Page 24 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Yes.
“You never answered my question.”
Is there a way?
“Yes.”
I pause. But considering what just happened, it’s as good a time as any to tell her.My head may return at night, though you would not be able to see. Much as I cannot see you, you would only be able tofeel.
“How, Jack?”
Adjusting my breeches, I lower my hand to cup her mound. She hisses deeply and thrusts her chest against mine. So hot, so sodden. She catches herself, clinging to my sleeves. Waiting.
I must…in your impression of my day’s terminology…engage in…carnal consummation.I thrust two fingers inside her, chuckling when she convulses around them, biting back a little moan while her breath rushes. Bloody hell. So responsive.
A pause. All I hear is her labored breath as I pull my fingers out. All I feel is the beating of her heart and the hot, pink flesh beneath my palm. All I smell is the essence of Belladonna Holloway.
And then?—
—“Oh.”
11
Oh, god, did I just say “bulbous” out loud?
BELLE
Aweek passes. A blessed week with Jack.
No, I couldn’t sit down for a week, but I don’t care. What we shared that night transcends anything this world could ever offer me. Anytime I accidentally brushed against a wall too much, the flare of pain reminded me of our time. Jack hasn’t spoken of it since, and I haven’t pressed him. Just like he hasn’t pressured me. No suggestive implications regarding his revelation.
He’s been a perfect gentleman. We learned “hide and seek” is a good method for following the laws of the curse. We’ve played the game in the bookshop, in the woods, on his grounds, and in the manor.
After the brief hunts, we take walks or spend much-needed quiet evenings in the bookshop. I’ve described all the fall-themed decor from small pumpkins substituting as book stands to twinkle lights wrapped around birch wood bundles. Or autumn-leaf garland.
Spooky but chic decor is my favorite. I share how I found vintage bottles and made potion bottles with aged labels, nestled hollowed-out skulls with glowing artificial candles inside. He helped me hang lanterns along ceiling hooks. Together, we filled mason jars with sprigs of fragrant herbs, jars entwined in twinkle lights. I even perfected my shelfie wall behind the counter.
One of my unique additions was a black faux rib cage with roses and marigolds bursting from the bones.
Once a year, during October, I’ll display my favorite book I will never sell, the greatest gift Mimi left me. A rare, first US edition of the wild Gothic tale of romance and betrayal,Wuthering Heights. With the antique carefully preserved in the glass case, I decorate the shelf with rustic pine cones, knit pumpkins, and tin candles. Bundles of colorful autumn flowers, a quill pen or two, a vintage typewriter, and ornate teacups adorn the two shelves below it.
Due to the rush of tourists and my other project, I’ve stuck to simple baked goods for customers. Pumpkin bread, apple cinnamon muffins, brown butter blondies. I buy pumpkin spice toffee, caramel apples, and homemade caramels in bulk from ourlocal vendors, fill bottles to the brim, and leave them right by the register for an insta-mood buy. Autumnal crystals nestle in stands nearby—healing moonstone, passionate garnet, joyful citrine, soothing amethyst, and more.
I serve coffee and apple cider during the fall.
Mimi laid the groundwork, but I’d love to think she’s smiling down on me with all the ways I’ve brought Belladonna’s Bookshop to life.
Every night, Jack helps me clean the shop—like he is now.
He never sleeps and spends hours memorizing every nook and cranny. I love how careful he is with his steps and relies on the cane for the rest. I’m more than grateful for the help. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I notice Mortimer rubbing against his pant leg again.
In the kitchen, we do dishes, and I’m relieved that the shop will be closed tomorrow.
Thanks to Jack massaging oil with aloe into my bottom every night, my ass is all but healed. He knows it, too, since he takes multiple opportunities to touch me as he passes. A sweep of his side, his fingers subtly curving onto the fabric over my butt.
He’s been holding back. And it’s getting annoying.
Sometimes, I wish he’d just slam me against the nearest wall and grind against me. If something doesn’t happen soon, I might need to climb up his six-foot-three frame and start dry-humping him. With how exhausted I am, if he wanted to take advantage of me, I’d have no power to contest.
