Ghost Avenger

by Serena Akeroyd

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s where I train. You can join too. That way I don’t have to worry about you getting mugged.”

  “I take cabs everywhere,” I try to assure him. But he doesn’t bite.

  “What if the cab driver was one of those murderers you read about in the paper?”

  I blow out a breath. “Do you always look on the dark side?”

  “When it comes to people l...” He clenches his jaw. “When it comes to the people who matter most to me, yeah. Ask David. He’ll tell you I made him learn too. His mother stopped me from dragging his sister to class, but I would have if she hadn’t put up such a fuss.”

  I cup his cheek, taken with how caring this man is.

  A tentative amendment pops up in my head.

  How caring my man is.

  I shudder a little, then rock my hips, encouraging him to get down and dirty with me in a bathroom fit for a princess.

  It’s large. All amber marble from ceiling to floor. One wall is taken up by a counter with a double sink and a large mirror, which is currently reflecting all of the wobbly bits I wish didn’t exist, and the other wall has a toilet and one of those fancy European things, a bidet I think they’re called. Then, the back wall is the shower.

  Yes.

  The entire back wall is a shower. A glass enclosed behemoth with heads on both sides, and a bench to boot.

  A freakin’ bench.

  Who sits down in the shower? I’d asked myself when I’d first used the facilities. Now, I know the answer to that. Although, all that marble under your knees... ouch!

  He steps into the enclosure, calm as you like, not as though he’s carrying me, at any rate. He doesn’t even seem like he’s struggling.

  Christ, this is like a whole different creature to the one I thought I knew a couple of hours ago.

  I figured he was cerebral. One of those smart dudes whose major muscle was his brain. Now? Well, I like that I was wrong.

  I like that he’s sexual. I love that he has discipline. I love that he’s so male. Those parts of him contrast so perfectly with my own character that I know when we merge, we do so in many different ways.

  His strength draws me in, sucks a hold of me, and when he rests a hand against my lower back to keep me close, I want to melt. I know he’s about to turn on the water, but I reach out for his hand, slide my fingers through his and say, “Kiss me first.”

  He smiles. “Whatever my lady wants.”

  “Whatever?” I waggle my brows. “That could be a dangerous option.”

  “I think I can handle it.” He leans forward, pushing me into the cold marble wall. I shudder at the shock of the chill scalding my spine, but he swallows my gasp then takes my mind off everything but the two of us.

  I’m a little sore from earlier; my bits haven’t been made available to any Tom, Dick, or Harry for a long time. I don’t care that I ache a little. I want him. I want him more now that I know what he can do to me. What he can make me feel.

  Another shiver wracks me, making me quiver against him. He grabs my other hand in response, laces them together, then pins my wrists to the shower wall on either side of my head. Oh God, I love this side of him. I need him to take charge, need him to wrestle control from me. I trust him to take care of me and drag every sensation I’m capable of experiencing from my body.

  When his mouth reaches for mine, I accept him eagerly. Adoring the thrust and parry of his tongue against my own, the mock sex going on above when I can’t wait for it to start down below.

  Against his chest, my nipples are hard, and they hurt. They need him to touch them. But so does my clit. My clit aches with the need to be caressed. Hell, every bit of me needs him, and he can only do so much with one pair of hands.

  The need ricocheting inside me seems to turbocharge my responses. My own body is working against itself, forcing me to feel a thousand times harder as expectation starts to ride me.

  His mouth steals my air, and I can feel my lungs start to burn. The action doesn’t set off a trigger point of panic; it just makes me melt into him all the more. Pressed between him and the wall, I can feel every part of his torso against mine. I can’t shift my hips in this position, not without it jarring my rocking motion and pushing me into the wall, but each time his tongue plunges into my mouth, his cock rubs along my wet slit, dragging along sensitized tissues and nudging my clit.

  The pleasure is intense, all the more so because it’s just heavy petting. The warm up to the main event.

  In this position, I feel like I could come. Crazy enough, it’s close, but I don’t want to. I want him inside me. I want the connection more than I want the climax.

