Page 39 of The Forbidden Note

She shrugs and faces the funeral director. “He’s a coward, so I don’t think he’ll do it.”

I scoff.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to get in.” The director laughs.

“Screw it.” I climb the table and step into the casket. The lining is surprisingly plush. “It’s not that bad if you don’t think about it.”

The director’s phone rings.

“Excuse me,” he says, walking out of the show room.

I motion to Miss Jamieson. “Your turn.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on.” I spread my arm out on either side of the coffin, getting comfortable. “Let’s see if you’re a coward or not.”

She arches an eyebrow.

I lean forward, sliding my arms over the locked bottom half. “Scared?”

Annoyance glitters in her eyes. “Scoot over.”

Grinning, I roll across and extend a hand.

She doesn’t take it and climbs in on her own.

Her bottom lip trembles. She sinks one leg in the coffin like a swimmer testing the temperature of the pool.

“Just get in,” I grumble.

Miss Jamieson ignores me, holding onto both sides of the coffin and lowering herself slowly.

My eyes swing behind her and I gasp. “Is that a ghost?”

“Ah!” She screams, flinging herself down. Her flailing hands dismantle the stand holding the casket open. The lid thuds shut as she crashes into my chest.

We’re thrown into darkness.

I wrap an arm around her instinctively, absorbing her fall. My head slams into the back of the coffin, knocking against the metal flooring. A pained grunt fills my throat and shoots past my lips.

Miss Jamieson is panting hard, her head buried in the hollow between my neck and shoulder. Her body is soft and supple. My pulse picks up, muscles tensing as the urge to hold her takes over.

Before I can really enjoy having her sprawled on top of me, she shoots her arms out on either side and scrambles to sit up.

The sound of her head thumping against the top of the casket rings out.

“Ow!”

I peer at her through the darkness. “You okay?”

“I…” Thumps sound. I can’t see what she’s doing, but I can see the faint outline of her arms.

She’s still sitting on top of me, temporarily distracted by whatever she’s doing. The way she’s squirming over my hips whips my blood to a hot boil. I want to thrust up, easing into the friction.

“Zane,” her worried voice snaps me out of my lust-filled haze, “I can’t open it.”

“What?”

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