Page 29 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
“One more thing, if you don’t mind.”
Fuck,Belle, speak.
I touch my thumb to the corner of her mouth, finding her lips tugging into a smile. “You’ve asked me to understand how you are flawed. Please do the same for me. You can say I have a heart of gold, but it’s taken its share of beatings. Ones caused by others, ones caused by me. And you putting me on a pedestal won’t help either of us.”
I grip a handful of wet curls.Belle, I regret to inform you that you are far higher than a pedestal. You’re already an angel in my eyes.
She giggles. “Well, since you don’t have eyes, can we agree that I’m a fallen angel? Or at least…a broken one? And we can both be broken together?”
For you, anything.
“Good. Because I have something to give you.”
Of course, and I vow not to get a big head over it.
“Did you—did the Headless Horseman just make a “head” joke?”
I chuckle warmly.I’m waiting, Belladonna.
She dances away, and I faintly hear the sound of the towel dropping. I ball my hands into fists, keeping my back to her as she changes behind me. I touch the sparse items on her dresser and do not resist the temptation to open her top drawers, where I find a number of lingerie items. And…something…quite…intriguing.
“Jack!” she practically squeals and tries to take the item away.
I lift it high above her head, amusement rippling into me as she jumps, hoping to snatch it away.
We are quite naughty, aren’t we, my Belle?
“Give it back, bloody fucking pumpkins, Jackson Moore!”
I laugh inside our sacred bond while wagging the phallus-shaped rubber object.Mine is quite larger than this one. And harder. Are you certain you are prepared?
My thumb catches on a button, and I jerk from the sudden vibration, dropping the scandalous, possessed object.What the devil?—?
“Ugh, we need to have another conversation about boundaries.” She turns off the vibrating sound and shoves the bedeviled phallus inside her drawer.
Before she can say another word, I seize her neck, gripping her throat taut with enough pressure to thin her breath, but I’ll not leave bruises.Naughty, little Belladonna. You listen and listen well. From now until the time comes for our coupling, you will not use such an object. And you will give your release only to me, and when I choose. Is that understood?Her pulse flutters beneath my thumb.
“You want to regulate my sexuality?”
Yes. Not for means of control,I add after she stiffens.But because you deserve it. Because you deserve more. And it will be all the sweeter and more fulfilling when I bring you to rapture while you are impaled on my manhood. Do we have an accord?
“God, you’re so sexy when you get all possessive-y. Yes, I can live with that.”
Good.I release her.
“If you’re finished rummaging through my drawers, I have something for you.”
She tugs me toward the bed, sits me on it as I envision shaking my head with an airy laugh. The vision disintegrates the second she places something round and soft, knitted within my hands. She squeezes the backs of my hands as if offering me a soft reassurance.
“It’s…well, it’s a pumpkin,” she says, her voice a mix of nervousness and pride. “A knitted Jack O’lantern. I thought it might help, you know, if we go out during the day. So people don’t freak out. I added straps so we can attach it to your suit—with safety pins, see?”
I feel the wool between my fingers, running my thumbs over the ridges and dips of the knitted pumpkin. It’s soft and surprisingly light. The loops of the knitting are tight and even. Round and bumpy, the shape feels like the real thing, with a slight stem on top. I can feel where she’s stitched in some details—lines to mimic the grooves of a real pumpkin, a bit of stuffing to make it full.
I feel something sturdier beneath, a thin wire skeleton hidden beneath the softness. I press gently, feeling the way the structure holds firm, like she built a little cage to keep it from sagging.She made this with care and purpose. Practical, but I sense the emotion in her fingers.
I imagine it’s a burnt orange like the autumns I remember. The idea of me—a headless thing—walking around with a knitted pumpkin for a head makes me want to laugh. But something deeper than humor is like a knot in my chest unraveling, like the warmth of her voice melts into the hollow where my heart once lay.
She steps closer, scooping up the pumpkin before she adjusts the straps. “Just…hold still. I’ll pin it on so it doesn’t fall off,” she murmurs.
