Page 4 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
In any case, it was the knavish rogue in me that wooed my wife to a courtship, then an engagement, and at last…to my bed. What little romance I have learned of the era in which I now exist is a strange juxtaposition. As if the traditional gestures of flowers and gallantry are still in want, but more secretly or not so secretly, cater to the darker nature of the heart and soul and the wanton desires of the flesh.
Regardless, I know how to capture a woman in more ways than one, how to possess her, and conquer her. I wonder what desires this daring girl has. The latter or the former.
I feel a profound connection with her, though I cannotsee her face. Her presence is a beacon of warmth in my eternal bitterness.
I draw a solitary finger along the delicate curvature of her throat, admiring her bone structure. I continue, slowly roaming the soap bar lower and lower and—bloody Christ! My hand freezes upon her breast. I hadn’t…When I cut her undergarments away, I hadn’t, but now—holy bleeding ghosts!
The bar slips from my hand into the water. “Confound it all…” I don’t release my hold upon her, but I can’t bring my hand to forsake her generous tit. Generous is too weak a word for the firm but silky flesh. A pox on me for my hardening manhood!—my hand does not even span such beauty. Her bud pebbles beneath my palm, and it takes all my reserve not to give it a little pinch.
Whoever she is, she could feed an army with those breasts—and probably had every lad within a mile of her summoned by such a bosom. The most abundant I’ve ever felt, especially for her more slender arms. But as I snatch the soap bar and drag it along her belly, I approve of the natural, supple curves that confirm her femininity, not flat but perfect in its simplicity.
Her hips are round and ripe, lush and bountiful. By the devil’s balls! How was this beautiful specimen left in the woods without the escort of a man? Any man, if granted the privilege of wooing her, would need to be an utter fool, a weakling of the lowest order, to leave her alone.
If she were mine, I’d never leave her side. Such a woman requires the utmost protection…and possession. I’d stake my life on her never knowing such a man to provide her with thus.
Before I run the risk of her waking while I hold her in this naked state, I finish washing the mud and grime from the remainder of her form, finding smooth, ripe, but toned flesh for her thighs with strong calves.
I dry her, hold her close, listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat, daring to hope she could end my suffering. I wrap her in a towel before fetching one of my wife’s nightgowns. The sheer one I loved, soft pleats at the hem. Short sleeves with a slight puff. Anda low scoop neckline that falls beneath her shoulders, curving along the upper slopes of her bountiful breasts.
I brush my knuckles along her delicate clavicle, adjusting my breeches from my thickening hardness. Next, I take a few moments to comb her lavish, damp curls, praying through each stroke. A silent, desperate plea that she might be the one to break my chains.
As I lay her on the antique bed, I imagine how lovely and seductive she must look with her curls spread upon the pillow, fanning all around her head. I run my fingers along the velvet coverlet, the faded grandeur of my most intimate of spaces.
Turning, I collect the padded chair from the corner of the room and sit near her, needing to be close to her sensual warmth. Despite the profound silence of the room, melancholy thoughts do not invade. For I hear her even breaths…and the beating of her heart.
As I watch over her, the ghosts of my past threaten to haunt me, but the faintest hope glimmers in my soul, willing her to be the key to my long-lost heart.
3
“Is there any way I could understand you?”
BELLE
Ijerk awake, taking a deep gasp into my lungs. Something that always happens after I pass out. Like I’m making up for all the slow breaths of lost time.
The second I start to shift, I freeze. Pillow under my head. Velvet blanket beneath me. And…oh, holy Hecate! I peer down. It’s a nightgown. A sheer gothic nightgown with lace and pleats and an off-the-shoulder neckline. It does nothing to hide my tits, the outline of my areola and nipple showing right through the fabric.
Oh, lord, if I wore such a beautiful, breathtaking nightgown growing up, I’d have been staked.
Your breasts are for your future husband, Belladonna. You must cover them. No bra straps showing either. Make sure your clothes cover your shoulders.
Those lessons resound in my ears like nails on a goddamn chalkboard. Mimi let me choose from her vintage outfits, reminding me that I inherited my well-endowed chest from her, and there was no shame in wearing clothes that didn’t include itchy, coarse, high-neck shirts and baggy dresses. FrumpyLittle House on the Prairiemixed with a lovely dose ofThe Handmaid’s Tale. And a Southern cult equivalent of both.
Overwhelmed, I cup my forehead, dazed, thoughts whirling back to my last memory. I closed up the shop. Went for a walk in the woods like normal. Oh…I found that book in the false bottom of Mimi’s old trunk, making me wonder why she hid it.
And my life could use a little excitement.
Oh god! Ohgodohgodohgodohgawwwd! The summoning spell worked. The thoughts rush back. The hammering of my heart as I raced through the woods, tripping over the log, and a strong hand picking me right up by my neck like I weighed nothing to him.
I clutch my throat, shutting my eyes because…I sense a presence next to me—on the other side of the bed. I gather my courage.
Because I’m not dreaming. Nothing about this feels like a dream. And I have a healthy respect for all things paranormal and what goes bump in the night. Except the paranormal didn’tjust bump me. It fucking rammed me like a damn wrecking ball.
First, I perform a couple of mental grounding exercises, willing my heart to slow before I finally open my eyes.
Fuck!—he’s there. Right there. Maybe six feet from me at the most, sitting in the antique chair, unmoving, still as a specter. Mr. Headless Heatchliff, all sex-on-a-steampunk stick. His black-gloved hands are stoic, but firm on the armrests. A not-so-subtle tapping of one index finger. His entire body faces me.
What does he want with me? I assume he does not want to chop off my head and use it for his own pumpkin noggin; otherwise, why take the time to dress me?…oh, fuck. My hair is still damp. The scent of roses bathes the air. My skin is soft and clean.
