My Ghost Roommate

“You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

His laughter cools, sparkles of joy in his eyes. He takes a step toward me, his smile as charming as ever. “You don’t have to hide anything from me, either.”

I press my lips together, happy.

Maybe I should just tell him. He said he feels safe with me, right? He could tell I’m an oddball. He loves Halloween. Maybe he’d be cool if I just—

Listen, bro. That’s not a good idea. Don’t let all of this new confidence make you forget reason. I’m a ghost literally living inside of you. This isn’t just a funny love for costumes you’d be revealing to him.

But isn’t it lying if I don’t tell him about you?

No, it isn’t lying. It’s being a normal human being.

Why does it feel like lying, then?

Dude, I didn’t tell every girl I dated that I wet my bed until I was thirteen, or that my protein farts are so potent they can bring down an entire ecosystem, or that I’m obsessed with baseball cards and have a collection that’s worth well over eighteen hundred dollars hidden underneath a floorboard beneath my childhood bed. It doesn’t make me a liar to not reveal any of this.

Okay, first, we gotta circle back to all that another time. Second … I still don’t feel good not telling him.

Trust me. Keep me where I belong: deep down here inside of you like the nasty little secret I am. Now go do your straight buddy a favor and fuck the guy already!

Hmm. Straight, you say?

Fuck you, bro.

“Thanks, Byron,” I say instead of anything useful.

He takes hold of my hand. A pinch of curiosity sits in his glistening, happy eyes. “Now that I’ve shown you the contents of my closet—don’t ask where my actual day-to-day clothes are, they’re literally shoved into a drawer with my uniform shirts, I don’t own very much normal-people apparel—how about we chill on the couch, throw on a movie, and dork out together?”

Lame.

But whatever part of me is still Griffin doesn’t find it lame at all. “That sounds fucking awesome.”

Soon, Byron and I are on the couch, legs kicked up, drinks on the coffee table in front of us, and whatever movie we threw on is entirely ignored as we talk our heads off about everything. I am astonished over and over again how easy the conversation flows. I think in a normal state of being, I’d be terrified of us running out of things to talk about—or “dork out” about—fearing every lull in chatter, every pause, every breath between sentences. Instead, I’m completely at ease. I let myself laugh easily. He laughs back.

It feels like the two of us have known each other for years already. We have so much in common. Even our energies are in sync. It’s almost as if—

“I don’t know if it’s because I’ve served you coffee for several weeks before you actually got brave enough to chat with me,” says Byron, “but I swear our souls met in a past life.”

“I was just thinking that!”

His arm is slung over the couch behind me. “I gotta admit …”

“Yeah?” I didn’t realize how close we had gotten to each other. We’re almost cuddling.

“I kinda … really … want to kiss you right now.”

My heart leaps out of my chest and flies into his.

I’m all his. Every part of me.

I eye him. “I should warn you. There is a possibility we may have a repeat of last night, and … well, I hope you aren’t too attached to that shirt you’ve got on.”

Byron’s face is inches from mine. “I know. I wore a tight one for a reason.”

I lose my breath.

Let’s get him, tiger.

My lips find Byron’s. He melts against my kiss.

I swing a leg over and straddle him, pressing him against the couch. His strong and muscular arms wrap around me like his favorite pillow, pinning me to his hard-as-granite body. As he squeezes, my claws dig into the couch behind him.

His pants are so tight, and I’m pressed to his lap so firmly, I feel him flex against my ass. With our lips locked together, twisting and wrestling with this kiss, I feel a hand slip under my shirt at the small of my back. The touch of his fingertips against my skin casts electric signals of delight up my body. His hand is joined by the other, and my shirt slips over my head, flung away.

My hands slide down the smooth material of his shirt. It’s so tight, I can feel every ridge and crevice of his perfect muscles beneath. Every seam I run over is a dare. Every stitch, a little tease.

My fingers hook into the neck of his shirt.

Then I tug.

Byron moans against my mouth.

Either I’ve got super strength or this shirt was just waiting to be torn off, but it gives at the neck instantly. I lose all restraint as I tear that fucker open, revealing his broad, toned chest and smooth, caramel skin. My kisses trace down his chin, his sharp jawline, his long neck, and further down. My fingers keep pulling, tearing, ensuring every inch of his torso is available for me to worship.