  All my life, I’ve needed to connect with someone. I’ve ached for it. Burned for it. With Drake, I feel like I’ve finally found it, and now that feeling of a union is inside me, I don’t want to waste it. I don’t want to come, my body empty inside. I want to be filled with him.

  “Fuck me.” I pull back from his mouth to gasp the words against his lips while taking the chance to suck in some air.

  With my eyes closed, I didn’t see the flush riding his cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the harsh lines of his jaw as all his testosterone comes out to play, showing me the man, the conqueror. The invader. But it was there, in my mind’s eye.

  I shudder at my own fancy then reach forward, nuzzle my lips against his chin, and whisper, “I’m yours.”

  He shudders, disconnects our hands. With my body pinned to the wall, I know I’m safe, Drake wouldn’t ever let me fall. One hand goes to one of my ass cheeks, he holds it, parting it in a way that makes my eyes widen as air drifts down the crack of my ass and toward my pussy. He sees my reaction and laughs, and then, with his other hand, grabs his cock and presses it against my folds.

  Within seconds, the tip is lodged inside me. He rocks his hips up, starts to penetrate me fully then reaches for my hands and pins them to the wall, once more.

  “Dig your heels into my ass,” he commands, and who am I to argue?

  The movement tilts my pelvis forward and up, and my eyes widen at what that does inside me. He can thrust all the way in now, and I can feel him, deep down in my core. Oh God, the feeling is so intense, it’s crazy. Gravity pulls me down, making me cling to every inch of him. I’m sure I’ve never been so full in all my fucked-up life.

  A wail escapes me at the fullness. “Dear God,” I cry out, letting my head slip from side to side against the shower wall. It’s the only movement I’m allowed in response to the heavy pressure deep inside me.

  I feel like I could combust, and I’ve never wanted to burn more.

  Tension fills me, making my muscles tremble with the strain of it until finally, he starts to retreat, pulling his cock out before slamming deep. He’s careful, slow enough that I don’t hit the wall with every thrust, but so damn thorough that he makes me feel every inch where he’s staked a claim.

  I drag a hand away from his, and I’m surprised when he lets me. I use it to flail my fingers against the wall, wishing I could claw my nails into the marble and feel the stone give way as my pussy is giving way to its own invader. Instead, when my hand kicks out, I catch the fancy faucet. It’s a single shaft, aiming skyward, and when you pull it down, the water flows.

  We sputter as the freezing water hits us bang in the chest. The water splashes back, hitting our faces, and when I try to turn it off, he shakes his head. Liquid makes his dark hair look like black silk and adds starkness to the shadows on his face. I reach forward, unable to help myself, and cup his jaw, angling his head until our lips can connect with ease.

  As the water sprays us, we unite ourselves in more ways than one. It trickles down between us like millions of tiny fingers caressing our skin. My nerve endings feel shot to pieces with the delicate touch, and I pull my head back to cry out at the infinite sensitivity it creates. Drake takes the chance to drop his own head, and when he nibbles my tender nipples, it’s a one-two punch I didn’t need.
<
br />   Two nibbles, three, and in tangent with the deep, rocking thrusts that overfill me, it’s there. I’m at that plateau again. My readiness to experience what he can give me makes me feel like my body is vibrating with desperation. I don’t know what to do to fall off the edge, to start soaring high, but whatever it is, I know Drake can sense how close I am, because he starts to do this crazy shit with his hips. He’s no longer rocking back and forth, dragging his dick up and down, he’s doing this figure eight thing.

  It’s witchcraft.

  Sheer, fucking witchcraft, and it’s all I need to finally fly.

  Chapter Nine

  Drake

  The filet mignon before me is cooked to perfection.

  I really didn’t expect such a meal, but everything about this dinner is aimed at me. It’s a man’s delight. Steak, sauce—in my case, pepper—home fries, grilled tomatoes, caramelized onions. It’s a comfort meal but everything’s done with that touch of class that speaks of money. Like the shavings of truffle on the pepper sauce and the pink Himalayan salt on the tomatoes and potatoes.

