[Siren Classic ManLove: Paranormal, Alternative, MM, HEA]
Seb Feliz is recently divorced and ready to give up on both love and life. When he moves into a new house, he hopes that a fresh start will give him time to lick his wounds and forget about relationships altogether. All of which would be a lot easier if his new house wasn't already occupied by its former resident.
Cyril Flanagan is tall, handsome, and dead: a ghost stuck haunting his former life. He decides that for once he'll try to co-habit with his new housemate instead of trying to scare him away. First, he just has to convince Seb not to exorcise him. And learning to live together might just give them both a second chance at happiness.
It took him a while to settle in the unfamiliar bed. The absence of cars driving by or whatever yobbo in the street couldn't keep their mouths shut was surprisingly off-putting. Very occasionally, he'd hear an owl or the rustle of wildlife. At least it was dark. Ethan had been able to sleep even with light pouring through thin curtains, but Seb had replaced them with blackout ones so he didn't wake every few seconds. Thinking about Ethan made him flag faster than a handful of sleeping pills. He switched off.
And woke with warmth against his back. Still shaking the sleep from his brain, he thought it was sunlight, but it was still pitch dark. Better than the blackout curtains out here even with the blinds open. He shifted to the cooler area of the bed, but the warmth followed him, wrapped around his waist like a pair of arms, tucked its knees under the backs of his legs like Ethan used to—
What the fuck?
Seb shot out of the bed.
There was no one there. There was nothing there. He flicked on the bedroom light and had a proper look, just in case he was dealing with the world's fastest home invader, but the bed was only disturbed where he'd disturbed it. The door and windows were all closed. There was nothing under the bed but a few storage boxes that held the clothes he hadn't been able to fit in the other furniture.
Just a fucking dream because he was a sad, lonely prick who'd missed being spooned. He climbed back under the covers.
* * * *
The shower was already on when he went in the bathroom. Leaking or faulty electrics? He turned it off. It turned itself back on. He turned it off. It turned itself back on. Repeat five times. This was going to play havoc with his water bill. Could he turn it off at the mains maybe? He knew embarrassingly little about DIY. Not even how to bleed a radiator. Whatever. He needed a shower anyway. Then he could phone someone to deal with t.
As he shoved off the boxers and T-shirt he'd slept in, he remembered there was no phone reception. Fuck. He'd have to go walking until he found the nearest spot.
He stepped under the hot spray, body uncurling as it hit his shoulders. He was unexpectedly stiff. His body must have tensed up after that stupid dream last night. He scrubbed shampoo through his hair. Ethan used to love washing his hair—pretended to love it? He was always going on about how thick it was and how dark. Seb scrubbed harder until it pulled at his scalp, trying to replace the sentimental past with the utilitarian future.
As he squeezed his eyes shut to protect them from the shampoo while he rinsed, he went stock still. There was someone behind him. Sharing the shower with him. He vaulted out of there, grabbing blindly for a towel. Someone—the same someone?—pushed a towel into his hands. He swiped at his face with it until he could see.
Nothing there. Again.
Fucking hell. He stepped back into the shower but kept his eyes open the entire time, not daring to even blink. When he turned the shower off, it stayed off this time.
* * * *
When Seb headed into the kitchen, there was a plate on the bench. It held a poached egg on toast and a little side salad. The kettle was boiling too. A mug of instant coffee powder sat beside it. He definitely hadn't made any of it.
He could drive to a police station.
And say what? Someone broke in and made me breakfast? The Invisible Man's in my shower? They probably dealt with a dozen cranks like that a day.
He grabbed a chopping knife from the drawer. Just because it was bizarre didn't mean it wasn't also dangerous.
“All right, you fucking mental case,” he said. “You're not funny. Get out here.”
A man materialised on his kitchen bench. A good-looking man, which what the fuck, brain? Why did that matter? He had curly red hair and freckles and a smile that was already halfway to throwing Seb's pants off. “You're going to stab me for making you breakfast?” he said. “Very ungrateful.” He was sitting with one leg drawn up, the other dangling from the bench.
“What the fuck? Get the fuck out of my house. And get your feet off my bench!”
“This is my house.”
It took Seb a few seconds to catch up with what he'd said. “Isn't!”
“I guarantee I've lived here longer.”
Seb waved the knife half-heartedly. “I paid for it!”
“So did I.”
Aware that he was entirely in the right and yet still somehow losing this argument, Seb tried a different tact. “You ought to be locked up. Sneaking into my bed and shower like that, you creepy little fucker.”
The man hopped down from the bench. He was at least a foot taller than Seb and so broad his pecs, barely hidden under a white T-shirt, filled Seb's vision from edge to edge when he stepped closer. “Little?”
“That's what you're objecting to?”
“I wasn't— Look, I wasn't trying to creep you out. You just looked so sad, I wanted to try to comfort you.”
“I don't need comfort! And even if I did, non-consensual spooning's not the way to do it. Anyway, never mind all that. I've got the deed, and this is my house. No squatters.”
“I'm not a squatter. Listen—what's your name?”
“Seb.” Damn it, why did he tell him that? There was no need to be on a first-name basis with some spooky squatter.
