Page 99 of Unalive On Air

“Oh my god, Gary,” he says as I take him into my mouth.

Trystan cries out into the night as I work my lips and tongue over him, taking him deep into my throat, and then bringing it out to the tip. For once, I’m grateful I’m so short, because now I get to glance up at this perfect man, moonlight glittering off his muscles, and drink in every single curve, every peak and valley of his body, whilst making him whine to the heavens.

“Gary, oh fuck, Gary. I’m gonna come,” he says, his fingers knotted in my hair as he rocks into my mouth.

I don’t pull away. I take his load and swallow it, and it’s reassuring, if not a little tragic, that ghost cum still tastes like cum.

Seconds after I stand up, Trystan pulls me down to the sand again, until I’m lying on my back with him above me. If I weren’t already dead, I could die the happiest man on earth.

“Let’s get these off.” He tugs my pants down. I briefly wish I’d chosen a less decrepit pair to don before I’d died, but Trystan balls them up in his hands and yeets them towards the sea. He cages me again and sucks in a breath. “Question, do ghosts need lube?”

I open my mouth to answer, but realise I have no idea. “Uh . . . I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and a millisecond later his fingers nudge at my entrance.

His fingertip circles my hole. I bring my knees up so he has better access, and he slips his finger inside me, brushing against my P-spot. I’m cursing the fact that my eyes want to roll themselves closed, but I can’t look at him when that happens. He’s not even fucking me, and I’m already dangerously close to a hands-free completion.

Trystan presses another finger inside me. It glides in, no resistance, so I guess that answers the lube question.

“Are you ready for me? Can I finish inside you?”

I whine. “God, don’t say shit like that yet. I’ll come. You have no idea how close this is to being over.”

He palms my face. Good lord, he is so fucking beautiful. “No refractory period, remember?”

Okay, I actually love being a ghost.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

He says nothing else, simply lines himself up and pushes in, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes shut as his cock slides against my prostate.

I count the freckles on his face as he slowly starts thrusting. I drag my thumbs over his biceps as he props himself up. I whine his name over and over because this is no longer happening inside my head.

“Can we just do this? Can we stay like this? Forever,” he says.

Now I try not to cry. Try not to think about this whole murder mystery that needs solving. In fact, fuck it, what if I never figure out who did it? What if I stopped investigating right now and we just unlive happily ever after?

“Gary?” Trystan says, pausing his motions and whining through a particularly delicious moment of friction.

“Yeah?”

“When you do your next show . . . I won’t listen. I’m just going to stay here on the beach and wait for you to come back and . . .”

Oh, shit. Oh, no. I’m right there.

“I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna . . .” I throw my head back, slam my eyes shut, and cry out as my orgasm splashes across my belly.

“Oh, baby,” Trystan whimpers, watching me. Suddenly, he stills, and inside me, his cock twitches, spilling his second load.

When we’ve both floated down from our highs, Trystan pulls out of me and flips me over.

“Fuck me, please,” he says, and honestly, what idiot would argue with that?

The sky grows pinker and pinker. Dog walkers magically appear on the horizon, and still we keep fucking, neither of us tiring, neither needing to rest or recuperate. It’s only when the families begin unpacking their beach bags that we take things back inside the hut.

Trystan’s going down on me, my cock in his mouth, when a head appears in the middle of the wall.

It’s Stove.