Phantom

December 22, 1944

There’s a deep chill scattering down my spine like tiny little mouse feet, causing me to shudder.

I’m unsure if it’s from the snowfall today, the freezing temperatures working their way into Parsons Manor, or because there’s a decrepit soul standing behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, wondering: If there is someone there that I can’t see, what would they think of my diary? That you are going to burn in hell.

Possibly.

My mother always claimed so.

Maybe all this time, she was actually onto something.

If that’s the case, I suppose I’ll see her there.

I glimpse Ronaldo’s form outside the window, wearing all black as he usually does. Excitement thrums in my chest, nearly bubbling out of me as the front door opens, then snicks shut.

It takes effort to keep my behind seated in my chair rather than run to him like a lovesick fool. Even if that’s precisely what I am.

However, I am helpless to contain the bright smile from stretching across my face when he appears, a light dusting of snow clinging to his shoulders and fedora.

He pulls off his hat before running his hand through his black strands, and just like every other time he comes to visit, my heart stalls in my chest.

“What are you writing about today, my love?” he asks warmly, a grin on his beautiful face. My diary is on my lap, open to a page blank save for today’s date.

He saunters toward me in such a way that my throat tightens. The man is simply walking, and I’m damn near quivering.

I shrug coquettishly. “I haven’t begun yet. I suppose I have nothing to write about right now.”

“Does this mean I should give you something to write about, Genevieve?” he asks wickedly.

I swallow. Or rather, I try to. It feels as if my tongue has swollen to twice its size.

“Maybe so. Your visitations have been rather boring,” I tease sarcastically.

His answering chuckle is devilish, and the sound sends chills down my spine. When he reaches me, he flicks a finger at me, gesturing for me to stand.

Frowning, I do so, taking my journal with me. I can only blink at him when he moves me aside so he can sit in the rocking chair, adopting a casual position as he leans back into it. Resting his elbows on the armrests, he smirks up at me.

“Aren’t you going to sit?”

Blinking, I move to crawl onto his lap, but he holds up a hand, stopping me.

“You know better,” he croons, tsking at me. “Clothes off first.”

My heart pounds heavily as I set my diary on the footstool, then unfasten the pearl buttons that line the length of my wool dress. A tremor racks my body, and goose bumps cover my flesh as I shrug it off, left in my undergarments.

The surface of my body is cold, but my insides are steadily heating, warming me from the inside out.

Ronaldo licks his bottom lip before biting down on it, leaning his head back and staring at me like he wants to devour me.

Invigorated, I unhook my bra, my breasts feeling full and heavy as his stare burns into me. Then I unfasten my crotchless girdle and unhook the garter straps, letting that fall to my feet, revealing my lack of underwear beneath. I stand before him in nothing but my stockings, and a groan leaks from his mouth.

The bulge in his trousers is prominent. When he notices my gaze, he quickly undoes his belt and trousers, freeing his cock from the confines.

“Sit on it, Genevieve,” he orders. “And bring your journal.”

“Bring my journal?” I echo, confused.

“That’s what I said.”

He doesn’t bother to explain himself further, and I’m growing impatient anyway. My knees tremble as I grab my journal and pen from the stool, then crawl onto his lap. He keeps his feet planted on the floor, preventing the chair from rocking as I adjust myself to hover above him.

I wrap my free hand around his length, evoking a hiss from his teeth, and line him up with my entrance.

There’s no question whether I’m drenched. I felt myself wetting my inner thighs before I undressed. So, without preamble, I seat myself completely on him, pulling a moan from both of our throats.

When I prepare to lift again, his hands slam down on my hips, keeping me seated.

“Uh-uh. Write in your journal.”

“What?” I squeak.

“Did you think I wanted reading material while you ride my cock? No, baby. I’m giving you the material. Now, write.”

My mouth flops, and he nods toward my diary, gesturing for me to proceed.

Clearing my throat, I balance the diary on my arm, and with shaky hands, I write: I’m so full, and he expects me to write when all I want to do is fuck him.

“The first time I saw you sitting in this window, you were writing in your diary,” he begins, his voice husky with desire and so very deep. “You were the most magnificent creature I’d ever seen.”

My pen stills, and inadvertently, I clench around him, drawing out another hiss. I’m desperate for even a smidge of friction.

“I watched you for weeks, and most of the time, you didn’t know I was there.” I glance up at him, a little surprised by his admission. So many days, this man stood outside my house and watched me, and I had no idea.

“There were many times I pictured this moment exactly. Sitting beneath you while you wrote. Your cunt stuffed with my cock and leaking all over my lap.”

I bite my lip as I try to write, my handwriting increasingly worsening as he speaks.

“Your beautiful tits on full display, where I can lick and suck them. God, you have no idea how many times I’ve salivated just thinking about it. How many times I’ve stroked myself to the thought.”