“I'm Cyril. And I have a deed too. I'm telling you, this is my house and I've lived here for fifty years.”
“Bullshit.” Cyril looked younger than Seb.
“Maybe lived is the wrong word.”
The reality that had been trying to timidly poke into his constant denial of the situation since Cyril poofed out of thin air finally punched its way through. “You're a fucking ghost? I'm going to exorcise the shit out of you!”
“Do you want to fuck me or not?”
“Yes, obviously.” He could karate chop concrete with his dick right now. “But a day ago you were trying to get rid of me, now this. I'm not sure you're making the best life choices right now.”
“You're thinking about it too deeply. It's just sex.”
“Is it though?”
“Cyril. I can easily find someone else to have sex with if you're going to make a big deal out of it. So, let's fuck and leave the neuroses out of it.”
All Cyril's misgiving disappeared when Seb kissed him again. If Seb was telling the truth and anyone would do, it might as well be him. He tore at Seb's clothes until he had his T-shirt off. His skin was flawless. Smooth as a doll's. All soft over rigid muscle. Cyril had to mark it by sucking a love bite into the join of his neck and shoulder. He spilled Seb onto the sofa and kissed the sides of his ribs. He squirmed, sensitive there. Cyril smiled into his skin and scraped him with his teeth. He arched up into it, then away.
“Stop messing around,” he said, shoving his own trousers down. “I told you to fuck me.”
“Is that what you're used to?” Cyril said. “Sticking it in with no flair or forethought?”
“Shut up, will you? It's been three months since I last had sex.”
Which was all the more reason to make it good for him. Cyril peppered Seb's sides, his abs, the hollow where his inner thigh met his pelvis with kisses and playful bites as he moved down his body. Seb wriggled with each new sensation and dug his fingers into the back of his neck, driving his face down when he reached the thigh.
“Don't tease,” he said. “Bite.”
Cyril did. His cock twitched at the moan it earned him, again at the mark it left on Seb's inner thigh. He ripped down Seb's briefs. As good as they looked on him, he looked better naked. His hard cock strained from his body.
“Don't bother with blow jobs,” Seb said, digging his fingers in harder. “I want to get fucked.”
“Yes, sir. Want to see a trick?”
“If you bring out a set of cards, I will instantly go soft.”
“Not like that. Look. Anything in this house, I can bring to me. Watch.” He held up his hand and waited until the lube Seb had stocked his bedroom drawers with zoomed into the room and smacked into his hand. “Ta da!”
The unimpressed face he got in return made him laugh. “All right, all right.” He placed the lube down on the floor by the sofa. “You wanna turn around? Or face to face?”
Seb rolled onto his front. Cyril preferred to see his partner's face—easier to pick up what they liked that way—but he couldn't have everything he wanted. On the plus side, it gave him a much better view of Seb's perky little arse. He couldn't help but give both cheeks a squeeze. He really was made to be touched, just the right combination of softness and firmness. Cyril spread Seb's cheeks open, and Seb spread his legs too, giving him the perfect view of his hole and his thick cock hanging between his legs. His tight sac.
Cyril still couldn't quite believe he was going to get to fuck someone this hot. Maybe he'd finally ascended to heaven without noticing.
“What are you doing back there?” Seb said. “Get on with it.”
“Right!” Cyril licked Seb's hole. He made a soft, satisfied little noise and curled his toes into the sofa. Cyril kept licking, drawing those little noises out of him, loosening him up. He grabbed the lube with one hand while he kept busy with his tongue—skills—and uncapped it, getting two fingers good and slick.
“Hurry up,” Seb said, when he breached him with them, spreading his hole to take them. “I don't need much, just— Fuck me. Now.”
Cyril kicked himself out of his trousers and underwear. He almost dropped the lube in his haste to slick his cock up. “Ready?” he asked, pressing the head of his cock to Seb's hole.
“Fucking hell. Yes!”
If he was sure. Cyril pushed into him slowly, spreading his cheeks so he could watch Seb's hole stretch around his girth. Seb moaned loud enough that Cyril was glad they didn't have any neighbours. Fuck. He was so tight. He slid another inch inside him, slowly. Seb moaned again. He had a white-knuckled grip on the sofa cushions, a lovely flush spreading across the light brown skin of his back. He clenched and moaned on every new inch Cyril pushed into him, rocking back into him. “More,” he said. “Yes.”
“Fuck. Do you love all cock this much or just mine?”
“Don't flatter yourself.” The bite was kind of taken out of that by the way he moaned and pushed back, swallowing up more and more of Cyril's cock until he bottomed out.
Being all the way inside him was indescribable. Cyril had to hold his hips still so he didn't shoot his load right there and then.
“Get on with it!”
Cyril kept the grip on his hips and drew himself back, then snapped forward. “Like that?” he said, as Seb writhed underneath him, trying to break his hold enough that he could fuck himself on Cyril's cock.
“Don't tease me! No! What did I just say?”
Cyril pulled all the way out of him and circled the head of his cock around his hole.
“You fucker! I told you to fuck me! I'll—”
He shoved back in all at once, and Seb nearly screamed out a moan. “More. Fuck. Fuck me. Hard.”