I inhale sharply, my thighs pressing together instinctively as the memory flickers like a flame I can’t extinguish. The look in his eyes as he stood behind me, watching me in the reflection of the glass. Yes, there was power in that moment. But there was also something else. A vulnerability that mirrored my own, a shared understanding.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this. About him. About the way my body betrayed me, the way I surrendered to something I still don’t fully understand.

I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling, willing the memory to fade, but it doesn’t. It lingers, teasing, pulling me back into that room, to the way his touch burned through every layer of professionalism I’ve ever built. To the way his lips brushed against my ear as he whispered words that made me shiver.

My breath hitches, my pulse quickening. I tell myself it’s just the wine, the late hour, and the stress of the day catching up to me. But I know that’s a lie. It’s him. It’s always him.

Ghost isn’t just in my thoughts… he’s in my body now, too. A temptation I can’t seem to escape, no matter how much I try to rationalize it or push it aside. And as much as I want to hate him for it, I can’t.

I’m the one to blame because I know better.

I grip the edge of the blanket, my knuckles whitening as the thought creeps into my mind, unbidden but persistent. The idea of him here, now. His hands instead of mine. His voice instead of silence.

My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a betrayal of the control I’ve fought so hard to maintain. I press my thighs together, a weak attempt to stifle the growing ache, but it only makes it worse. The memory of his touch lingers like a ghost itself, haunting and unseen, leaving me trembling with the weight of what I know I shouldn’t want.

Desire rises, insistent, drawing me further into the fantasy: what it would feel like to surrender completely, to let myself go. To let him take what he’s already claimed in my mind.

My lips part, a sigh escaping as I imagine him here, watching me, whispering my name like a prayer. I slip my hand beneath my long t-shirt to the apex of my thighs, where the evidence of my desire has already soaked through my panties.

I shudder at the first brush of my fingers, the sensation both relief and torture. It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough.

With a frustrated groan, I push the fabric aside, baring myself to the chill of the night air. My skin prickles, pebbling with goosebumps, and a tremor runs through me as I circle my clit, the movement slow but with purpose. And need.

My eyes flutter closed, my mind filling in the gaps of my reality. His hands. His touch.

“God, you’re beautiful,” his voice breathes, soft and reverent. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

I slip two fingers inside, pressing deeper, imagining it’s him. Imagining his fingers curling and thrusting, coaxing me toward release.

“Fuck, Geneva,” he murmurs. “You’re so tight. So fucking wet for me.”

“Yes. God, yes.”

His hand covers mine, guiding me, urging me on. His grip is strong and firm, his movements relentless, drawing out the pleasure until it’s almost unbearable. I arch my back, grinding against his palm, desperate for release.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice rough with lust. “I want to hear you scream.”

I do.

His name tears from my lips, echoing off the walls of the room as my orgasm crashes through me, leaving me shaking and spent. My breathing is ragged, the sound harsh in the silence.

As the last waves of pleasure recede, shame begins to creep in. But before it can take hold, something else washes over me… anger.

How dare he make me want him? How dare he invade my thoughts, my dreams, my desires? How dare he leave me like this.

Wanting.

Aching.

Craving.

“Fuck you, Ghost, for making me want you,” I say, my voice hoarse and trembling, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the room. It feels good to let it out, to give voice to the emotions clawing at my chest, so I press on, the words spilling out like poison needing to be purged.

“Fuck you for making me feel this way. For making me question everything I’ve ever known about myself, about control, about boundaries. Most of all, fuck you for leaving me to deal with this… this obsession with you.”

The echo of my voice hangs in the air, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve taken back some small piece of myself, wrestled free from the grip he has on me. I mentally congratulate myself on how cathartic that was.

“If that’s the case, then come fuck me.”

The words slither through the darkness, low and smooth, dripping with amusement. I jerk upright, my heart hammering as I scan the room. Shadows stretch across the walls, the glow of the streetlight outside doing little to illuminate the corners of my bedroom.

“Ghost?” I whisper, my voice shaky and barely audible.

There’s no answer. Nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the hum of the city beyond the window. My hands shake when I lower my t-shirt while continuing my search for any sign of him.

Finding nothing, I sigh. It was nothing more than my imagination. My mind’s desperate attempt to make him real.

“Hello, Doc.”

CHAPTER 37

Earlier that night…

Two weeks.

Fourteen fucking days since I last saw her, since I touched her, since I made her come apart in that interview room while the world outside burned with violence.

My Geneva.

I stare at the cracked screen of my smuggled phone, the faint glow illuminating the only thing keeping me tethered to this woman.

Her face.

Her voice.

Her body.

Every part of her teases me. Tempts me. Maddens me.

She hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. Not even to insult me. My hand shakes as rage and longing entwine into something I can’t contain.

If I wasn’t insane before, I certainly am now with wanting her.

I’m not the only one with issues. Geneva is getting therapy because of me, which I find amusing. I know why. It’s because I got inside her head, and she’s trying to claw me out. Exorcise me like the ghost I am.

My fingers hover over the screen, over the message I’ve typed and deleted a hundred times. I could send it now. Just one text to remind her how it felt.

How we felt.

But I don’t send it. Because if I do, she’ll know the power she has over me. It’s complete and total domination.

Although I might’ve already exposed my vulnerability to her. By admitting that losing her scares me. By saying I don’t know what I’d do without her. It was a moment of weakness, brought on by her surrender to me.

I lean back against the wall, the cold concrete doing nothing to calm the heat burning through me. My fingers twitch with the urge to break something. Or to caress her.

I remember the way she looked that day in the interview room. I replay it in my mind every waking moment. Her lips swollen, her breath shaky, and her eyes wide with something I’ve never seen before. It wasn’t fear. It was desire.

And it was real.

“Two weeks,” I mutter to myself. The words echo in the small cell, bouncing off the walls like a taunt. Fourteen days without her, and I feel like I’m dying. She’s in every thought, every breath, every fucking moment of my existence.

I unlock my phone again, searching the cameras in her apartment. My chest tightens when I find her, and for a split second, I want to smash the phone against the wall. Instead, I zoom in on her face, looking for something beneath the surface. A crack in the façade.