Page 47 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
I brush the pumpkin head along her cheek. Raising the book,she squirms against that steel length, sighs heavily, and opens her mouth to read, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.’ Ere this speech ended, I became sensible of Heathcliff’s presence…”
I briefly consider how different our souls are. But it matters not how juxtaposed we are. Belle is my shining paradox, fated by whatever star has smiled upon me.
She is the sun to my moon, the stars in my velvet night, and the willing earth to my dark fire. She is ready to burn for me.
She hisses when I untether the remaining corset strings, baring her lacy black bra. Her breasts nearly spill out thanks to all that heaving. But I sense she is doing her best for me. After all this stoking, the fire I rouse will burn hotter than ever. I need her flush, soaked, wanton, prepared for my invasion.
She reads a few more paragraphs while I rub her wet folds and listen. Her words, her flesh, her heart all give me a chokehold.
“My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself.” As she embarks upon the most renowned passage, I plunge two fingers into her center. She tips her head back against my shoulder, and I coil the hand at her breast around her throat.
Steady, Belladonna.
Judging from her hard swallow, she’s battling tears. By the devil, her core is hot and drenched as liquid flames. Now…I pump. A gasp escapes her throat.
“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.”
She rushes, her breaths ragged. A heated flush spreads through her skin, and I practically rip at her lace bra, cupping and kneading one heavy breast. With one rub of my gloved thumb along her erect nipple, she grips my pant leg and arches her back so far, she nearly rises from the floor.
“My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time willchange it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees.” She gasps, licks her lips, and goes on, “My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”
I tweak her erect rosebud. I pump my fingers deeper, listening to the delicious, wet sound of her sex. Her fingers are undoubtedly white-knuckled as she holds the book, as I imagine the ones fisting my pant leg are, too.Hold on just a little longer, my Belle. We are so close.
“Nelly, I AM Heathcliff!” She raises her voice, the emotion from the pivotal scene, and the one binding us, overcoming her. I capture her clit, working it back and forth. “He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable;…”
The room is dark. The embers are snuffed. All that remains is but a little candlelight, intimate and romantic. A precursor to what will happen…after I take her like a starved rogue in the night.
Before she may read more, I rip the book from her hand, toss it aside, and thrust her onto her back on the sumptuous wool throws. All control snapped. All reserve vanished.
“Jack!” she whispers, baring her throat to me.
You are ever in my mind, Belladonna Holloway. You are my own being. And from this moment onward, I willneverbe separated from you.
I remove my belt, shove down my breeches, and free my manhood. Too heavy and hung to rise. I rip what remains of the dress and bra from her body, push her luscious thighs to her shoulders, and position my crown at her sex, wetting it with her warm cream.
You will do more than moan and whimper now, Belladonna Holloway. You. Will. Scream.
I fulfill my oath—and thrust my cock deep into her soaked pussy. She shatters, squeezing and convulsing all around me. The moment she unleashes that scream, I rip the knit pumpkin from my rebirthed face and crush my mouth to hers, uniting the depth of my groan with her scream.
I don’t need to thrust again. One more convulsion. One more scream. And I stab her all the deeper, growling my release into her throat while my cock shoots its seed into a woman for the first time in centuries.
Not any woman.
My woman.
Mine.
Lips still sealed to hers, I make it known when I come out, lift her onto my lap, so she is pressed against me, and impale her on my cock.
Now, she moans and cries, sobs and whimpers. And by thunder, her fingers stroke my face. I snap again—unleashing my release into her sweet, beautiful, wet cunt.
I will fuck her all night long.
19
“Belladonna Claire Moore.”
BELLE
