Rebound Knot in the Haunted House-Sit

Sonia’s sneakers squeaked on the warped parquet as she locked the heavy oak door behind her, the sound too loud in the cavernous foyer of the Victorian mansion. Rain hammered the leaded windows. Twenty-four, curvy as hell, dark brown hair still damp from the drive, she dropped her duffel and exhaled. The breakup had been ugly—his shitty texts still burned in her pocket—and the house-sit money was the only thing keeping her from couch-surfing. Isolated, paid, and full of dust-sheeted antiques. Perfect.

She prowled the ground floor with a flashlight, hips swaying under soft cotton shorts that clung to the thick cheeks of her ass, tank top stretched tight over heavy tits that bounced with every step. The air felt charged, like static before a storm. In the master library she found the portrait: a tall, broad-shouldered man in a high-collared coat, storm-gray eyes, jaw like carved oak, the caption reading Captain Elias Thorne, lost to the sea yet bound to this house, 1879. Something about the painted mouth made her nipples tighten.

“Looking for company already, little rebound?”

The voice rolled out of the shadows, deep and rough with salt and smoke. Sonia spun. He stood solid in the center of the room—glowing, translucent blue-white, yet dense enough that the floorboards creaked under his boots. Six-foot-four of spectral muscle: wide chest straining the ghost of a linen shirt, thick thighs, and, Christ, the heavy ridge of his cock already half-hard and throbbing visibly through thin, glowing breeches. Ridges. Actual fucking ridges along the thick shaft, and a swelling base that promised a knot.