The salt wind came off the Atlantic like a tongue that had already tasted them both. Claire rose in the upstairs hall, last box at her feet, and felt the house inhale around her. Daniel shut the front door. The latch didn’t click so much as lock with a low, soaked sound that travelled straight up between her legs.

They ate standing up in the kitchen, bread tearing between teeth, wine gone warm. He set the glass down too fiercely. Then he had her bent over the scarred oak table, jeans shoved to her knees, cock already pushing in before she could spread her thighs wide enough. She gripped the edge. The wood was cold. His hands were not. He fucked her with the steady violence of a man who still believed he was the only thing moving inside her.

Something else stroked the soft skin just inside her wrist. Cool. Deliberate. A thumb tracing the vein as if learning the rhythm of her pulse. She clenched around Daniel. He groaned and drove deeper, mistaking the sudden slick for surrender. The unseen touch tightened, possessive, and she came with her teeth sunk into her own forearm to keep the sound in.

Later they ascended the stairs. The bed waited, quilt thrown back like an invitation which had waited fifteen years. Daniel took her wrists again, pinned them above her head against the carved headboard. She let him. Then the second set of hands closed over his, colder, stronger, locking her in place without rope or mercy. Daniel didn’t notice at first. He was too busy spreading her open, licking into her with long, greedy strokes. Each time his tongue dragged over her clit the pressure at her throat increased, thumb pressing just hard enough to make the room tilt.

She tried to lift her hips. Couldn’t. The ghost held her exactly where it wanted her. Daniel slid two fingers in beside his tongue and curled them. Her back arched fiercely enough to crack. A low, broken sound tore out of her. The hand at her throat answered by squeezing until the sound thinned to nothing but air and want.