Chapter 19: Oral Obsession
The silence after the bike’s engine died left a ringing in Kate’s ears, but it was the look in Ghost’s eyes that stole her breath. The streetlight cut harsh angles across his face, highlighting the scar near his brow, the tight set of his jaw. He wasn’t just looking at her; he was seeing her, seeing the shaken adrenaline, the defiant spark that had flared during the bank shot, the quiet dread Lucas had left coiled in her gut.
“Come on,” he said, his voice rough from the ride.
He took her hand, his calloused fingers enveloping hers, and led her not to her apartment door, but around the side of the building to the narrow, shadowed alley that housed the rear stairwell. It was darker here, private. He backed her against the cool brick wall, caging her in with his arms. The smell of night-blooming jasmine from a nearby planter fought with the scent of old garbage.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, but this time it wasn’t a question about physical safety. It was something deeper, a probe into the fissures.
She nodded, her throat tight. “I am. Now.”
“That fucker put his hands on you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a fact, a dark stone dropped into the space between them.
“He didn’t. Dez stopped him.”
“But he meant to.” Ghost’s head dipped, his forehead resting against hers. His breath was warm. “I should’ve been there.”
“You were working. Dez was… adequate.” A faint, shaky smile touched her lips.
He huffed a humorless laugh. “I’ll tell him you said that. It’ll make his year.” He pulled back just enough to look at her. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. “You played a hell of a game, Kat. Watched you line up that shot… fuck.” The word was exhaled, full of heat and something like awe.
Then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t the gentle kiss from their earlier dates. This was possession, relief, a claiming. It was hard and hungry, his tongue sweeping past her lips with a growl that vibrated through her. She met him with equal ferocity, her hands fisting in the leather of his jacket, pulling him closer until not a sliver of night air could separate them. The fear, the anger, the residual buzz from the confrontation—it all funneled into this, into the hot slide of his tongue, the bite of his teeth on her lower lip.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Inside. Now.”
They took the stairs two at a time, a frantic, silent race. Her hands shook as she unlocked the door to her second-floor apartment. They stumbled over the threshold into the dark living room, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. The door slammed shut, locked, and then his hands were everywhere.
He ripped his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor. She pulled her sweater over her head, the burgundy fabric joining the leather. In the faint blue light filtering through the blinds from the parking lot, her peony chest piece was a riot of shadowy color across her skin. He stared at it, at her, his chest rising and falling.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he ground out, the words raw. “It drives me insane.”
He closed the distance, his hands cupping her face, and kissed her again, slower now but no less intense. His lips trailed down her jaw, her throat, to the swell of her breasts above her lace bra. He hooked a finger under the strap and pulled it down, his mouth finding her nipple through the fabric, sucking hard until she cried out, her back arching.
“Bedroom,” she managed to gasp.
He didn’t need telling twice. He walked her backwards, through the cluttered living room, past the groaning bookshelves, into the sanctuary of her bedroom. The vintage lamp on her nightstand was on, casting a warm, low pool of light over the king-sized bed with its deep green velvet duvet.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over her. “Take the rest off. Let me see you.”
Her fingers went to the button of her jeans. She pushed them and her underwear down her hips in one motion, stepping out of them, kicking them aside. She stood before him, completely bare except for the tattoos that told their own stories across her skin—the lollipop, the seer and the gypsy on her thighs, the magnificent peony.
A sound, pure and animal, tore from his throat. “Jesus Christ.”
He reached for her, but she put a hand on his chest. “Your turn.”
Her fingers made quick work of his belt buckle, the rasp of leather loud. She unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them and his briefs down over his hips. He sprang free, thick and heavy, already leaking. She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers not meeting, and stroked once, firmly. He threw his head back, a tendon in his neck standing out.
“Kat…”
“Lie down,” she said, her voice quiet but unwavering.
He obeyed, lowering himself onto the velvet, his big body making the mattress dip. The lamp light played over the intricate ink covering his arms, his shoulders, the hard planes of his stomach. He was a landscape of muscle and history, and he was all hers in this moment.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, but not where he wanted her. She moved up, settling her knees on either side of his head. She looked down at him, at his blown-wide grey eyes staring up at her from between her thighs.
