more ghosts than people

You wake to the insistent trill of your phone on the nightstand, its old-school ringtone disrupting the hush of the luxurious bedroom.

You’re cocooned in Harry’s strong arms, his broad chest a solid, heated wall against your back, his breath slow and steady in your hair.

The temptation to ignore everything and melt deeper into him is overwhelming—but after the third ring, you sigh softly and slip free, reaching for the device.

The screen shows your husband’s number. A grimace twists your lips as you silence the intrusion and return into the safety of Harry’s embrace. You nestle your cheek against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart.

One of the many intimate discoveries you’ve made about Harry Castillo: he’s a gloriously heavy sleeper.

Just as sleep begins to pull you under again, the phone rings once more. Your eyes shoot open and you roll over to decline it. Why is he so persistent? What time is it even in Texas? You glare at the offending device, daring it to ring again.

As if on cue: it does.

With an irritated huff, you flip it over and pop out the battery, tossing the piece aside.

You’re barely settled against Harry’s side again when his alarm blares—jarring you both. You flinch and let out a dramatic groan as he finally stirs awake beneath you.

“Why on Earth do you have your alarm set so early?” you mutter, pressing your body flush to his.

“I’ve got a call with Peter in an hour,” he replies, voice deliciously raspy with sleep. “He’s in Australia this week—that’s about an eight hour time difference from us.” He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head.

You pout, the hazy memories from yesterday flooding back: candlelit dinner on the terrace, sweet wine staining your lips, flirtation dissolving into desperate kisses, clothes torn away in a haste, and the two of you fucking like animals in heat until exhaustion claimed you.

Heat blooms across your body at the recollection. Ever since your first time in Lagos, you two have been insatiable, getting it on whenever you find pockets of privacy during your exploration of Ibiza.

After years in a marriage where passion had quietly withered, Harry reawakens the horny woman that was locked away inside you this entire time. 

Joel was never a bad lover—rough when you craved it, tender when you needed softness—you’ve just been without sex for so long. You don’t want to come down from this cloud just yet.

Gently, you push him onto his back and climb astride him, your thighs bracketing his hips, pinning him beneath you with playful intent.

The pale morning light filtering through the gauzy curtains worships his features: his dark curls tousled from your fingers last night when he buried his face between your legs and devoured you until you were breathless, those kind brown eyes now darkening with lust as your warm, slick pussy presses against his hardening length. 

“What are you up to?” he asks, a knowing smile curving his lips. His large hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive dip there as his gaze devours the sight of your breasts, nipples peaked in the cool breeze.

“Trying to convince you to stay in bed with me just a little longer,” you answer sweetly, rolling your hips in a lazy, teasing glide. A breathy sigh escapes you as his cock parts your swollen folds, the velvety head dragging deliciously against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

Harry grunts, fingers tightening on your hips in warning. “We both know I’ll never leave this bed with you on top of me like this.”

You smirk, leaning down to capture his mouth in a soft kiss, arching your back to increase the pressure. 

He tries to resist—for all of two seconds—then surrenders completely. With effortless strength, he grips your waist and lifts you slightly. “Put me in,” he orders in that deep, gravelly morning voice that sends a fresh rush of desire straight to your core.

You melt, biting your lip as you reach between your bodies. Your fingers wrap around his heavy shaft, giving it a teasing squeeze and it earns you a sharp pinch to your hip that draws a surprised giggle from you.

You run his leaking tip up and down your slit, coating him thoroughly, before notching him at your entrance and sinking down slowly.

The stretch is exquisite—a burning fullness that pulls a shared moan from you both. You settle fully (still a little sore from last night), hands planted on his broad chest, and begin to ride him with his guiding hands on your hips. Each drag is pure bliss.

“Oh, Harry…” you whine, the sound breathy and desperate.

His brows knit in concentration, savoring how perfectly your walls tense around him as the pace quickly turns frantic and needy.

Overwhelmed, you slump forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck, panting hot against his skin as your orgasm coils tight, ass clapping down against his muscular thighs.

“Poor baby,” he teases. “Initiated this and can’t even handle it.” Harry plants his feet on the mattress, using the leverage to fuck up into you harder, deeper, the head of his cock kissing that perfect spot until you shatter—crying out his name, your pussy gushing around him in pulsing waves.

He follows moments later, pulling out to spill across the soft curve of your ass.