He’s. Driving. Me. WILD.

His grip on my hips becomes bruising. There’s a desperation in his own gaze, suffering from his own games as much as I am.

“I imagined those pretty red lips begging me to fuck you,” he growls. “To make you come all over me.”

My God, he has no idea how close I am to defying his orders and doing just that. If I roll my hips the slightest bit . . .

He stops me, a warning growl rumbling in his chest.

“I’m not finished,” he bites out through gritted teeth.

But I am.

He wants to play? Then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

I tighten my walls around him, causing him to twitch.

“Genevieve,” he snaps.

“Yes, my love?” I ask innocently, sparing him a glance before I continue writing. Then I squeeze around him again, earning myself another growl.

“Put the journal down.”

“I’m not finished,” I repeat, quirking a brow. I clench again and keep writing, and his breath stutters out of him. He goes to lift me himself, so I bear down and lock my hips, refusing him as he refused me. His eyes narrow, and he looks seconds away from standing with me in his arms and fucking me anyway.

“Don’t you want to hear what I wrote?” I ask coyly. “It’s about you.”

He opens his mouth, but I continue before he can say later. “I told Ronaldo that I had never touched myself before, and at the time, that was true,” I read aloud. “But since then, I’ve done it many times. Sometimes, even right next to my husband while he sleeps. I’d reach down into my undergarments and feel how wet I was.”

“Genevieve.” He speaks my name like a whip cracking in the air, but it doesn’t deter me.

“Softly, as to not rouse the man next to me, I rubbed my clit. Thinking of those days where Ronaldo would call me his little whore and fuck me. Whether it was my mouth or my cunt. Or the times he would lick my pussy so thoroughly, I could keep him fed for a week.”

“Goddamn it,” he hisses.

“It was so hard to stay quiet. Especially when I made myself come, whispering Ronaldo’s name.”

He tries to move my hips once more, but again, I refuse. Instead, I clench around him, a soft moan spilling from my lips.

“Please, baby,” he groans, his chest heaving.

I grin. “It felt so good, but I was always left aching to be filled,” I forge on. “My cunt, my mouth”—I meet his gaze—“and my ass felt so empty, so incomplete without him.”

He tears the journal and pen from my hands, dropping them carelessly onto the floor beside us, hellfire raging in his eyes.

“Ride me, mia rosa,” he orders roughly.

I shake my head, biting back a smile. “Haven’t I told you before? I rather like when you beg.”

His brow furrows, and his face twists as if he’s in pain. “Fuck, Genevieve, please,” he pleads, his voice lined with gravel. “Please ride my cock. Please make me come. Please fuck me. I need it so bad, baby.”

I moan. “Good boy. You sound so pretty when you beg.”

His eyes flare, raging infernos within. And I roll my hips, giving into what we desperately need.

My head drifts back, and my body takes control, grinding against him with vigor, his pelvis creating the perfect friction against my clit.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it. Just like that,” he whimpers. “Let me suck on these beautiful tits.”

Lost in the euphoria, I have enough sense to lean forward, meeting him halfway. His mouth wraps around my nipple, licking and sucking on it forcefully and sending another shock wave of pleasure straight to my core.

I dive my fingers through his hair, holding him to me as he trades between using his tongue and his teeth.

“Lift your feet up, let the chair rock,” I pant, pulling away from him briefly. His legs are long, and it takes effort to maneuver them until he can hook his feet on the base rail beneath the stool.

Once he does, I arch my back and balance my hands on his shoulders. The motion of the chair causes me to wobble at first. It takes a few tries, but soon, I’m able to use the momentum to my advantage, allowing me to lift up and down on his length with ease.

With this new angle, he hits a spot inside of me that takes my breath away. My stomach tightens, an orgasm quickly building.

“Fucking Christ,” Ronaldo groans, cupping my breasts in his palms and pushing them together, placing open-mouthed kisses and nipping all over. “You fuck me so good.”

“You take it so good,” I whisper, diving one of my hands back into his hair, tugging the strands tight.

My eyes roll as the pleasure heightens, my hips tightening and stuttering as it builds to a sharp point.

“Ronaldo,” I gasp.

He releases my breasts and grabs onto my hips, taking over and guiding me up and down on his cock.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he mutters, urgency in his tone. “Come for me, baby. I want you to milk my fucking cock.”

My hips still, then I erupt seconds later, a dizzying wave rushing straight to my head. Then I’m grinding mindlessly against him, no rhythm to the way I move. Ronaldo explodes soon after, a hoarse shout bursting from his throat before he descends into madness alongside me.

Our bodies are no longer ours to control. They’re not even one another’s. We can only succumb to it, as if God has sent a flood to sweep us away—the waves too powerful to survive.

