would i be crazy for saying ghost enjoys (mostly) clothed sex more than anything. well, more for him than you.
like, just being able to get you down to your cute bra and panties, propping you up on his desk so he can thumb at the swollen, little bud beneath the cotton you wear. humming when the fabric starts to get wet and sticky, playing with the puffy thing as he pleases.
you contradict him in every way; pretty, pink lingerie hugging your frame a stark contrast to the black, heavy-duty cargos that hang off his hips and an equally dark, though certainly not loose, t-shirt to show off his broad shoulders. soft skin up against his rough exterior, gentle lips pressed to his scratchy beard. your clothes intricately detailed, light and lovingly cared for, while his are embedded with smoke and gunpowder and an overwhelming need to devour you whole. you’re far too sweet for him, he thinks.
he drinks in your sounds, the soft little hums that spill from your throat when your jaw falls lax shooting straight to his dick. his lips even twitch into a smile when your hands fist at his shirt, your hips nudging forward a bit when his knuckles graze your nerves teasingly.
he snickers at your giggles when he has you unbuckle his belt for him, just ‘cause he finds it amusing when your fingers struggle a bit with the leather in your dazed state. a tender grip on your wrist guiding your hand into his boxers rather shamelessly, having you knead him to a full erection before you’re finally allowed to take it out.
he usually hands you whatever you’d like and on a silver platter, without the need to even ask, but sometimes he makes you earn it. he promises it’s for your own good, sweetheart. you can’t complain.