You feel exhaustion tugging you back toward the pillows. Harry senses it, catching his own breath before he slips out from under you, leaving you sprawled on your stomach, and retrieves the cloth from last night.

Gently, he wipes his spend from your skin then leans in to kiss your bare shoulder. 

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers against your ear. “I’ll bring you breakfast after my meeting.”

You manage to weakly nod, drifting off with a contented smile, the disassembled phone on the nightstand forgotten. 

Harry’s gaze lingers there a moment, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face about who had called so insistently in the early hours. 

You lie sprawled luxuriously atop Harry as you enjoy the afternoon lounging on the sandy coastline of the beautiful city of Ibiza. 

The light sea breeze carries the scent of distant wildflowers that brings a sense of tranquility you don’t think you’ll tire of.

Below you, Harry’s body serves as your personal chaise—broad, sun-warmed, and utterly relaxed. A portable radio you picked up in town hums softly with upbeat Spanish pop, the melody blending seamlessly with the distant crash of waves and the occasional cry of seabirds.

Your book rests open against his shoulder blades, a riveting tale unfolding in your hands. You’re lost in a particularly charged paragraph when your phone’s ringtone disrupts the idyll.

Reaching down into your woven tote bag, you fish out the device and decline the call—just as you have done repeatedly all day. You only keep the battery in as a precaution, in case a true emergency arises with family or friends, not because you want to entertain your husband’s persistent attempts to tug you back to reality.

Harry hasn’t commented on the calls until now. His voice rumbles low and lazy from beneath you, warm as the sun on your back. “Shouldn’t you get that?”

You sigh, not from his question but from the frustration of Joel inserting himself like a persistent thorn even from across countries. “It’s nothing,” you mutter, shifting slightly to settle more comfortably against the firm planes of his back, your bare thighs brushing his sides.

“What if it’s an emergency?” he reasons gently. He lies on his stomach with his arms crossed, head pillowed on his hands, eyes closed behind expensive sunglasses in blissful repose. The sunlight plays across the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, highlighting every ridge and dip.

“It’s not. Trust me.” Your fingers trace idle patterns along his tanned skin, hoping to distract him back to the moment.

“Then why do they keep calling?”

“Because my friends don’t seem to understand that I’m on vacation and not really in the mood to gossip,” you reply smoothly, the lie slipping out a little too easily. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck, tasting the faint salt of his skin mixed with sunscreen.

Harry falls quiet. He’s noticed how skillfully you dodge anything too personal, how little you reveal about your life beyond the surface level.

Yet he doesn’t press. For a man who has spent decades as the perfect son, the driven boss, the polished socialite in New York’s affluent circles, this summer with you is a rare gift—a chance to turn his mind off completely. 

He chooses the joy of the present, letting the questions drift away on the breeze like forgotten sails.

The afternoon stretches lazily onward. Eventually, as the sun dips lower and paints the horizon, you set your book aside and prop your chin on his shoulder. “We should go clubbing tonight,” you murmur against his ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. “It’s what the island is famous for—partying until dawn.”

Harry lets out a dramatic groan, though a smile tugs at his lips. “You’re trying to kill an old man. I’m fifty, Sol. My idea of a wild night these days involves good wine and an early bedtime.”

You roll your eyes, laughing as you shift to straddle his lower back more fully, your hands sliding up to massage his shoulders with teasing affection. “Oh, please. You have more stamina than men half your age, Mr. Castillo. I should know.” You lean in closer, voice dropping to a honeyed, coaxing purr.

“Come on… it’ll be fun. I’m dying to see you out of your element.”

He turns his head, sunglasses long gone, catching your gaze with those brown eyes that always seem to put you in a trance. For a moment, something deeper flickers there—affection so intense it borders on love—but he banks it, choosing lightness instead.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he says, a chuckle rumbling through his chest as he turns beneath you so that you’re straddling his front, very reminiscent of your position from earlier this morning.

You shrug with faux coyness. 

“Fine. You win. But if I pull a muscle on the dance floor, you’re nursing me back to health on the yacht.”

“Deal,” you answer giddily, leaning forward and sealing it with a sweet kiss.

You tumble from one exclusive club to the next, the island’s legendary energy coursing through your veins as if it were liquid starlight.

With him by your side, doors that require months on a list swing open instantly. Harry Castillo’s name is currency it seems—wealthy, respected, so effortlessly commanding. Velvet ropes part like magic and you’re ushered into VIP sections dripping with opulence: crystal chandeliers, plush velvet booths, and terraces overlooking the moonlit sea.