“You want a taste?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You said you wanted to watch. So watch. And taste.”
A feral grin spread across his face. His hands came up, gripping her thighs, his thumbs digging into the soft inner flesh. “Get that pretty cunt down here, then.”
She lowered herself, hovering just above his mouth. His breath was hot against her. He didn’t wait. His tongue lashed out, a broad, wet stroke from her entrance to her clit. She gasped, her hands flying to the headboard for balance.
“Fuck, Eric…”
“Yeah,” he growled against her, the vibration exquisite. “That’s it. Feed it to me.”
He ate her with a single-minded intensity that shattered her world. There was no gentle exploration, no tentative flicking. This was conquest. His tongue speared into her, fucking her with it, then flattened to lap at her juices before zeroing in on her clit with devastating precision. He suckled it, his lips pulling, his tongue circling the swollen bud until she was writhing, her thighs trembling around his head.
“You like that?” he muttered, his words muffled by her flesh. “You like my tongue in your tight little hole?”
“Yes… god, yes…”
One of his hands slid from her thigh, two fingers finding her dripping entrance. He pushed them into her, deep, curling them up. He hit a spot that made her see stars. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“There it is,” he grunted. He fucked her with his fingers, in and out, while his tongue never stopped its ruthless assault on her clit. The dual sensation was too much, a coil winding tighter and tighter in her gut. “You gonna come for me? Come all over my face. Do it. I wanna taste you coming.”
His command, filthy and direct, was the final trigger. The coil snapped. Pleasure erupted through her, a white-hot wave that ripped a scream from her lungs. She ground herself down against his mouth, milking his fingers as she shook, her vision whiting out at the edges.
He rode her through it, his tongue gentling to lap up every pulsing wave, drinking her down like she was salvation. When the last tremor subsided, she collapsed to the side, boneless and panting.
He moved before she could recover. He flipped her onto her back, her head sinking into the pillows. He knelt between her legs, his cock glistening and prodding at her soaked entrance. He leaned over her, bracing himself on his arms, his face inches from hers. His lips were slick with her.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Her brown eyes, hazy with pleasure, focused on his greys.
“That was mine,” he said, his voice a gravelly promise. “This is mine. All of it. You understand? No one else. Ever.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a truth they both etched into the air.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He surged forward, burying himself inside her in one long, relentless thrust.
She gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him, the delicious burn of fullness making her nails scrape down his back. He was everywhere, consuming her. He held himself deep for a moment, letting her feel every inch, his eyes locked on hers.
“So fucking perfect,” he groaned. “So tight for me.”
Then he began to move. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw, piston-driven fucking. He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in, the sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. The headboard knocked a steady rhythm against the wall.
“Oh, god… Eric!” she cried out, her legs hooking around his hips, pulling him deeper.
“Say it again,” he gritted out, his thrusts gaining speed, each one jolting her up the bed.
“Eric! Fuck me… please…”
“You take it so good,” he grunted, his control fraying. He shifted his angle, and on the next drive forward, he hit that deep, sweet spot with unerring accuracy. She screamed, another orgasm already building, shocking in its intensity.
He felt her inner muscles beginning to flutter around him. “That’s it, baby. Come again. Come on my cock. Squeeze it out of me.”
She shattered. This climax was different, deeper, a rolling convulsion that tore through her womb. She clamped around him, a vise of pure pleasure, her back bowing off the bed.
His rhythm broke. With a ragged, guttural shout, he drove into her one last time, hilting himself, and let go. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release filling her, the intimate flood triggering aftershocks that made her sob his name.
He collapsed on top of her, his full weight a welcome anchor. They lay there, a mess of sweat and come and tangled limbs, the only sound their ragged breaths synchronizing slowly. The familiar scent of her laundry detergent on the sheets, the musk of sex, the faint leather from his clothes in the other room.
After a long while, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, keeping them joined. He nuzzled into her hair. His hand, rough and warm, splayed possessively over her stomach.
“Dez was right,” he murmured into the quiet.
