The room was dimly lit, the low glow of the lamps casting long shadows over the walls. Steam rose from the plates on the table, filling the air with a soft, almost suffocating warmth. Ghost, as always, was silent—watchful. From behind the slightly parted mask, his sharp gaze tracked every single one of your movements as he ate, unhurried and calm. But tonight, something was different. Every gesture of his, every glance, carried a hidden game you couldn't see—yet your body would feel soon enough.

Your breathing picked up. Your heart started to pound, thrumming wildly beneath your ribs. You didn't know it yet, but that cunning bastard had laced your food with a fine, colorless aphrodisiac powder. Ghost noticed every reaction, every slight shift in your posture, but gave nothing away. His tone stayed smooth, collected, even as he leaned slightly closer. His deep British accent cut through the thick silence, low and velvety: "You alright, love? Your cheeks look flushed. Fever, perhaps?"

The words were slow, deliberate, dripping with a hidden amusement he didn't bother to mask completely. He leaned in further, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. The heat inside you flared in response, sharp and urgent. Your hands pressed down on the edge of the table as your thighs trembled beneath you, legs squeezing together. You sat up straighter without even realizing it. "Let me check," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

Then his lips brushed against your forehead, lingering there just a second too long, before trailing down to press softly, deliberately, against the side of your neck. The moment his mouth touched your skin, a wave of tingling heat shot through you—from your thighs, curling up into your lower belly until it made you lightheaded. Your heart hammered so hard you thought it might burst, your throat tight as you swallowed down a whimper.

Your clit throbbed, painfully sensitive, while your nipples ached beneath the thin fabric of your bra, hard and desperate for attention. Ghost's silver eyes gleamed from behind his mask, following every trembling breath you took. His gaze alone felt like a caress, deliberate and consuming, drinking in your reaction as if it were the finest wine.

When he spoke again, his tone was laced with barely hidden laughter, mocking yet darkly intimate: "Perhaps you don't have a fever after all... Maybe you're just feeling hot." His head tilted slightly, and then his voice dropped, silk over steel. "I'm talking about your lower half, pretty."