Page 64 of Love at First Fright

Higher.

Look, if I was going to die in a haunted manor, at least I’d die clean and comfortable.

I stripped off my pyjamas and stepped in.

Heat enveloped my feet, my calves, my thighs. I sank down slowly, letting the water claim me inch by inch.

“Oh god.”

The words escaped on a sigh. My muscles unknotted. Tension I’d been carrying since the horrible events of yesterday morning melted away.

I slid down until water lapped at my collarbones. Let my head rest against the curved edge of the tub. Closed my eyes.

Silence settled. Peaceful. Still.

Maybe ghosts didn’t bother people in baths. Maybe there were rules. Ghostly etiquette.

A bar of soap sat in a dish beside the tub. Proper soap, not the cheap stuff. I lathered up a sponge and dragged it across my chest, down my arms.

The simple pleasure of being clean. Warm. Safe.

My hand drifted lower. Across my stomach. Lower still.

I touched myself. Just idly at first. No particular intent.

But my cock had other ideas.

Heat that had nothing to do with bathwater pooled low in my belly. My hand moved with more purpose, grip firming.

Images flickered behind my closed eyelids. Brad’s face, close to mine in the kitchen. His breath on my neck. The way he’d kept touching me—casual brushes that felt anything but casual. The way his elbow had happened to knock into mine.

He’d thought he was being subtle.

He wasn’t.

I should still hate him. Should remember what an absolute tosser he was. The homophobia, the arrogance. The “alpha male” ridiculousness.

But yesterday, something had shifted. Something had changed in his eyes when he looked at me, and my stupid, lonely, pathetic self latched onto it like a drowning man to driftwood. No. I wouldn’t indulge in this dangerous line of thought.

Those thighs, though…

Fuck.

Brad’s weight pressing me into a mattress. His hands pinning my wrists. His solid weight, all muscle and heat, grinding against me. Those thick thighs forcing mine apart. That smirk of his, but different now, heat behind it instead of mockery.

I stroked myself faster, faster, faster, the water sloshing against the sides of the tub.

With all my willpower, I forced my imagination to blur Brad’s face. Features smoothing into something generic, unknown. Plausible deniability. Not fantasising about your awful, despicable colleague. Just some random bloke. Could be anyone.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.

A sensation ghosted across my nipple. Feather-light. Electric.

My back arched. Water splashed.

Not my hand. Both my hands were… occupied.

Just my imagination. Brain supplying helpful details.