I could hear music coming from the living room as soon as I entered the house, and it surprised me; I didn't think anyone else would be here on Halloween. Even Violet and her - whatever - weren't supposed to be home until much later. I had been to the beach, the same little cove I took Violet to so long ago, and watched the sunset before I came back. I followed the sounds and found her lying on the couch, legs draped over the arm, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. She had stripped down to a skirt and tank top, and was bobbing her feet to the music.

I went into the kitchen to find an open bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the counter; judging from the empty soda cans she was on her second of the night. I took a couple of long pulls from the bottle before I went back in the living room and watched her. Her glass was empty on the floor now, her fingers in it twiddling the ice cubes in the time with the beat.

She was relaxed; the first time I'd seen her completely relaxed since she got back. Probably because she thought she had the place to herself for once. As the record played through, the room was filled with the sound of loud distorted guitar riffs, rolling over each other like lazy waves. She started undulating with the beat, and as she ran a hand through her hair I felt my cock twitch to life.

She got up carrying her glass back to the kitchen; hips dropping as she walked, the music swaying through her. I had a perfect view of her ass moving under the floaty fabric of her skirt as she did so. She looked sensual yet languorous; if I had seen her look sexier I wasn't sure when. Maybe it was the liquor, but as I watched her move through the room I realized what was missing from her marriage; in whatever pragmatic way she loved him, she didn't lust for him.

When she passed out of view I put the song on repeat and followed her into the kitchen. She had her hands splayed out on the counter, the rest of her body still moving to the music, her head dropped forward and eyes closed as she mouthed the lyrics.

I was hard and buzzed and really didn't give a fuck about the consequences because seeing her like that was an unbearable tease. I came up behind her and put a hand on each hip, pulling her into me so I could grind into the cleft of her ass. She leaned her head back against my shoulder, hands on top of mine as I dipped down to play my lips and tongue across the sensitive skin of her neck; her hips continuing to sway, making me painfully hard against her.

I ran my hands up her sides, felt the shadow of her ribs under them, and pressed her breasts together, pinching and rolling her nipples between my fingers as I kneaded them, making her let out a little hiss of air through her barely parted lips. I had dreamed about this for six years, but no memory could compete with how she felt pressed against me, her skin hot and needing, yielding to my touch.

She turned her face to mine, lust and longing in her heavily lidded eyes, and pressed her lips against mine. There was no hesitancy there, no internal conflict; I wasn't sure if she gave up, gave in, or just didn't care, and I was too lost in her to worry about it. I reached down and ran a hand up her thigh, around her ass, lifting her skirt up with it to knead her through the thin cotton of her panties, my other hand lifting her shirt off with her help.

I pushed her down on her elbows against the counter as I kissed and licked her back, enjoying the light sheen of sweat that covered it, pressing a finger into her and undoing my belt and pants with the other, shimmying them down my hips. Her breathing was hard, ragged, and I slipped another finger in, coating it in her wetness before I rubbed it down my length making it slick. She looked at me over her shoulder, bottom lip caught between her teeth, as I tugged her panties off, and pressed into her.

Fuck she felt better than I remember; my back arched as I ground into her as deeply as I could, an involuntary groan escaping my lips. She pressed back into me, rocking her hips, aching for movement, and I was happy to oblige.

I leaned back over her, kissing her shoulders and neck as I thrust in and out, long and slow; letting her feel every inch. It didn't matter that she was married and I was dead, and we were both at varying levels of intoxication; those were worries for another day, not when I was fucking in and out of her, and she wasn't wet and tight around my cock, her body burning under me. I felt her walls flutter as I kissed the nape of her neck, and it made me smile; the time apart hadn't changed her so much.

I thrust harder and quicker, one hand on her hip the other on her shoulder, hitting that spot deep inside her that left her legs trembling, and her walls clenching around me. I could feel the heat building up inside her, and between that and the sound of her small gasping moans I wasn't sure if I was in heaven or hell; either way I was happy.

I slipped a hand around and caressed her nub making her shake and scream as she came. As she quivered under me in the aftermath of her orgasm I thrust into her hard, bottoming out, her walls clenching spasmodically around me milking my cum into her. I collapsed against her, resting my forehead against the slick skin of her shoulder, catching my breath.

She pulled me against her for a kiss, her tongue playing in my mouth before she left me in the kitchen to go upstairs and wash the smell of me off her skin. She had a small smile on her lips, and her walk every bit as illicit as it was before. I watched her until she disappeared and finished off the bottle of Jack in the basement.


There was a light knock on my door, and I looked up from the book I was reading to see Tate watching me. "Can I come in?"

"Seriously? You're asking?" He hadn't asked permission to be in the same room with me since the first time I met him, and put me on edge.

"Yeah." He said awkwardly.

"Okay." I shoved my notebook into the book to hold my place, and watched him take the seat opposite me.

"Have you been avoiding me?" He was picking at the frayed edge of his sweater.

"That's pointless since you're invisible most of the time; can't avoid what isn't there."

"You know I'm always here." He finally looked up, and his face was hard; a mask of barely controlled anger. "I notice since we fucked in the kitchen you haven't been home much."

I just stared at him, floundering with what to say, because as much as he might have longed to hear You're not the one I've been avoiding I wasn't sure it was the right thing, even now. "I haven't been avoiding you. I'm writing a research paper. I'm not going to be dicking around the house all day." It was completely true, even if it was an excuse, and I knew he could not have cared less.

"Interesting turn of phrase."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean I'm not your personal dick there to fuck whenever you get bored, or drunk, or whatever it was." He said angrily.

I had been afraid of this. "What did you think was going to happen? We'd fuck and then live happily ever after? It doesn't change the situation." It doesn't make you not dead and me not married, I added silently.

"So you're planning on living here and fucking both of us? Playing the happy wife with him, and the whore with me?" My hand twitched towards the book next to me; it was so tempting to chuck it at his face.

"What does it matter to you as long as you're inside me?" I said, matching his anger.

"All your pretty talk about loving him, and not wanting to hurt him, and whatever other bullshit you spewed. The only person you care about is yourself; it doesn't matter who you hurt as long as you get what you want. You're no better than your cheating scumbag father."

That's when I threw the book, which he neatly ducked. "Get out!" I shrieked. He left with one last withering glare, slamming the door behind him, and I hid my face in my hands, sinking further down into the chair, trying to disappear into the fabric.

I knew I had so many more options than the two I was presented with at the moment, but I didn't feel like they were real. It would be so easy to leave and never come back, to walk out the door from both paths offered me: Callum and Tate. But I couldn't, they were the only two that felt real. No matter how far away I ran I'd still always want my Ghost Boy, would still always be trapped in a half-life without him.

But I couldn't stay here alive either. Trying to walk the middle path between them, alive and with Tate, but belonging to someone else was impossible. As much as I might have wanted it, wanted to have my cake and eat it too, it was just as impossible as leaving. I couldn't expect Tate to love me enough to let me be with someone; to shove that in his face, and make him live with it.

I was still there, hours later, when Cal got home, pretending to be asleep as his said my name softly from the door. Still trying to find my way in this bog of conflicting emotions.