Page 63 of Hot Ghost Summer

Theo slams me onto the table.

“God, I’m so wired!” He swings his arms in wide circles, slicing his Kevlar-gloved hands through the air as he paces back and forth in his living room. “The way you just appeared like BAM!”

He wipes both hands over his face and rakes them through his hair, forcing his cap to the floor.

“That was so hot. So. Fucking. Hot.” A manic laugh bubbles up. “Can you do it again?”

He crowds over me, squeezing his dick through his uniform. “I want t’ fuck you so hard.”

He shoves a gloved hand under his gym vest, exposing that trail of dark hair and part of a tattooed face that winks at me from his hip bone. For a second, I lose myself to the visual of him topping me. It’s not hard. There’s already a trickle of sweat from his temple that’s running along his square jaw, already a tension visible in the veins and tendons of his neck, and an already half-gone look in his eyes.

Imagine if I made it a rule that he couldn’t come first?

We have more important things to talk about,

I message him because manifesting right now is dangerous—to both of us.

Theo whips off his tight-fitting top. “No, we really don’t.”

We need to see if I can access that data from here. Plug me in.

“Oh, I’ll plug you in alright…” He winks and bites the tip of his glove.

Rule three, Theo. Plug me in, then take a seat.

He rolls his eyes but does as I ask. His leg bounces in agitation when he sits, but I remind myself that his sexual needs aren’t my responsibility as I turn my focus to my database.

I’d made him spend the morning familiarising himself with its contents, but I’ve been collating this data for years. Longer, in fact, because it’s built on a handwritten journal that began in the seventeenth century. Even the most scholarly ghost hunter couldn’t have memorised it all in the time I gave Theo.

There are at least two distinct entities at that site, did you notice?

“Hmmm?” he asks, but he has the sleeves of his coveralls untied so he can massage his semi-hard length through his underwear.

There’s an entry in the database for a site with multiple hauntings. Do you remember what it said?

Theo groans and lifts his hips. His head drops back, and when he swallows, the word Baby bobs with it.

He can do better than this.

Something I’ve observed in Theo since we started living together is that despite how he looks, he’s studious. Earlier this week, he’d taken it upon himself to read the ExorSquad handbook and learn what he could from it. This morning, even, he didn’t resist reading the contents of my database—as I thought he might. He seemed genuinely interested.

Which means his current predicament is more important than my question, than I am, and that’s a balance I can’t allow to stand.

Go get that double cock ring and a bottle of lube from your nightstand drawer.

Theo freezes, chocolate-brown eyes fixed firmly on my screen while he processes. I mentally count: one, two, three…

He shoots off the chair like I lit him on fire.

It’s not long before he returns, having shed all his remaining clothing. He dumps the items I told him to get on the table, and I instruct him:

Leave the gloves, and put it on.

Theo’s breathy exhale and eager nod heat my circuits. Database temporarily forgotten, I watch as he sits back on the chair and spreads his legs, revealing a previously unseen tattoo. A little devil on his inner thigh. He’s so confident, and why wouldn’t he be when he looks like a work of art?

Pouring lube generously into his Kevlar-covered palm, he picks up the silicone ring and closes it inside his fist. When the lube drips out, he allows it to splash onto his eager length and languidly massages it in with his other hand.

My brat is also a world-class tease.