The night blurs into a vibrant haze of music and laughter. At the first club, deep house throbs through the floor, bass vibrating up your legs. Harry starts off endearingly stiff on the dance floor, more boardroom than party. You can’t help but tease him, dancing with a playful grin.

“Come on, old man!” you giggle, grabbing his hands and pulling him closer. “Loosen those hips! I know you can move better than this.”

He rolls his eyes, a sheepish smile breaking across his handsome face, but the drinks keep flowing—colorful cocktails garnished with fresh fruit, shots that burn sweetly down your throat—and he gradually loosens up.

By the third club, where sultry techno gives way to Latin rhythms, both of you have released your inhibitions.

His hands find your waist with growing confidence, sliding over the silky fabric of your dress as he pulls you flush against him. The heat of his body radiates through your clothes, strong fingers gripping your hips as you move together.

It feels intoxicating. His broad palms roaming your curves, tracing the dip of your waist, squeezing the swell of your ass while the music shifts from pounding beats to sensual melodies.

You dance beneath swirling lights that paint his curly hair in shades of neon blue and magenta, losing yourself in the way his thigh presses between yours, the pressure sending sparks of desire dancing across your skin.

The world tilts in the most delightful way, every touch amplified as hours slip away in a whirlwind of bass drops, sweaty bodies, and stolen kisses on crowded dance floors. You’ve both drunk more tonight than at any point on this voyage. Any worries about the future drowned in rum and happiness.

In one of the venues, the sexual tension snaps.

Harry has you pressed against the door of a private restroom, the thump of music vibrating through the wood at your back. His larger body cages you in, the scent of his cologne dizzying you.

His mouth crashes down on yours in a breathless, hungry kiss, tongue tasting of sweet liquor and tropical fruit as it tangles with yours. You moan into him, your fingers threading through his damp curls.

Your hips grind shamelessly against the growing bulge straining in his pants, seeking friction.

You don’t care about the crowd outside or the luxury surrounding you—only the lust he stokes in your body, the way his touch slides up your thighs, bunching your dress higher, fingers digging into soft flesh with urgency.

“You’re so beautiful like this. I can’t get enough of you.” He growls against your lips, hips rolling forward to meet your desperate movements. 

The world narrows to the intoxicating pull between you. Nothing else exists but the aching need to have him inside of you.

His fingers hook into the lace of your panties and yank them aside. Two thick fingers drag through your slit, spreading your arousal before he circles your swollen clit and it makes you whine.

“So wet already,” he mutters against your ear. “Dripping down your thighs, baby. You need me that badly?”

You nod frantically, whimpering as he sinks two fingers deep inside you. The wet squelch of him fingering you fills the small space, barely drowned out by the music.

“Please, Harry—” you beg, grinding down on his hand.

He withdraws his fingers, making you pout at the loss. He frees his cock, just as desperate to feel you, hooking one of your legs high around his waist, spreading you better. He lines himself up against your opening.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, swaying slightly from the drinks—from you.

Your eyes lock with his as he thrusts forward in one powerful stroke, all eight delicious inches burying fully inside your body. A broken moan tears from your throat as your walls flutter and clench around the intrusion, mouth falling agape.

You’re so warm and tight and utterly perfect. It makes Harry feel crazy for how much he craves you all the time. “That’s it, sweet girl… taking me so well. You feel incredible.”

He starts to move, rolling thrusts that press you harder against the door. Each stroke is deliberate, savoring the way your body sucks him in. One hand grips your thigh firmly as he fucks you, the other braced beside your head, his taut forearm flexing.

“You’re so perfect,” he praises, voice strained with pleasure when your pussy tenses around him. “So soft… so wet… you make me lose my mind. I’ve never felt anything like this.”

He angles his hips, hitting that overwhelming spot inside you with every press. Your cries of his name grow louder, sweeter, and Harry drinks them in like fine wine. 

He wants to give you everything. Money, security, a house to call a home. Is he delusional for falling so fast? He thought love was supposed to be the most difficult thing in the world. 

How come it feels so easy to love you?

The pleasure builds intensely. Harry’s pace quickens, but his touch remains devout, eyes locked on your face as if he’s memorizing every expression of your ecstasy.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” The hand at your thigh slips between you to circle your clit with enough pressure to make tears well in your eyes. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel my beautiful girl come all over me.”

