Mind Blind Saucy Side: Booooty Call (Featuring Grayson) (Patreon)

Your eyes open to find Gray hovering near the window, moonlight shining through his translucent body.

“No peeking,” Gray orders sternly.

You shut your eyes again, placing a hand over them for good measure. Were this being filmed (which it’s not, because you and Gray aren’t that adventurous yet), it would appear as if you were alone in your bedroom, lying on top your bedspread while wearing nothing but your underwear. Not sexy underwear, either (your sexy underwear is in the wash). Thankfully, Gray's gaze is hungrily appreciative no matter what you wear.

Being dead for a century made the guy pretty easy to please. You like that in a boyfriend, even if you sometimes wish that his form was more tangible. Dating a poltergeist has its upsides and downsides.

The bed doesn’t creak beneath Gray’s weight as he joins you, but you nonetheless sense his presence by the shift in temperature. You prickle with goosebumps at the sudden chill; it feels as if you’ve forgotten to close the window, and now winter’s night breeze is gusting over your bared skin. His fingers alight upon your upper chest like falling snow, too gentle and weightless to belong to the the hand of any living man. You shiver beneath his frozen touch, which is more akin to a soft breath than a physical caress.

“I would have undressed you myself,” Gray murmurs against the nape of your neck, “were circumstances different.” 

There’s a pause, heavy with longing and regret, that almost makes you reopen your eyes, but then two snowflake kisses press against each lid.

“No peeking,” he reminds you.

You can’t feel his weight atop you, but the position of his hands as they glide down your body must mean that he’s hovering directly above. His cold caress slides over your arms, needles of ice prickling your hands from where his fingers interlock with yours.

“I want to touch you,” he says. “Guide me.”

And so you do.

Your hands are cold, almost to the point of pain, due to his grasp. But you keep your eyes shut: should you open them, there would be nothing to see. It’s too difficult for Gray to make himself seen and felt simultaneously. Tonight, you wanted to feel him.

Your hands glide over your hips and your inner thighs. You have some control over where Gray lingers, but for the most part allow him to guide your touch like a kite turns with the wind. Your hands—his hands—splay across your navel, and then lower, until you submit completely to the icy arousal of his strokes.

Times like this, you can imagine Gray. His eternal bedhead, his blue eyes. How his hair would look falling into those eyes as he leans over you. His warm smile, so unlike his frozen touch, as he beams at you with love and wonderment that, despite all obstacles, you chose him.

“I love you,” Gray whispers. “I love you, I love you.” He repeats the words to the tempo of your heartbeat, and you reach up blindly to encircle where he should be.

Your arms plunge through empty air. Everything inside you is hollow and aching, yearning to be able to embrace him in a simple hug . . . but nothing about your relationship with a ghost is simple.