by Ellen March
Like hell there is. “But surely you want it more than once a week. Don’t you have needs?”
“Yes, and I’m satisfied with our arrangement. If you aren’t, now’s the time to tell me.”
It was her chance to come clean, to tell him what she wanted. If only he would share his body, his cock, and show her a wild side that could shake her to the core! Instead she’d sighed and shut up, kept her thoughts to herself. She was determined that the most sought-after doctor in the hospital, the most fuckable, the one everyone drooled over, was going to crack. To prove that beneath that staid demeanour was a sex god waiting to get out. And she was the person to do it.
Had to do it. She hadn’t wasted eight months for nothing. And still that fear ate into her, the fear of being left alone.
The door opened, the light flicked off. But not before she glimpsed him as usual in his pyjamas. His feet were soundless as he padded towards the bed; it dipped as he sunk in. The sheet snapped over, a crackle of foil bled through the darkness, and he opened the condom in readiness. There was more crinkling as he slid it on.
At last he turned to her. His hands snuck down and shimmied her nightdress up, and he rolled over to lie between her legs.
“Open wide.” He nudged at her.
All Grace could think of was a dentist. Not a romantic word emerged during their jump. She spread her thighs, knowing that he’d be hard, that his stint in the bathroom was for that reason alone. She’d discovered his stash of porn magazines neatly stacked in the cabinet. She knew he didn’t masturbate—he’d made that clear—and guessed he’d flick through the pages until he was horny. Grace wondered why he wouldn’t let her go down on him, suck him stiff. But then he didn’t muff dive her either; probably afraid of catching a pube in his teeth.
He leaned to the side, didn’t even bother to take his trousers off, simply slipped his cock out. It tapped at her entrance before pushing forward and inching inside. Grace guessed he probably had that timed as well, a second for every inch.
He was in on six.
She waited then snuck her arms around his waist. He tensed up immediately, took her arms, and held them just above her head. “You know that’s not allowed, Grace.” His words doused her like a bucket of cold water. Yet they shouldn’t have; she knew how he liked “it”: no touching.
Sage lay over her, his mouth close to her neck, and his breath skated out, blowing hot against her throat. A small volley of kisses sped over her, and he thrust up, grunting. Thrust, grunt, thrust, grunt, pause. He repeated his action, maintaining a constant speed, and Grace found herself counting, six, seven, eight, pause. Nine and ten thundered after each other. A longer pause followed, and that was it. Over for another week.
Sage rolled onto his back and pulled the condom off, wrapped it in the tissue, then fastidiously wiped his cock. Absorbed in his task, he didn’t speak. Satisfied at last, he pushed his limp erection snug into his pyjama bottoms and sank back into his pillows.
“Good night, Grace, see you in the morning.”
Grace lay there in the dark, her legs still apart, her fanny frustrated and her clit wailing like a banshee, its grief almost tangible. It cried out for release.
“Yeah, see you,” she said and shut her eyes. Tomorrow would be the pinnacle of excitement. It was Sage’s laundry day. She looked forward to work on Monday because her weekend was going to suck.
Again.
Chapter Three
Grace sat in reception, keying in the appointment data. Her mind was in a whirl. Should she give in and tell him it was over? Her thoughts scrambled, she made one mistake after another.
“What’s up?” asked Amy over her shoulder.
“Sage. He’s turning me old before my time.” She glanced up at Dr. Connell, marching down the corridor towards them. “Look out. Twat Face at two o’clock.”
Amy sneaked a peek and a small grin tugged at her lips. She turned, keeping her back to him and making a show of shuffling through the files.
“Miss McGillis, Miss Thomas.” He acknowledged them with a brief nod of his head. His pale eyes filtered over Grace, hovering at her tits, then flicked back up to confront a pair of blazing eyes.
“Anything we can do for you?” Her face was impassive; only her glare gave away the emotions roiling within her. She was hot and angry, had seen exactly where he’d been looking. She deliberately undid a button, revealing a slit of a cleavage, and arched her back.