“About what?”
“You didn’t freeze. You didn’t fold.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You lined up your shot and you took it.”
She smiled, drowsy, sated, his meaning clear on multiple levels. “I had a good teacher.”
He huffed a laugh. They lay in silence, listening to the distant sounds of the city. The specter of Lucas felt distant now, pushed back by the visceral reality of what they’d just shared. But it wasn’t gone.
“He’ll try again,” Ghost said, his voice losing its drowsy edge.
“I know.”
“I’m not letting him near you.”
“I know that, too.”
He held her tighter. “Stay at my place tomorrow. Just for a night. Different walls.”
She didn’t argue. She just nodded against his chest, her fingers tracing the black lines of a tattoo on his pectoral. For now, in the warm lamplight, with the smell of him on her skin and inside her, the different walls could wait. The only thing that mattered was the solid beat of his heart under her ear, a rhythm as real and undeniable as the bank shot that had, in its own way, changed everything.
She traced the baroque swirls of ink over his heart, her fingertips mapping the raised skin of old scars beneath the pigment. Outside, a car door slammed, pulling a flinch from her she couldn’t suppress. His arm tightened around her.
“He doesn’t know where I live,” she said, the statement trying to convince herself.
“He knew the bar.” Ghost’s voice was quiet, factual. “He finds things. Persistence is a kind of talent for assholes.”
He shifted then, reluctantly slipping from her body. The loss felt profound, a sudden vulnerability. He stood, a tall, naked silhouette against the lamplight, and walked to the adjoining bathroom without a word. She heard the tap run, the sound of water on a cloth. He returned, the warm, damp washcloth in his hand. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently cleaned her thighs, the intimate act so tender it made her throat ache.
“Tomorrow,” he said, not looking at her, focusing on his task. “Pack a bag. A couple days. I’ve got the space.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a plan.A tactical retreat. She watched the muscles shift in his back, the dragon tattoo coiled around his spine seeming to ripple. “My work,” she started.
“Take an emergency leave from work. Say it's a death in the family.” He tossed the cloth toward the bathroom door.
He lay back down, pulling her into him so her back was against his chest, his front to her back. His body was a furnace. He hooked one heavy arm over her waist, his hand splaying across her stomach again, holding her there. Anchored.
“Sleep, Kat.”
She did, falling into a deep, dreamless void filled only with his heat and his scent.
Sunlight through the blinds woke her. The other side of the bed was empty, but not cold. She could smell coffee and bacon. She pulled on his t-shirt from the floor, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, and padded out to the living area.
He was in her small kitchen, a comical contrast of immense man in a tiny space. He’d found her pans. Two plates sat on the counter, eggs scrambled, bacon crisp. He turned, a mug in his hand, and held it out to her. Black, no sugar, just how she’d ordered it at the diner weeks ago. He remembered.
“Smells so good,” she said, taking the mug, the heat seeping into her palms.
“I try.” He nodded toward the plates. “Eat. Then pack.”
They ate at her small dining table, a silence between them that wasn’t uncomfortable.It was logistical. He scrolled through his phone with one hand, fork in the other. She watched the morning light catch the silver in his stubble.
“Dez texted,” he said, not looking up. “He asked if the ‘hustler’ needed a security detail.”
She almost choked on her coffee. “What’d you say?”
“I told him to fuck off and finish my bike.” A faint smile touched his lips. “He’ll have it by noon. We’ll take mine to my place.”
Her apartment, usually a sanctuary, felt porous after last night. The idea of different walls, his walls, held a concrete appeal. She packed a duffel with work clothes, a few novels, her toiletries, her laptop. He stood by the door, a silent sentinel, as she moved through the familiar rooms. Locking up felt different.
His motorcycle waited downstairs. The ride to his place was a daytime voyage through parts of the city she seldom saw. He didn't head toward the industrial areas near the bar, but into an older neighborhood of renovated warehouses near the river. He stopped in front of a four-story brick building with large windows and a secured entrance.
“You live here?” The surprise was evident in her voice.
