Ghosts Kissing Novels & Stories

It’s raw need carved into features that belonged to another century, and I want to be the thing that satisfies what two hundred years of loneliness built. He pulls out, flips me and picks me up. He presses my back against the bedroom wall. His translucent hands grip my ass, and my legs wrap around his waist. He pushes into me and fucks me against the wall of his manor, and I grab his face and pull his mouth to mine. I’m kissing a ghost. I’m actually kissing a ghost. His lips are cool, then warm, then hot. His tongue pushes between my lips, and the kiss is deep and desperate. He tastes like loneliness and something sweet below it. I suck his tongue and moan against his mouth while his cock dr

Behind him, the ghost’s shadow loomed large, its gloved hand raised as its voice curled through the air like smoke: “One kiss. Or he dies.” Camela felt her throat tighten. Her lips quivered. “Don’t,” Vincent growled, his voice cutting through the roar of the collapsing city. “Camela…please don’t.” She trembled, her knees giving way against the stone. Her heart screamed inside her chest. The ghost leaned closer, his whispers brushing her ear even though he stood far away. “You’ve already chosen him. Now prove it. Kiss me. Seal it. Or watch him die before your eyes.”

But wait, isn't he in New York? Not long after, I saw a pair of men and women almost kissing at the coquettish ghost window. That woman looks so bitch. Matches with Bryan the flirtatious ghost. After they finished making out hot by the window, they released their link. Without realizing it, a flirty ghost looked at me, winked, then closed her bedroom window again. Ahhh shit. Why was I silent earlier? And has my innocent brain been polluted by the free mandarin film earlier?

Maya (voice shaking): “I love you too. I love the man you are. The man you’ve always been, even when you thought you were nothing but a ghost. You’re not just a shadow in this world anymore. You’re my everything.” Her tears slipped free, and before either of them thought twice, they leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss — slow, unhurried, tender. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that burned with passion or demanded proof. It was gentler, deeper — a kiss of gratitude. Of recognition. A kiss that said: I see you. I choose you. I will stand with you. When they pulled apart, Ghost rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breath uneven. Ghost (whispering): “You’ve given me back my life.”

Ghost grunted, “tell me you don’t want me on my knees for you.” “I do,” I moaned, throwing my head back. “I want you, Ghost. Please touch me. Get on your knees for me.” As though my consent had set off something in his head, Ghost retrieved his fingers, his darkened orbs locked on mine as he slid the coated fingers into my parted lips. I breathed shakily, my lips enclosing around his fingers, my tongue twirling around the tips, dragging a moan out of Ghost’s throat. I released his fingers with pop and he immediately leaned down, his lips brushing against mine in a ghostly manner, shoulders tense and face tight with discomfort.

"Wait. I need to know. Why did, uhm, whatever, carelessly pick me?" "Go back." The woman wasn't paying her any attention. She kept on plucking cowries and attaching them to her head. "What is he? Oh, don't answer that one. He's a ghost. I know that. Why is he in that state? No, no, why can I see him? Why can l feel his touch, ghosts can't do that, can they? What does he need me for?" The old woman stopped her scaly hands from further movements and stared directly at Geneva through her foggy eyes that obviously saw clearly.

He stood near the edge of the Bellagio ballroom and watched. She walked up to the Ghost at the bar. Said something that made Michealson go completely still with the particular stillness of a man who had been ambushed by something he wanted. Then Michealson kissed her, in front of everyone, deliberately. Staking his claim for the cameras and the whisperers and anyone who had any remaining doubt. The bar hummed with women murmuring about the Ghost and his girl. Michael set his empty glass against the nearest waiter's chest without looking at him and walked out.

The world around us was flickering—one moment we were in the Spire, the next we were standing in a field of translucent, white glass. "I can see the 'Other You', Félix," I whispered, clutching his shoulders. "I see the version of you that never left the snow. He’s cold. He’s so cold." Félix didn't look at the ghosts. He grabbed me with a raw, desperate strength, slamming his lips against mine in a kiss that was about the Now. It was a kiss of blood, sweat, and defiance. In the shadow of the Overwrite, our intimacy was the only "True Data" left.

Too many ghosts. Ethan paused, then leaned back down. He kissed me softly on the forehead. “I’ll be back before you count to ten.” “Ten!” I said immediately, grabbing his hand like a child refusing to be left behind. He laughed under his breath, then leaned in and kissed me again—this time on the lips. Not soft or quick. Not polite. It was deep, full, and fucking warm. The kind of kiss that left no room for doubt. The kind that melted away everything else for just a moment.

I wanted him to take out whatever darkness he had, on me. His eyes moved from mine to my lips, and it felt as real as physical contact. “I would’ve come back just to haunt you.” “I don’t fear ghosts.” I breathed. “You should.” I pressed my lips to his. When he didn’t respond, I flicked my tongue over his bottom lip, sucking it into my mouth. With a growl, he slid his hand over my neck, grabbing my nape roughly, our lips clashing in a dance that wasn’t so gentle. He pulled back, trailing wet kisses down my neck and back up to my ear.