Her message was clear: look but don’t touch.
His glance dropped again. “I need Mr. Simon’s file. Pass it over.”
“The word ‘please’ goes down well,” said Grace, not moving.
“I’m waiting.” His fingers drummed in a rolling rhythm across the top of the desk.
“So am I.” She refused to budge. She’d had a shit weekend—the low point being an interrupted orgasm—and now this asshole was being his usual bolshie self. Well, sod it! she thought, digging into her well of stubbornness.
“I’ll get it.” Amy rose and reached for the file, which lay atop the pile she was shuffling. Reaching over, she handed it to him.
He took it out of her hand with a muted thank you. Then, shooting an annoyed glance at Grace, he strode back down the corridor.
“Why did you do that?” Grace was furious that her friend had given in. She’d been looking forward to a battle of wills.
“To stop you from getting sacked?”
“Might be a good thing if I was. Maybe I’d find someone else.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a bag of chocolates. She popped one into her mouth just as Sage strolled up to them.
“I hope that’s not what I think it is.” His smile slipped, lopsided, his eyes accusing.
Grace’s decision to dump him faltered and stalled. God but he looked sexy in his pale green scrubs. Hard muscles rolled beneath the short-sleeved shirt, and the mask hung loose around his neck. His short crop of dark hair was covered by a cap. Jesus, what she could do to him over a hospital trolley, given the chance.
“It’s not mine, it’s Amy’s.” She pushed the packet towards her. Her mouth was dry, and all she could think of was his ten thrusts at her ten o’clock fuck. Maybe he had a fixation with that number. She moistened her lips and ran her tongue along the edge, wishing it was his cock.
“Good. You don’t want to be visiting the dentist, do you?”
Grace thought of his words, “Open wide” and felt her knickers become distinctly moist. Shit but she was frustrated! How could she still want him so much when she knew what a stiff prick he was in every way but in bed? There had to be something seriously wrong with her. Why did she persist in believing that he would eventually let down his guard and show some real passion for her?
In answer to his question, she merely shook her head like a mute. Any second now she’d be grovelling on the floor, begging him to take her.
He smiled. It blistered over her. And again she wondered how he could have such a devastating effect on her. Then she glanced around, taking note of the awed silence that centred on the eye of the storm.
Sage.
“See you for lunch.” He flashed her a sexy wink and turned to leave.
“You sure he’s the same pyjama freak?” Amy said when he was no longer in sight, interrupting Grace’s horny thoughts.
She nodded.
“Hmmmm,” Amy sighed as her dreamy gaze followed him.
It was late afternoon, their shift almost over, when Amy pushed forward her invite to the singles’ club.
“But I’m not single, so why would I want to go?” Grace sat clutching her mug of coffee. It contained full fat milk and three sugars. A packet of chocolate biscuits lay in the drawer, just out of sight.
“What else have you got on for tonight?”
Grace smiled, and a cheeky chuckle bounced out. “Well, try a take-away, a load of chips, a bottle or three of wine, and a date with my vibrator.”
“Sounds good, got to admit it.”
“Why don’t you join me
?”
“I’m not into lesbian sex.”
Grace choked on the soggy biscuit she’d dunked and slurped it into her mouth. “Neither am I! I meant for a meal and drink. A girly night. My vibrators stay firmly with me in my bedroom.”
Amy laughed. “Yeah, why not? But I’m not sleeping over.” She popped another chocolate into her mouth. “And I’m not listening while you get off with Mr. Plastic Bunny Burner.”
* * *
The coffee table lay littered with the remnants of their meal. Empty foil containers sat alongside equally empty plates.
“I’m stuffed,” said Amy, smoothing a hand over her rotund stomach.
“Mmmm, me too, but not enough to stop drinking.” She poured a large glass of wine for them both.
“So what do you fancy doing?”
Grace shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t mind. What’s that you’ve fetched with you?” She peered at the large carrier bag that Amy had hauled in and left propped against the sofa.
