Page 120 of Love at First Fright

No. Stop.

I stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks in the plaster.

But… maybe I could move here. To Wiltshire. Get some sort of shit job at the resort when it opened. Work behind the bar. Live nearby. See Bat almost every day.

Ridiculous! You’re being utterly ridiculous!

I couldn’t build my life around a ghost. No matter how hot he was in that leather collar. No matter how those big brown eyes looked at me like I was worth something. No matter how right it felt when he—

Stop. Stop. Stop!

This was silly. Completely mental. I couldn’t get romantically involved with a ghost.

Even if he was cute and sweet, and deserving of happiness.

Even if he made me laugh.

Even if—

My gaze drifted back to Bat’s sleeping form. Translucent, barely there in the grey morning light. Dark hair fanned out where his head hovered near my chest. The peaceful curve of his mouth. The way his hand floated near my hip, fingers slightly curled, like he was still trying to hold on even in sleep.

Something tugged inside me. Sharp and insistent. Like a hook sinking into soft tissue, reeling me closer. That awful, wonderful ache of not wanting to be apart from someone. Of wanting to wake up like this again. And again.

How long had it been since I’d felt that feeling? Years?

Ryan’s face flickered through my mind. My ex. My last ex, well over a year ago now. Ryan, who’d sat me down in that coffee shop near his flat and explained very calmly, very reasonably, that we “wanted different things.”

Translation: Ryan wanted a different man. Someone with ambition. Drive. A proper career instead of a string of failed attempts and half-arsed jobs.

If his social media was to be believed, he’d found exactly that. Some lawyer bloke with too‑white teeth and perfect hair and a holiday home in Cornwall.

Good for him.

Bat’s face shifted. His lips curved into a sleepy smile, eyes still closed. Then his lashes fluttered, dark against pale skin, and those beautiful brown eyes opened.

Met mine.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello.”

We grinned at each other like complete idiots. The hook in my chest pulled tighter, a chain wrapping around my ribs. A chain I didn’t particularly want to escape.

“Did you sleep?” I asked. “Can you sleep? Brad says ghosts don’t sleep.”

“Brad says a lot of shite.” Bat’s voice came out morning-rough. “We can sort of sleep. Switch the brain off. Drift.”

As he spoke, colour bled back into him. Slow. Like watching a photograph develop. The translucent edges solidified, gained weight. His hair darkened from mist-grey to proper black. The hollow spaces between us filled in until he looked real again. As real as he ever looked, anyway.

Bat’s hand moved, reaching for my chest. Experimentally. Testing. His palm landed solid against my sternum. His eyebrows waggled. “Fully restored.”

“Oh?”

That hand slid lower. Deliberate. Achingly slow. Fingers tracing down my stomach, over the fabric of my ridiculous too-thick-for-any-reasonable-season pyjamas. Lower still.

He cupped my cock through the layers. “Hello, there!” my dick practically screamed in reply.

I hummed appreciatively, hips shifting up into the pressure. “Well, I do have several more ghost sex questions that need answering.”