Then his fingers found the button of my jeans. Black denim, ripped at the knees, worn soft from years of wear before I died. The sort of jeans that had felt like rebellion once. Like armour.

Charlie struggled with the button. Fumbled. Cursed under his breath. “I swear I’m normally smoother at all this.”

Despite everything—the wild want, the desperate need, the screaming tension in my non‑existent muscles—I laughed again. “Here.” I reached down. Worked the button free with ease.

Charlie took over from there, dragging the denim down my hips. Over my thighs. Past my knees. The fabric caught on my ankles, bunched around my Converses, ripping those off too with a helping kick from me.

Charlie stared.

Just… stared.

At me. At my body. At my too-pale skin, that silly bat tattoo on my left shoulder, my horribly sharp angles and the embarrassing evidence of exactly how much I wanted him.

I had to look away. Swallowed hard. Fixed my gaze on the ceiling. On the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling. On anything except those blue eyes cataloguing every inch of me.

“Stop that,” I said.

“What?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Silence. Heavy and loaded.

Then, “Look at me, Bat.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

I forced my eyes back to his face. Found him watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite parse. Something intense. Something that made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the puncture wound that killed me.

Charlie crawled up my body. Slow. Deliberate. Supporting his weight on one arm while the other hand trailed from my hip—gentle pressure, barely there—all the way up to the bottom of my ribs.

His fingers stopped just where my heart used to beat.

“This body of yours is perfect,” he said.

I snorted. Couldn’t help it. “Don’t be ridiculous. For a start, it’s not even real.”