Amy grinned, and a mysterious smile tugged at her lips. “Clear this table and I’ll show you.”
Moments later Grace stared with curiosity at the board, a frown line creasing her forehead. She took another gulp of wine, and its richness filled her, soothing her throat as it warmed her insides. It was rich and fruity. She pointed. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yep, a Ouija board.” Amy settled the flat piece of wood on the coffee table and knelt alongside.
Grace grimaced and shook her head, taking another heady gulp of wine. The heat infused her, it slunk through her body and invaded her mind with the ease of a missile on a mission.
Alcoholic stupor.
First stop, her brain.
“Nah. I know you say there’s something to it, but—”
“You’re a sceptic. Wait for the results. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” Her grin quickly vanished, replaced by a serious expression. “I was once like you.”
“What, frustrated and wanting a fuck?” Grace grabbed another bottle. She was glad it was red—saved chilling it, or in her case, saved waiting. She kept it close at hand.
“No you nutter, I mean I didn’t believe in an afterlife.”
“Well, if there is one, I hope to Christ it’s better than the one I’ve got right now.” Grace swigged from her glass, noticing how it emptied on a flood tide. She felt her tongue loosen, her inhibitions released. A warm, heady glow suffused her.
“I already told you about the mediums. I also read everything I can on ghosts, the paranormal, anything related to the past.”
“Do ghosts fuck?” That question was a priority for Grace. Hell, she had enough problems in her earthly life; she didn’t want to take them to the beyond. Wherever that would be—heaven, hell, or something in between. And it would be hell if she had to go through the afterlife itching for a shag.
“I would have thought so. I really don’t know. You don’t know the truth till you’re actually dead.”
“So why do you believe?”
While Grace waited for Amy to answer, she glanced down at the board. It was marked with the letters of the alphabet, the numbers 0-9, the words “yes” and “no.” Also “goodbye.” Along with various symbols and graphics. A small heart-shaped piece of wood lay there as an indicator.
“A planchette,” Amy supplied, noting where her glance settled.
Grace shot her a frown. “Come on, you haven’t answered.”
“Because I do, okay? And when we try this, you need to keep an open mind, free your soul, and believe.”
“Well, yeah, but believe in what? Come on, there’s no way a ghost is going to zing his way through the board. That we’re going to have a conversation with a dead person.”
“Well, if you’re so convinced, there’s no reason not to try it.” Amy grinned, settled on her knees, and indicated that Grace should do the same.
“Okay, but a tenner says it’s a load of shit and nothing will happen.” Grace placed her finger on the planchette, along with Amy.
“Is anyone there?” Amy’s voice broke the silence of the room.
She repeated the question. “I ask again, is anyone there?”
“No there’s not. Let’s call it a day, shall we?” Grace was about to move her finger when she felt the planchette shudder.
It hit, yes.
Grace gave a small, sceptical giggle.
“Who are you?” asked Amy in her ghost-busting voice.
Grace tried not to dissolve into laughter at the solemn tone of Amy’s words. She really knew how to work it. She decided to pretend not to be aware that Amy was pushing the planchette; she’d play along for the fun of it. Her mind drifted back to her vibrator and her fanny twitched.
The name ‘Breece’ was spelt out.
Grace shook her head. An unusual but cute name. Was she expected to believe this was a warrior of years gone by? Not your usual Peter or Paul. It sounded Saxon, or maybe Roman.
She could visualize a gladiator called Breece. She could most definitely see herself fucked by a wicked looking man in a short skirt.
“Where do you come from?” asked Amy.
Again it slid. Don’t know.
Grace tried to choke down another chuckle. “Okay, this is a joke. Can’t we finish up and just get pissed?”
“No!” Amy spat out. “We’ve got to listen to him.”
“There’s no one there. Come on, you’re moving it around.” Grace took another swig of wine.
“Ask him another question,” said Amy.
“Okay. Are you a ghost? How did you die?”And waited.