  I’m not entirely sure why the meal is like this. It’s like a meal your mom would make for you, but instead, a Michelin-starred chef has taken control of her kitchen. I’m not complaining, just wondering at the reasoning behind it.

  As I take a mouthful of deliciously rare steak, I watch as Jayce meanders through a huge plate full of fries. The woman does love her carbs. I grin at the notion, knowing she’d slap me silly if she realized the thought had crossed my mind. I watch her nibble at a fry and want to groan at the unintended sensuality behind the move. Maybe it’s because I’m crazy about her, because I don’t recall getting the hots for any of the other women I’ve dated eating fries.

  It’s ridiculous, at my age, feeling this way about a woman. Not that I’m in elderly, but still, there’s a distinct age gap between the pair of us. Enough for it to be felt; on my end, at any rate. Truth is though, this has nothing to do with age. Jayce has come into my life at a time when I needed someone, someone outside of my regular circle. The Drake here today is different to the one who existed before David died, and this Drake wants Jayce whether or not he looks like a dirty old bastard.

  I saw Marla’s face when she greeted us. The woman’s focus was partially turned inward—how could it not be, considering the reason for our stay here? However, there was more to it. A knowing look that pissed me off. Like I was a sugar daddy or a pervert.

  Dating Jayce might bring more stares of that nature. I could weather them, and knowing Jayce, I can imagine she can too, but imagining and knowing are two different things entirely, aren’t they?

  Knowing my thoughts have turned unexpectedly gloomy, I clear my throat and thank my host, “I never expected such a spread, Marla.”

  Her lips twitch, but in disdain, not amusement. Not at me, but at the food. “It’s hardly cordon bleu,” she dismisses the beautiful piece of steak so easily that it’s a knife to my heart. Then, she laughs a little more genuinely as she looks over at Jayce. “Did you ask for a steak?”

  My lover grins. “Yeah. I did. Your maid asked if I had any requests for dinner. Do you mind?”

  “No. I told you to ask for whatever you wanted. I just realized this must be why the chef provided this plate when it’s hardly something you’d serve to new guests.”

  “Finishing school ruined you, Marla,” Jayce retorts, after chewing a bite of her own steak. “How the hell can you not appreciate this?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I’m just not a fan.” She picks at her meal, and then, with a sigh, pushes the plate away. “Or it could just be that I’m nervous.” Marla eyes me a second. “Do we really have to start after our meal?”

  I nod. Maybe it seems heartless of me to push her, but I don’t have all the time in the world. I’m not sure what miracles Jayce thinks I can reap in a week. I might not be able to help at all. I’ll do what I can, and if I help just a little, make Marla look more favorably at therapy, then I’ll be content with that.

  At my nod, she sighs, disheartened as I’d feared. “Marla, if I let this go and we wait for tomorrow to get the ball rolling, will you sleep well? Won’t you be nervous? As nervous as you are now?”

  “He’s right, Marla,” Jayce confirms, before popping another fry into her mouth. “It’s a Band-Aid moment. Get it over with, otherwise it will just build up in your head. Plus, Drake isn’t like your other doctor.”

  That has me cocking a brow. “How do you know? You’ve never see me during practice hours.”

  She sniffs. “I know, psychologists,” she retorts, taking a sip of a very nice Rioja. “I’ve been to enough to know how they work.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Oh really?”

  Jayce’s grin is as wide as before and just as self-satisfied. “Yes.”

  When she says no more, I murmur, “Well, enlighten the class, Miss Know-It-All.”

  “Well, I bet you engage in hypnotherapy as you work.”

  Surprised, I feel my mouth drop open a little. “How did you know that?”

  Marla pipes up, “How did you know that?”

  “Drake may seem like a traditionalist. That whole 1000-hour bullcrap. But he wants to help too much. He likes to make a difference. So, that means working quickly. Hypnotherapy doesn’t necessarily speed things up, but it does help. Especially when the patient trusts the practitioner.”

