Salt, Smoke, and Skin

On Halloween night, a grieving woman defies both faith and fear when her dead lover return

The night was a living thing, thick with the scent of damp earth and the low groan of the ocean as it dragged itself against the shore. Naomie stood by the window, her bare feet pressed into the warped wooden floorboards, the white wrapper tied loosely around her body doing little to hide the curve of her hips or the way her nipples tightened in the cool, salty air. The candle on the sill flickered, its flame bending like a reed in the wind, casting long, trembling shadows that slithered up the walls like restless spirits. She hadn’t slept. She never did on nights like this, when the tide pulled too hard, when the air tasted of iron and old ashes, when the veil between here and there grew thin as silk.

Then she felt him.

Not a sound, not a breath, just the sudden, electric awareness of him, like the prickle of a storm before the first crack of lightning. Her fingers twitched against the windowsill, her pulse jumping in her throat. The air in the room shifted, growing heavier, charged, as if the very molecules bent to make space for his presence.

And then he was there.

Eli stood in the doorway, barefoot, his shirt hanging open to reveal the lean, corded muscle of his chest, the dark trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. His skin was warm bronze in the candlelight, but there was something wrong with the way the shadows clung to him—too deep, too still, as if they were a part of him rather than cast by the light. The ash mark on his neck was a smudge of gray, like a fingerprint from the underworld, and when he moved, it was with the quiet inevitability of the tide.

“You called me,” he said, his voice rough as driftwood, scraped raw by years of salt and silence.

Naomie exhaled, her breath unsteady. She hadn’t spoken the words, hadn’t lit the black candles or drawn the sigils in the sand this time. But she had wanted him. God, she had ached for him, her body restless, her skin too tight, her cunt slick and throbbing with the memory of his touch. She stepped forward, the wrapper whispering against her thighs, and lifted her hand. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over his chest, not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming rightness of him; warm, solid, alive beneath her palm, even though she knew he wasn’t. Not really.

“Eli,” she breathed, and it wasn’t an answer, wasn’t a question, just his name, a prayer and a curse all at once.

Outside, the storm broke. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howling like a thing in pain, and the candle guttered, its flame dancing wildly. Eli’s hand came up, calloused fingers brushing against her lower lip, his thumb dragging slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the shape of her. His touch was rough, but his eyes, as dark as the depths of the sea, were soft, hungry. She parted her lips, her tongue darting out to taste the salt on his skin, and he groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her.

Then his mouth was on hers.

It was nothing like the gentle press of a lover’s kiss. This was need, raw and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongue, of salt and smoke and the ghost of old fires. His tongue plunged between her lips, tasting of the sea, of brine and something darker, something that made her head spin. She moaned into him, her fingers curling into the open collar of his shirt, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as if she could anchor him to this world through sheer force of will. He growled against her mouth, the sound feral, and then his hands were on her, gripping her waist, dragging her against him. She could feel the rigid length of his cock through the thin fabric of his trousers, hot and heavy against her thigh, and her pussy clenched, empty and aching.

“Fuck,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “Please—”

He didn’t let her finish. With a snarl, he spun her, pressing her back against the wall, the rough wall digging into her shoulder blades. The wrapper was nothing against his strength; one sharp tug and the knot gave way, the fabric pooling at her feet, leaving her naked, exposed to the storm-light and his burning gaze. His hands were everywhere, palming her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples until they were hard as pebbles, then sliding down, fingers delving between her thighs. She was soaked, her arousal slick on her inner thighs, and when he groaned, thick and approving, she whimpered, her hips jerking against his touch.

“Always so fucking wet for me,” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Like your cunt knows I’m coming before you do.”

She didn’t have time to answer. He hooked one of her legs over his hip, his cock free now, the heavy length of it pressing against her belly, the tip already glistening. She reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his shaft, and he hissed, his hips jerking into her grip.

“Naomie,” he warned, but she only stroked him harder, her thumb swiping over the slick crown, spreading the precum in slow, teasing circles.

“Fuck me,” she demanded, her voice a whip-crack in the thunder. “Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

With a growl, he lifted her, her back scraping against the wall as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She could feel the head of his cock at her entrance, thick and demanding, and then he was pushing inside, stretching her, filling her in one brutal, perfect thrust. She cried out, her nails raking down his back, her body arching into the invasion. He was huge, always too much, but she took him, her walls clenching around his length, her pussy fluttering as he bottomed out inside her.

“Gods, you’re tight,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Like a fucking vise.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He pulled back and slammed into her again, his cock dragging against every sensitive inch of her, and the world narrowed to the slick, obscene sounds of their bodies, the slap of skin on skin, the wet gasp of her breath, the way his balls slapped against her ass with every thrust. The candle flickered wildly, the shadows on the walls twisting, writhing, as if the very room was alive with their lust.

“Harder,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please, fuck me harder—”

He snarled, his hands gripping her ass, lifting her just enough to change the angle, and then he was pounding into her, his cock pistoning in and out of her dripping cunt, each thrust deeper, rougher than the last. She could feel her orgasm building, a storm of its own, coiling tight in her belly, her thighs trembling, her nails drawing blood from his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips against her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse. “Take my cock, baby. Let me fuck you.”

She came with a scream, her back bowing off the wall, her pussy clamping down around him, her release crashing over her in waves, so intense it stole her breath, her vision whiting out at the edges. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, his hips snapping against hers, his cock swelling inside her as his own climax tore through him. With a roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his cum spilling into her in hot, thick pulses, filling her, marking her, branding her from the inside out.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the rain, the distant cry of the rooster signaling the false dawn. Then Eli’s body stiffened, his grip on her loosening, his skin growing cooler beneath her fingers. She clutched at him, her legs still locked around his waist, her pussy still fluttering around his softening cock.

“No,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Stay. Please—”

But he was already fading, his edges blurring, his form growing translucent, like smoke caught in the wind. His lips brushed her forehead, his breath a ghost of a touch.

“Remember,” he murmured, his voice already distant, already lost to the storm. “The salt. The smoke. The skin.”

She reached for him, her fingers closing on nothing but air, her tears mixing with the rain that lashed the window. The candle snuffed out. The wind howled. And then he was gone, leaving only the scent of brine and burning, the taste of him on her lips, the weight of his seed dripping down her thighs.

Dawn found her still standing there, her body bare, her skin salted with dried tears and the remnants of their passion. Her lips were parted, as if she’d been caught mid-kiss, her eyes open but unseeing, fixed on the horizon where the tide ran red as blood.

And if, on nights like this, the villagers swore they saw two shadows rising from the surf, twined together, fucking with the desperate abandon of the drowned well. Who was to say they were wrong?