Ten minutes passed, during which time Grace poured some more wine down her throat. It was a pleasant interlude, finger on button and wine in stomach.
Suddenly the planchette moved again.
Don’t know.
“So are you dead?”
Don’t know.
“You’re a crap ghost.”
“Grace, ssh, don’t tell him that,” urged Amy.
Am I one? I don’t know, I keep telling you.
“He’s getting pissed off; you can tell by the way this thing is whizzing around,” advised Amy, her eyes wide open. “I’ve never experienced anything like this before.”
“Well, tell him to take a chill pill.” Grace didn’t bother to keep the scepticism out of her voice.
“Grace, he sounds like he’s in distress.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this, how the hell can a ghost be upset?”
“I don’t know! But if I woke up dead, I’d be seriously pissed off.”
“Oh for God’s sake, can we leave it there? This is a joke.”
“No, he’s here. I can feel him.” Amy kept her finger tight on the planchette. “Please don’t break contact.”
“You expect me to believe we’re talking to a dead man?”
Amy nodded.
“Okay then, give me proof. Breece, show yourself. I need to know you’re real, that this isn’t a wind-up.” She gave a drunken wink to Amy. “Prove to me who you are, what you are.”
“Shit, Grace, you’ve screwed up big style now.” She snatched her hand off the board.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve asked for physical proof. What you’ve done is invited them in, opened a doorway.”
“Them? Thought there was just the one?”
“Could be, but you’ve opened the doors. Depends on how quick it closes.”
“Well, try like now.” Grace moved her hand and flicked the board over. “Bye bye, spooks.” She giggled.
Without warning, the lights dimmed, and an intense cold pervaded the room, the temperature dropping to almost freezing. The cold spell lasted for a space of a few moments, then was over in a flash.
Amy glanced around warily, sniffing the air.
A strange, unbelievably strong aroma invaded her nostrils. It smelt of male—the sort of scent you’d get in a changing room full of male athletes. She glanced nervously around the room, a
lmost fearful. The atmosphere remained eerie.
“So, is that it?” Grace leaned back and emptied the remainder of the bottle into her glass, ignoring the wobble of her hand. “There’s another one in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
Amy rose and headed for the kitchen. She returned with another bottle of red wine. “What did you think of your first séance?”
“First and last. Bor-ing! Okay, we’ve got a guy called Breece, who knows nothing about himself. Doesn’t even know he’s dead. That’s if it truly happened, which it didn’t. Come on, it’s laughable. What’s there to like about it?”
“So you wouldn’t want a repeat? Wasn’t it thrilling to think that you were actually talking to a dead person?”
“Nope, because I knew you were pushing it around and it was all a joke.” Grace leaned back against the sofa, relaxed with a glass in her hand. “I like the name you picked for him, though. Really old sounding.”
“Seriously, I wasn’t. Didn’t you feel something, a glimmer of the past, of someone crossing over you?”
“Not a thing.” Grace glanced down at the time. It was getting on. Time to find the relief she had promised herself.
* * *
Amy sucked in a sigh and gazed around the room. Nothing had changed, and yet it had. But she couldn’t put her finger on it.
She glanced down at the Ouija board and packed it into her carrier bag.
Then looked over to Grace, who was pretty pissed. Her head kept nodding like one of those toy dogs that sat in the rear window of cars.
“Guess I’d better be going,” she eventually said. She gave another glance around. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve left something important behind?”
Grace hiccoughed. “Don’t look like.”
Amy shook her head and left with a worried frown on her face. Something had happened tonight, but she didn’t know what.
* * *
They hugged at the door. “Catch you in the morning.” Grace suppressed another hiccough and hung onto the door.
“Yeah, see you soon.” Amy swept a quick kiss across her cheek and crossed to the waiting taxi.
Grace watched the taillights disappearing into the darkened night; the inky splodge absorbed the reddened illumination. Then quietly shut the door. She wore a wicked grin, thinking of the night they’d had. Of the séance and the obvious way Amy’s finger had been driving the planchette.