  She tilts her head to the side as though analyzing me from a distance. Like she can read my mind or something. I could suspect she’s using David for information, but I don’t discuss my work with family. David wasn’t interested in a career in therapy; he never asked, and I never shared.

  When she purses her lips, I know she’s going to shock me even more; “I bet you advocate psychodrama over play therapy too.”

  Shit, she does know me.

  And she knows her therapeutic approaches to clinical psychology.

  Her smile tells me she knows I’m surprised.

  Her smugness surrounds her like a thick cloud of fog, but Marla breaks through it to ask, “What’s psychodrama? I can guess at play therapy.”

  “They’re similar approaches,” I inform her, eying Jayce to see if she’d like to take over the explanation. God forbid I don’t allow her the stage. Not that I’m mad, she seems to have guessed two of my practices. Neither are outré or extreme, so, it could be a lucky guess, but I don’t think it was. I think she analyzed me right on the nose.

  Does that make me predictable or her intuitive?

  When Jayce remains silent, I explain to Marla, “Psychodrama is almost like theater within therapy. It’s reenacting a scenario. Maybe you reenact it verbatim, one day, so we have a base line. Then, we establish ways in which you could have acted to attain a different, not necessarily better, result.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Marla murmurs, and she graces me with a small, but for the first time, genuine smile. “And considering my background, that might be useful.”

  “Has your other therapist not tried that approach?” Jayce asked, as she picked up a slice of bread and started to butter it.

  The woman’s appetite knows no bounds.

  “No, I think he’s more of a traditionalist.” She bites her lip. “My husband’s assistant selected him for me. He was waiting to tend to me when I woke up in hospital after...” Marla soothes her mistreated lip by swiping it with her tongue. Reaching for her wine, she swirls the ruby liquid in the bowl of the glass. “After I tried to commit suicide.”

  Quickly, I shoot a glance at Jayce and receive a gentle nod. This was why she warned me. The woman is close to being a danger to herself.

  A small silence falls after her admission, but I tell her softly, “Therapists have their own methods, their own way of working. There’s no right or wrong practice.”

  Jayce snorts. “No, there isn’t. Not technically. But let’s face it. Someone with Marla’s background, with a creative flair, would respond better to a therapist who has experience with
psychodrama rather than behavior therapy, for example. Desensitizing Marla to her situation could possibly be detrimental to her recovery, when working through it in a holistic way could be exactly what she needs.”

  “Unless Marla has a phobia, desensitization wouldn’t work anyway....” I narrow my eyes at her, and then sensing this is probably a futile conversation, turn to Marla. “Do you want to start here, now? Because if this discussion carries on, the session will begin, impromptu though it may be. We can always change the topic though. It’s up to you.”

  Marla sucks in a deep breath, but as she releases the quivery gust of air, she nods. “I think I’d like that. I’d prefer it to be here, informal, rather than so clinical as I’m used to.”

  Jayce’s smile is even smugger than before. It’s hard to be irritated when she’s displaying all the finesse of a six-year-old who’s terrible artwork is being praised by her parents.

  Rolling my eyes at her, I tell Marla, “Whatever makes you comfortable. Now, Jayce is correct. Some people do react better to certain approaches. But, I don’t know what approaches your therapist has taken. I contacted him about your case before I set off, but I’ve had no reply as of yet.”

  She shakes her head. “You won’t. He’ll be under an NDA too.” For a second, her brow puckers. “Your interest will have been recorded, and undoubtedly, my husband will be aware of your presence here at the house. He doesn’t want to be a part of my life but likes to keep tabs on me.”

  I can’t hear any bitterness to her tone, but surely, she feels some? Either she’s great at hiding from her emotions, or she’s even better at shielding them. “Is it a problem if he knows we’re here?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose not. When I awoke in hospital, I was greeted with a bouquet of flowers and a psychologist.” This time, her smile is taut. “Not the man himself. I doubt he’ll take much interest outside of the legalities. A lawyer will be along soon, I’m sure, to gag you both before you could say anything to the press.”