For several moments, I’m cast into blindness and silence, my senses useless. My lungs, too, as it’s impossible to draw in a breath.

I’m drowning, and it’s so peaceful.

Finally, the orgasm retreats, and I’m able to come up for air. We embrace each other tightly, his face in the crook of my neck while I slump over him. I tremble violently in Ronaldo’s hold, and my throat feels raw as little gasps and pants uncontrollably rush out of me.

“Oh my God,” I heave breathlessly, aftershocks causing me to twitch and jolt.

I pull away enough for him to tip his head up toward me.

“What the fuck did you just do to me?”

December 22, 1944

“Since I won’t see you on Christmas, I brought your present today,” he tells me quietly.

We’re lounging on the couch, the two of us completely nude now but keeping warm thanks to the crackling fire a few feet from us. I lay my head on his chest, my fingers tracing invisible pictures on his skin.

I frown, tilting my chin to look up at him. “You said no presents.”

“I said no presents for me,” he corrects. Another grin ticks up the corners of his mouth. “I never said I wouldn’t get you anything.”

“Ronaldo,” I whine. “That’s not fair.”

“Then I suppose it’s a terrible time to confess that it’s also my birthday today.”

I gasp, sitting up on my elbow to glare at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve—”

He rests a finger over my lips, silencing me.

“Right here, right now, this is all I could ever want from you, Genevieve. Nothing else.”

I frown. “But I could have done something special for you.”

“Baby, the only thing I want for my birthday and Christmas is your love.” He pauses. “And maybe your pretty cunt on my face. Otherwise, I want for nothing else.”

I roll my eyes, though I can’t help but chuckle. I’m incapable of berating him for his vulgarity and insatiable appetite when I’m no better.

What we just did . . .

There are never any words for it.

He reaches beneath the cushion behind him and pulls out a small box, holding it in his palm. I hadn’t even seen him hide it there when we lay down.

My stare pings between his glittering eyes and the black box he’s presenting to me. Sighing, I take it, flicking him one last indignant glance before opening it.

I gasp. A beautiful red rose brooch shines from within, the petals encrusted in glittering rubies. I sit up, balancing on my elbow as I stare at the piece that surely cost way too much.

“Ronaldo,” I breathe. “It’s exquisite. But it’s simply too much.”

“It’s not nearly enough. If I could, you would have a ring on your finger,” he rebuts. “But I will settle for a brooch for now. I figured it may be something your husband would assume you’ve had for years.”

Emotion clogs my throat as I set the box on his stomach and wrap myself around him. He cradles me to him as I brush my lips against his.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his mouth, also hating that his ring doesn’t decorate my finger. Maybe one day, but today, I am only happy he’s here.

“Just be careful,” he murmurs between soft kisses. “It could prick you.”

I grin against him, my chest so full, I can hardly breathe. “I would gladly bleed for you.”

He groans his approval against my lips, and butterflies flutter in my stomach as an idea strikes me.

Pulling away, I sit up on my knees, watching him carefully as he stares at me with confusion. Now that I’m no longer in the throes of ecstasy, taking control in such a way has my nerves prickling. But if I am anything, I am brave.

“The least I could do is make all your wishes come true,” I say, staring at him with a half-lidded gaze. “It would be awfully rude of me not to.”

His expression slackens as I straddle his chest, prompting him to readjust a little and give my legs room on either side of him. Then I climb over his face and watch as his mouth parts in awe and a savage hunger ignites in his pale eyes.

“You wanted my pretty cunt on your face. And now I want you to eat it.”

“Fucking Christ,” he curses, not wasting another second before he does exactly as I ask.

December 22, 1944

I’m so full, and he expects me to write when all I want to do is fuck him. God, I can barely concentrate, even as he speaks in that deep, gravel voice of his.

I need to move, but he won’t let me. And the filthy words pouring from his lips.

He’s. Driving. Me. WILD.

I told Ronaldo that I had never touched myself before, and at the time, that was true. But since then, I’ve done it many times. Sometimes even right next to my husband while he sleeps. I’d reach down into my undergarments and feel how wet I was.

Softly, as to not rouse the man next to me, I rubbed my clit. Thinking of those days where Ronaldo would call me his little whore and fuck me. Whether it was my mouth or my cunt. Or the times he would lick my pussy so thoroughly, I could keep him fed for a week.

It was so hard to stay quiet. Especially when I made myself come, whispering Ronaldo’s name.

It felt so good, but I was always left aching to be filled. My cunt, my mouth, and my ass felt so empty, so incomplete without him.

I never got to finish, he tore the journal out of my hands and crumpled the pages. It was worth it.

I found out it is his thirty-seventh birthday today, yet he was the one gifting me. I felt terrible at first. Of all days, I did nothing for him except make him beg and climb onto his face.

It definitely will not be the last time.