Page 10 of Ghost Of You

Her smirk deepens. “Maybe not enough.”

Challenge fucking accepted.

“That can definitely change. Just say the word, and I’m all in,” I say, sitting up and gently cupping her face with my hands. “I’ll give you as much as you want—you don’t have to ask me twice.”

In that moment, our playful banter blends seamlessly with the intimacy we share. I’m completely invested in making her feel cherished and adored, and I’m ready to prove it in every way I can.

I crash my lips against hers before she has a chance to utter another word. Her lips mould to mine with a delicious urgency, parting just enough for me to slip my tongue into the warm, intoxicating space. The kiss deepens, our breaths mingling, but before things can escalate further, I feel her hand gently push against my chest, creating a slight separation between us.

I pull back slightly, looking into her eyes, which are now alight with a burning hunger and lust. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily to regain her composure before opening them again, now more controlled but still smouldering.

The thought of breaking that control with just two words makes me wickedly smirk.

It’s as if she can read my mind. Her eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and mock irritation, and she playfully swats my arm. “Don’t you fucking dare, Killian Tate,” she warns, her finger jabbing into my chest. “You know I have zero control when you say those words, and you fucking know it.”

Her challenge only fuels the mischievous glint in my eyes. It’s a game between us, one where I revel in the playful tension and the thrilling anticipation of pushing boundaries. And as much as I enjoy this back-and-forth, I’m more than willing to play along, knowing that the boundaries we test only bring us closer.

I chuckle, savouring the way her expression reveals just how close she is to losing her composure from the mere thought of me uttering those words. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tease, knowing full well that I would if given the chance.

“You so fucking would, and we both know it,” she replies, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.

She’s absolutely right. I thrive on teasing her, on making her beg for more. The moans she makes while we’re entwined are like music to me, a symphony I never tire of. The mere thought of it makes my body respond eagerly. God, I want her so badly.

Before I can say anything else, we both hear the unmistakable sound of the front door slamming shut. Laelia’s eyes widen in panic, immediately recognising that her mum is home.

In a flurry of activity, we scramble out of bed, grabbing our clothes off the floor in a hasty attempt to dress. Laelia quickly dons the last piece of clothing and dashes to her television, turning it on to create a distraction. Meanwhile, I grab the blanket we had used to block the door and toss it back onto the bed, then rush to open the window, hoping to clear out some of the lingering smoke.

Laelia snuffs out the joint and stuffs it into her bag, discarding any evidence of our earlier activities. We barely manage to get everything sorted before we both dive back onto the bed. Laelia snuggles up to me, and we assume a casual position as if we’ve been relaxing together all day, rather than engaging in a whirlwind of intimacy and smoke.

As we settle into this carefully constructed facade, our hearts are racing but our faces are calm. We exchange a knowing glance, sharing a silent agreement that we’ve successfully averted a potential disaster. For now, we just have to hope that the pretence will hold up long enough for her mum to settle in and for us to catch our breath.

Right on cue, her bedroom door swings open, revealing her mum. It’s striking how much Laelia resembles her—both with their long, lush brown hair, dark brown eyes, and peachy skin speckled with freckles. Yet, the stark contrast between them is evident. Her mum’s face is marked by heavy bags under hereyes, her complexion has taken on a sallow hue, and her posture is noticeably slumped. The frown etched deep into her features speaks volumes about the exhaustion she endures from working eighty to ninety-hour weeks with no days off. It’s a wonder she hasn’t collapsed from sheer fatigue.

As she steps into the room, her nostrils flare as she’s hit by the unmistakable scent of weed lingering in the air. She sighs heavily and closes her eyes for a moment, running a weary hand over her face. “What have I told you about smoking weed in your room?” she asks with a tone of frustration.

Laelia sits up, the light in her eyes fading along with her earlier smile. “Sorry, mum,” she mumbles, her voice barely audible.

Her mum’s exasperation deepens as she sighs again. “You’re turning out more like your dad. I wish you’d listen.”

The impact of her words is palpable, and I see Laelia’s breath catch. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, threatening to spill over. The weight of her mum’s disappointment and the comparison to her father cut deep. It’s a moment heavy with unspoken pain, a stark reminder of the strained relationship and the burden Laelia carries.

In the fragile silence that follows, I can only watch, feeling the emotional toll of the scene. Laelia’s vulnerability is starkly illuminated, and I wish there was something more I could do to ease her heartache and support her through this difficult moment.

Without hesitation, I sit up, my expression a mix of anger and disbelief. “Mrs. Thorn, Laelia is nothing like her dad, and for you, her mother, to say anything of the sort is absolutely appalling. I know I’m supposed to be polite and grateful for staying here during the summer, but don’t talk to her like that. She does everything she can to make you happy and to have a good relationship with you, and all you do is make digs and throw harsh comments. Laelia didn’t ask for the mess her dadhas created, but she’s trying her best to navigate it. You’re supposed to work with her, not against her. I might only be nineteen, but she’s your daughter. Don’t take your frustration and exhaustion out on her just because you’re tired from working so many hours,” I shout, my voice echoing with the force of my words before I realise the gravity of what I’ve just said.

Both her mum's and Laelia’s mouths drop open in shock. I feel a surge of fear as I wait for the fallout. Her mum’s eyes dart between me and Laelia, and I swear I see her face flush red with anger.

She clears her throat and coughs, trying to regain her composure. “Get rid of the smell by opening the window further and the ones in the hallway,” she instructs, her gaze sweeping over Laelia’s room. “And tidy up.”

Without another word, she turns and slams the door behind her, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she heads down the stairs.

I turn to Laelia, who’s staring at me with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “You didn’t have to say any of that, but thank you,” she says softly, her voice trembling.

She wraps her arms around me, melting into my embrace. I hold her tightly, my hands rubbing her back in an attempt to offer comfort and support in the wake of her mother’s harsh words. What kind of mother speaks to her child like that?

Laelia pulls away slightly, her eyes shining with affection. “I love you,” she says, leaning in to kiss me.

I pull back and smile at her, my heart swelling with emotion. “And I love you. Always.”

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