“Top floor.” He dismounted, grabbing her duffel. “What’d you expect? A mattress in a garage?”
“Maybe.” She followed him inside, to a freight elevator he operated with a key.
The doors opened directly into his space. It was vast, open, with polished concrete floors and exposed brick walls. One whole wall was windows overlooking the river and the distant bridges. It was minimalist, almost severe. A large, low sofa faced a professional-looking projector screen. A stainless steel kitchen lined one wall. There were no knick-knacks, no photos. Just a giant drafting table near the windows, covered in large sheets of paper weighted down by various tools and ink bottles.
She walked toward the table, drawn to it. The top sheet was a detailed pen-and-ink drawing of a mechanical raven, its gears and pistons rendered with obsessive, beautiful precision. It was dark, intricate, breathtaking.
“You said you doodled,” she whispered, her fingers hovering over the paper.
“I lied.” He came up behind her, not touching her, just looking over her shoulder at the drawing. “It’s just lines. Helps me think.”
“It’s incredible.” She turned to face him. The apartment, the art, it all recontextualized him. The loner on the Kawasaki was also this man, in this clean, quiet aerie. “You’re full of surprises, Eric Harlow.”
“You’re the surprise.” He closed the distance then, his hands finding her hips through the thin fabric of the t-shirt. He backed her gently until her ass met the edge of the heavy drafting table. The papers rustled. “This is where I want you.”
He pushed the shirt up, bunching it under her arms, exposing her breasts. The cool air of the loft raised her nipples into tight peaks. He leaned in, sucking one into his mouth, his tongue a hot, rough contrast. She gasped, her hands flying back to brace against the table, knocking a bottle of ink. He caught it before it fell, setting it aside without breaking his rhythm.
His other hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her still sensitive from the night before. He pushed two inside, his mouth still working her breast. “Still wet for me,” he muttered against her skin. “Thinking about it on the ride over?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I was thinking about your mouth. Your fingers.” She was breathless. “How you feel inside me.”
He groaned, pulling his fingers free and bringing them to her lips. “Taste.”
She opened her mouth, sucking her own salt-and-musk flavor from his skin. His eyes darkened, turning storm-cloud grey. He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock, already thick and urgent. He lifted her by her thighs, setting her fully on the table, sending papers drifting to the floor. He stepped between her spread legs.
“Watch,” he commanded, angling himself at her entrance. He pushed in, not with a single thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that made her whimper. She looked down, watching herself stretch to take him, the thick length disappearing into her body. It was obscene, hypnotic.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands clutching her thighs, his knuckles white. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that shook the solid table. Each thrust pressed her back against the hard surface, her peony tattoo flattening against the wood. The clinical light from the windows illuminated everything, leaving no shadow, no mystery. Just the raw, slick sound of their joining, the shudder of the table, his guttural curses.
“Touch your clit,” he grunted, his pace quickening. “Make yourself come while I fuck you.”
She obeyed, her fingers finding the swollen nub, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation, the fullness and the focused friction, coiled a lightning strike in her core.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice high and thin.
“Do it. Scream so the whole goddamn river hears you.”
The climax hit like a seizure. Her body arched off the table, a raw, ragged scream tearing from her throat as pleasure detonated through every nerve. He fucked her through it, driving into her clamping heat, his own control snapping. With a harsh shout, he plunged deep, pulsing inside her, his hips jerking with each spurt.
He stayed there, buried, his forehead against her collarbone, both of them panting against the quiet hum of the city through the windows. Eventually, he softened and slipped out. He helped her sit up, her legs wobbly.
He looked at the mess on his drafting table, the displaced art. Then he looked at her, her lips swollen, her hair a wild dark fan. A slow, real smile spread across his face, the first unguarded one she thought she’d ever seen.
“Worth it,” he said.
Her phone buzzed from inside her duffel bag on the floor. The sound was an intrusion from another world. Ghost’s smile faded. He stepped back, giving her space, his expression shifting back into its familiar, watchful lines.
She knew without looking who it was. The specter had found the new walls already. The rhythm of his heart had been real, but so was this. The game had changed last night, but it wasn't over.