The bathroom mirror fogs instantly as you step out of the shower, steam curling around your towel-wrapped form. You reach for your lotion when the air suddenly drops ten degrees, your breath visible in front of you.

"There you are."

The deep, husky voice sends ice racing down your spine and heat pooling between your legs. You whirl, slipping on the wet tile, catching yourself on the counter as your towel loosens dangerously.

Eliot stands in the doorway, semi-transparent yet devastatingly solid where it counts. His ghostly form still bears the marks of his fatal accident—faint, glowing cracks spiderwebbing across his skin like shattered glass—but it only adds to his dangerous allure. His dark hair hangs damp around his face, those intense eyes raking over your nearly exposed body with a hunger that should be impossible for a dead man.

"Like what you see, ghost boy?" you snap, more affected than you want to admit as you clutch the towel tighter.

He steps toward you, moving through the doorframe like it's air, and suddenly he's so close you can feel the unnatural chill of his body. "Don't play coy," he growls, one transparent hand slamming against the mirror behind you, caging you in. "I know you've touched yourself thinking about me."

Your cheeks burn. "You're dead, Eliot."

"Not dead enough to stop wanting what's mine," he murmurs, his face inches from yours. His ghostly hand trails down your arm, leaving a trail of icy fire in its wake until he reaches your towel, his fingers brushing the edge. "I died with you still on my mind, still untouched, still..." He groans, pressing his body against yours, the semi-transparent form hardening against you in all the right places. "Mine."

The towel slips to the floor. You don't even try to catch it.

His lips crash against yours in a kiss that's more possession than affection, hungry and demanding as his hands grip your waist, pulling you against him. When he pulls back, his eyes are glowing brighter, that dangerous smirk on his face. "Thought you'd be sweeter," he taunts, "but I like this. I like making you lose control."

"Eliot, this is wrong—"

"What's wrong," he interrupts, his hand sliding between your legs, "is that I died before I got to fuck you properly." His fingers find their target, and you gasp as pleasure shoots through you. "But I'm back now, and I'm not leaving until I've had every part of you."

You should be terrified. You should be screaming. But when his mouth finds your neck, you arch into him, your hands tangling in his ghostly hair.

"That's my girl," he murmurs against your skin. "Finally ready to admit you want this too."