Page 16 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Lifting that gray, wool skirt and lowering her stockings to take my crop to her naughty bottom will be most enjoyable. And perhaps undo the ruffled collar of her shirt to steal a cupping of her generous bosom.
My boots thud along the hard ground of the path, a beat behind my cane. Belle’s footsteps are light, subtly whirling the autumn leaves. A hint of bonfire smoke drifts in the air.
“Will you tell me why you traded your heart for the curse?” she wonders, her tone soft but serious. Not out of curiosity but alonging need. Her head does not leave my shoulder. How I long to feel those curls covering my long-lost face.
Heaving a sigh in our shared stream of consciousness, I first ask her,My history is not a…kind one, sweet summoner. Are you certain you are prepared for what I am about to convey? I do not wish to trouble your heart unnecessarily.
“Jack.” She raises her head, sighing, too. I pause at her touch, those fingers upon my throat. All my neck muscles bulge. My balls draw up tight, ready to burst from my hard manhood. “My heart might not seem strong, but I’ve had my share of darkness. I’ll share that darkness with you sometime. And no, you don’t owe me anything. If it hurts you, I won’t press you. I just want to know whatever I can to help you.”
Gods, this girl! She turned my quest for her welfare on its head, giving me more of her heart, so beautiful and sweet. Less than a second later, I’ve trapped her against the nearest tree, holding her hands against the bark on either side of her.
“What? What did I say?” she gasps.
Damnation, Belle! If I possessed lips, I would kiss you.
Her gasps fill the thin space between us. Would that I had a mouth. I would attack hers. I would bite those delectable lips and tangle my tongue with hers, showing her my need to taste every part of her mouth.
One whimper escapes before she takes a deep breath. “If you possessed lips and kissed me, I would reciprocate. Ardently.”
I didn’t believe I could grow harder. In just two days, this remarkable young woman has tethered the hollow space where my heart once beat. Wherever it is, I imagine it must have felt her, sensed her, longed for her.
Shoving off of her, I take her wrist, tugging her along quicker before I lose all control and rut her against that tree. She grips my arm to keep pace with me. I need an anchor, a dark touchstone to control myself.
“Where are we?—”
To give you answers.
9
The graves speak a thousand words
BELLE
He is every archetype of the gothic tragedy and possessive gentleman I could ever want.
I should be rational, pragmatic. But dammit, I don’t want to. I’m afraid, at any moment, all this could slip away, and I return to a quaint and fulfilling but rather mundane existence.
In some ways, I also fear what will happen if I do find his heart and return his head. Will he still want to be with me? Highwaymen were known for the romantic myth of the “gentleman thief”. And I’ve never known anyone who fits that definition more. Jack is both dashing and domineering. Highwaymen were notorious, skilled in all manner of weaponry, clever escapes, daring deeds, and the sense of forbidden vigilantism, becoming the “noble outlaw”.
I can imagine him lifting my skirts with my back to that tree, his gloved hands gripping mine, and fucking me hard. Just as I can imagine him reading poetry by candlelight to me while sipping tea.
All I know is that I’ll cherish this time with him, however fleeting. He could hunt me all my life, and I’d glory in it, even if it meant he could never kiss me.
As he practically yanks me along, forcing me to try and keep pace—much harder when you’re busty—I trip over a tree root. Before I can fall, he raises me up…and steals my breath away by sweeping me into his arms. I shouldn’t be surprised, given how he plucked me from the ground while atop his horse.
My breath hitches as I’m face tonon-face. I can still wrap my arms around his neck and touch his chest. No matter how I wish his breath would coast across my cheeks, it won’t happen. Not unless we find his heart.
“Jack,” I whisper, imagining what his face might look like. Does he have longer dark hair in a low ponytail? Does he have chiseled cheekbones and a rugged jaw? Full or thin lips? Are his eyes blue, green, or brown?
We cross the threshold where the ivy-covered manor slumbers like a decayed survivor, holding onto whatever withered shreds oflife she can. Judging by some of the scorched walls, I can tell she saw some violence.
I lower my hand to Jack’s chest. The strangeness of having no heart. Mine is prone to skipping beats, pumping too fast, and causing me to faint. Wherever his is, it must be strong, the strongest from his dark past.
Silence thickens between us. The tension in his neck muscles doesn’t fade. Or in his arms and chest. If he had a face, I would brush my lips upon his cheek in a tender, soothing kiss.
If his past is a nightmare, I will walk through the darkness with him and hold his hand the entire time. I take deep breaths, steadying my heart against the shadows as he carries me to the farthest western edge of the grounds near the manor. Never tiring. Never speaking.
As we come to the back corner with his boots crunching upon the overgrowth, Jack suddenly holds me tighter, as if he doesn’t wish to let me go. Like he’s as worried about me disappearing as I am about him.