Your orgasm washes over you in powerful waves. You sob out his name, digging your freshly manicured nails into his back, clenching wetly around his shaft. 

Harry follows right behind you with a heavy sigh, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes. Thick, hot ropes of his release fill you completely. 

You both tremble through the aftershocks, breathing ragged, bodies slick with sweat from all the dancing and fucking. Harry presses kisses along your jaw and neck, murmuring sweet praises while the distant party continues to thrive beyond the door.

Neither of you speaks about the fact that he just finished inside you—the warm, slick evidence of it already beginning to trickle down where you connect. 

He pulls out, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, helping you clean up and straighten your dress with gentle hands, a soft smile playing on his lips. 

“Don’t look so proud of yourself,” you scold playfully.

“I just enjoy having sex with you baby, that’s all.”

After a quick refresh, he calls for the driver, then tucks you against his side. Your legs feel like jelly beneath you, the combination of mind-blowing sex and endless cocktails, leaving you unsteady.

You cling to him, arm wrapped tightly around his waist, face pressed into his chest as the scent of his cologne fills your senses.

Harry keeps you upright, that competency of his kicking in as he sobers up enough to weave through the bustling crowd and out into the summer night air. The breeze caresses your flushed skin while you wait for the car. He presses occasional kisses to your temple, murmuring words that make your heart flutter.

The driver arrives quickly and the ride back to The Daydreamer passes in a warm, drunken blur of city lights reflecting off the dark sea. Once aboard the yacht, Harry disappears briefly to get the shower running and preparing the bed, giving you a moment alone in the softly lit cabin.

You bend to slip off your heels, peeling your ruined underwear off too. Suddenly, your phone—left charging earlier—lights up and rings. Fueled by alcohol and frustration, you snatch it up and answer.

“What the hell, Joel?” you snap. “I told you to stop calling. I’m on vacation. Leave. Me. Alone.”

He can hear it immediately—the slur in your words, how inebriated you are. “Are you drunk?” he demands, anger sharpening his voice. “Christ, where are you? Why haven’t you been answerin’ any of my calls?”

“Because I don’t owe you anything—not after all you’ve put me through.”

“So ignorin’ me and pretendin’ like we aren’t still married is how you decide to deal with it?”

“That’s none of your business!”

His frustration boils over when you fire back.

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course it’s my business. You’re my wife.” 

You let out a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t get to suddenly act like you give a shit about this marriage. Not after you prioritized everything else above it. I became an afterthought to you. Even at fucking work!”

Silence. Of course. That’s his go to.

“The way you’ve been acting…” he trails off, not acknowledging your truth, which further proves the point of the whole reason why you two have failed as a couple. “This isn’t you—”

You hear Harry’s footsteps returning. Without another word, you hang up and toss the phone aside. You’re not going to deal with his bullshit tonight.

Harry had lingered just outside the room, fighting the urge to eavesdrop. It took everything in him not to listen—he respects your boundaries too much. If you don’t want to share who keeps calling and frustrating you, then so be it.

He steps back in just as you hang up. “Everything okay, sweetheart?” he asks, concern softening his brown eyes.

You nod, the motion making you sway on drunk legs. Closing the distance, you reach for him, pulling him into a wet, needy kiss. Your hands push the straps of your dress down until the fabric pools at your feet, leaving you beautifully, completely naked before him.

Harry’s breath catches. Tipsy as he is, he can’t resist. His hands roam hungrily over your bare skin, worshipping every curve as he devours you with deep, open-mouthed kisses. “You’re stunning,” he murmurs between kisses, voice husky with renewed desire. “My beautiful girl.”

He walks you backward toward the luxurious bathroom where steam curls invitingly from the large shower.

This time the sex is slower. He fucks you against the wall again, your wet chest pressed against the tile as he thrusts into you from behind, his lips at your ear continuing to say all the right things.

The argument with Joel fades into nothing. The longer you spend wrapped up in this fantasy with Harry, the more you’re beginning to dread what’ll happen when the summer ends.

Will you come clean about your husband? Stay and try to make things work with the billionaire? Or will you see this as the summer fling that it is all the way until the end, disappearing from Harry’s life as easily as you had entered it?

[ ⤷ previous / ⤷ next chapter ]

Want to be part of the taglist? Feel free to DM me or reply to this post to be added ☀️