Page 73 of Ghost Of You
With each thrust, I can feel her tightening around me, her body trembling with pleasure. The sounds of her moans, mingled with the roar of the waterfall, create a symphony ofsensation. “Come for me,” I urge, my voice thick with desire. “Let me feel you come apart, knowing that we’re both completely lost in this moment.”
Her body arches against mine, her moans turning into breathless cries of ecstasy. “Yes… yes… I’m coming,” she gasps, her voice breaking with pleasure. “Don’t stop… I need you to keep going.”
I hold her close, feeling her shuddering against me as she reaches her peak. The intensity of our connection is overwhelming, each touch and thrust bringing us closer to the edge. As we both finally climax, the waterfall’s roar crescendos around us, blending with our cries of pleasure.
Breathless and spent, we cling to each other, the water cascading over us as we recover from our intense encounter. The thrill of our secret rendezvous lingers, adding a layer of magic to our already profound bond. As we slowly swim back to the edge of the pool, our bodies entwined, we share one last lingering kiss, savouring the moment before stepping back into the world beyond.
Chapter forty
Present
The sharp clack of snooker balls colliding echoes through the dimly lit room, while the lingering scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of spilled beer. People sway and stagger from one corner to another, navigating the crowded space as best they can. The local pub, a constant hub of activity, is always packed with a diverse mix of patrons. However, it's the university students who seem to claim it as their own, drawn by the allure of cheap drinks and the lively, unpretentious atmosphere.
The jukebox hums in the background, offering a curated playlist that spans decades, from the nostalgic hits of the 1990s to the latest chart-toppers of 2023. It's an eclectic mix that somehow always manages to keep the energy in the room just right, never too loud, but never dull. The tunes seem to play on a loop, creating a sense of continuity, as if each night bleeds into the next, making it hard to distinguish one evening from another.
No matter where you find a seat, there's always that one spot that's annoyingly sticky, and you're compelled to flag down thenearest bartender for a quick wipe-down. Yet, despite the minor inconveniences, you can't help but feel a sense of comfort in the familiarity of it all. There's also the inevitable loudmouth at the end of the bar—a fixture as much as the worn wooden stools and the dartboard in the corner. He's been drinking for hours, his voice growing more slurred with each pint, oblivious to the passing time until, eventually, he slumps over the bar. The bartender, with a practised sigh, makes the routine call for a taxi, knowing that tomorrow will bring the same scene all over again.
Every night here feels like a repeat, a blend of the familiar sights, sounds, and characters that make this pub what it is. It's a place where time seems to stand still, where the routine is both comforting and endlessly predictable, yet somehow, that’s exactly what keeps people coming back.
Taking a seat on the worn leather stool at the far end of the bar, I settle in with a heavy sigh. Charlie, the bartender, catches my eye and makes his way over. Without a word, he places a glass in front of me, the clink of ice cubes filling the silence as he pours a generous measure of whiskey. Charlie knows me well enough by now—he knows what I like and how I like it.
I slide a tenner across the bar towards him, but he merely shakes his head and nudges it back with a slight smile. He doesn’t say anything, just gives me a knowing look before walking away, leaving me alone with my drink. I shrug off my leather jacket, draping it over the stool beside me. As I shift in my seat, the familiar creak of the old bar stool echoes softly in the otherwise lively room.
I pick up the glass, the ice's coolness contrasting with the amber liquid's warmth, and down it in one swift motion. The burn of the whiskey is comforting, a brief but welcome distraction. I place the empty glass back on the counter with a soft clink and raise my hand, signalling Charlie once more. Heambles back over, his pace unhurried, as if time doesn’t quite move the same way in here.
Charlie sees the empty glass, nods in understanding, and pours another round. This time, when I place the tenner on the bar, he takes it, returning with a few coins in change. As he wanders off to tend to the other patrons, I pull my phone from my pocket, the small screen glowing faintly in the dim light.
No new notifications. The silence from her is louder than the chatter that fills the pub. I stare at the screen for a moment longer, as if willing it to change, but it doesn’t. Laelia still hasn’t replied. I take a slow, deliberate sip from my refilled glass, letting the whiskey linger on my tongue as I unlock my phone, my eyes are immediately drawn to the last three unread messages on the screen, each one echoing my growing unease.
What time will you be home, beautiful? xx
Hey beautiful, where are you? xx
Worried I haven't heard from you since I saw you leave for work last night. Where are you, Laelia? xx
The lack of a reply gnaws at me, a sharp edge of anxiety cutting through the whiskey’s warmth. Laelia never leaves my messages hanging, especially when she’s working nights. Even on her busiest shifts, she finds a moment to acknowledge me, to send a quick "I’ll reply soon" or "I love you." But now, there's nothing—just a hollow silence where her words should be.
The urge to text her again is overwhelming, a need to bridge the widening gap between us. My fingers move almost on their own, typing out another message.
Are you running late at work, beautiful? xx
I hesitate, staring at the screen, then add another.
Sorry for all the messages. I'm just concerned about you and the baby, and not hearing from you just worries me xx
I love you xx
Both of you xx
I hit send, knowing it's futile, but hoping it’s not. Waiting for a reply feels like waiting for rain in a drought—painfully, hopelessly pointless. If she hasn’t messaged me by now, she likely won’t until she’s on her way home. Yet, that thought does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, the dull ache of worry that refuses to fade.
I set the phone down on the bar, trying to shake off the feeling that something isn’t right, but the unease lingers, like a shadow I can’t quite outrun.
After a few more drinks and a futile attempt to calm my nerves, I finally decide to call it a night. An hour and a half have passed, and still, no messages from Laelia. With a heavy sigh, I slip my jacket back on, leave some cash on the bar, and step out into the cool embrace of the night.
The cold breeze bites at my skin as I make my way home, the quiet of the night wrapping around me like a shroud. The streetlights above flicker sporadically, casting long, wavering shadows on the pavement. The moon, hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, offers no light, leaving the world around me shrouded in darkness. I glance up at the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the stars, something to break the monotony of the blackened heavens. But there’s nothing—just an endless expanseof gloom, the stars obscured by the same clouds that seem to mirror the unease in my chest.
As I walk, I pass the occasional stranger, their faces barely visible in the dim light. I quicken my pace, eager to get home, to see if Laelia has returned or if she’s simply fallen asleep without checking her phone. The worry gnaws at me, making each step feel heavier than the last.