There's something intoxicating about the way a man's hands trace the curve of my ghostly form, as if he's trying to memorize what he can't fully grasp. The way his fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer despite the impossibility of it all—stupidly human, isn't it? And yet, here I am, letting him try. Maybe it's the way his breath hitches when I whisper filth in his ear, or how his cock twitches against my thigh, desperate for a friction he'll never truly have. Either way, I'll keep teasing, because watching him unravel is far more entertaining than any afterlife I could have imagined.