Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(49)

"Wait," Emmy murmurs. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

I cringe. "Yes?"

She chuckles. "Oh my God, you're serious."

"Fuck, yes, I'm serious. Please tell me you're fucking joking, Emmy."

She's still laughing.

"Do you or do you not have a ghost?" I very slowly and very quietly lie down and draw her duvet all the way up to my chin so I don't draw attention to myself.

"I—I don't know," she manages, and I know she's trying hard to stop laughing.

I'm rigid, my eyes squeezed shut. "You don't know?"

"I mean, I hear things sometimes. It's an old house."

I moan. I can't breathe.

"You're really freaked out, aren't you?" she asks.

"Mmm hhmmmm. You better not get off the phone with me. Like, ever."

The phone buzzes with a text, and I open one eye.

Snaking one arm out from under the covers, I unplug it from the charger and bring it in bed with me. She's sent me a text.

"We can stay on the phone as long as you need to," she says. "I'm sorry I freaked you out."



* * *



Emmy: Did you really read the books on my Kindle app?



* * *



"I don't want to know what you've heard that makes you think you have a ghost," I tell her, "but I think you should probably get the place saged or cleansed or whatever when you get back. In fact, I'll get it done tomorrow morning. Maybe I'll have Father Pete come over and bless the place."



* * *



I did. I'd love to know which ones, and which PARTS are your favorite.

I hit send.



* * *



"Trystan," she's saying. Then I hear her pause and know from her quick inhale of breath she read my text. She clears her throat and continues. "I'm surprised you know what saging is. Along with your fear of ghosts it doesn't seem very manly."

"My decorator insisted I sage my apartment when I bought it from the previous owner to get rid of his karma or whatever."

Her text response comes through.



* * *



Emmy: It depends on my mood, but all of them usually open to my favorite parts. Try one.

Emmy: Read me a story. A sexy story.



* * *



I groan. Out loud. A vision of her reading erotica and touching herself in the bed I'm in right now is almost too much to bear. "Emmy, if you were here you'd see, and feel, just how manly I am right now." I don't bother texting her back. She was trying to distract me from my fear and it worked.

Her breathing changes.

I'm hard as granite and desperate to slide my hand down to get some relief. "Emmy?"

"Yes?" she whispers it.

"I have a confession. I went through all of your photos, and I found the one of you in the yellow bikini. I can't get it out of my head. I thought about it when I was in the shower this evening. In your shower."

"You did?"

"I did. I was washing with your soap, lathering up my whole body, and bam there you were in my head, in that tiny, indecent bikini, and God, you turned me on so much. I was so hard."

I give in and slide my free hand down my stomach until it reaches under my boxers. I fist my cock and squeeze hard once, letting out a groan I can't keep in.

"D-did you touch yourself?" she asks.

"Yes, Emmy."

She makes a sound that almost make me want to come in my hand right then. It gives me confidence to say more. "I imagined you in the shower with me, the bikini wet and see-through. Your nipples showing through the fabric, your skin shiny and slick."

I swallow, my mouth dry, my breathing erratic. She doesn't respond, but she doesn't tell me to shut up either.

"I sucked your nipples through the fabric, Emmy."

She gasps, and I give my cock one long stroke to get the edge off. But it makes it worse.

"More," she whispers and my stomach hollows out. "Tell me more."

"But it wasn't enough," I go on. "I slipped those little bikini top triangles aside to see your tightly budded nipples begging for my mouth. Pink or beige, Emmy?"

"Pink," she gasps out.

"Fuck. Are you touching yourself, Emmy?" Jesus, please let her be touching herself.

"Y-Yes."

Thank, Christ.

"Am I on speaker?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Good, you have two hands. Use them, Emmy. I want you to touch yourself like I want to touch you. Tell me, Emmy. Are your fingers between your legs?"

Her breathing is coming in light, sharp bursts.

"Emmy, if your hands aren't between your legs, they need to be right now. I want you stroking your clit. Are you doing it Emmy?"

"Yes." Her answer is just breath, no sound.

"What does it feel like? Are you wet?" I ask, my voice sounding strangled to my own ears.

"Yes. Oh God, yes."

"Spread your legs, Emmy. Wider."

If I was there, I'd have them so damn wide.

"Tell me what it feels like," I coax.