Page 51 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Her fingers explore my back, caressing my spine, triggering my muscles to clench and fuck her harder. For most of the night, she’s touched my face. As long as she cannot see me, the magic will hold. The diviner was adamant. Whatever summoner would come, she must not be given this sight. The love must be pure and blind, for the deepest bonds are forged in the darkness of our hearts, where sight holds no power. The souls must meet, untainted by the weight of flesh, the superficiality of sight.
I save the bed for last. More hot blood pumps to my cock as I lay her trembling body on the surface. And as much as it kills me, I leave her heated chamber.
“Mmm, what are you?—”
I stop her mouth with one burning kiss, a warning not to question me.
With my staff thickening by the second as I consider what I’m about to do to finish the night, I rush to draw the curtains and extinguish all but one candle. After positioning it in such a way that silhouettes me but casts a heady glow upon her bare skin, I don my gloves. I’d set the scene before the beginning of our coupling, fully intending to save this room for last.
Her eyes grow wider as I collect the first significant item in the top dresser drawer. The tender weight of the ropes encompasses my gloves, familiar and thrilling. Despite how I do not need to chase Belle like a madman possessed as I did my wild wife, no less adrenaline courses through me. No less desire pulses in my blood. No less demand to make her mine in every way a man can for his woman.
“You are breathtaking, Belle,” I speak the words over her, gliding the back of one gloved hand along the side of her body.
Her breaths quicken, but when I deepen my voice to a dark and seductive command, “Give me your wrists,” she does not protest. No words or body language to convey anything but utter surrender. Such surrender and submission. She wrecks me. More heat surges to my shaft at her undying trust in me. I will cherish this gift ofvulnerability.
I wrap the soft, sturdy rope around her wrists, ensuring it is snug but never too tight, the fibers gently kissing her skin. Each loop is deliberate, a dance of connection, and I find solace in the rhythm of our shared breath.
I still test her. One sharp thrust of her arms above her head where I bind those wrists to the frame. Like the warning signs before the storm I intend to unleash upon her.
I imagine each cord of rope is an invisible tether to my heartstrings. Ones only she may unravel or bind stronger.
“You radiate beauty from your skin to your soul,” I say darkly, intimately, appreciating her gasp when I grip her ankles and spread-eagle her, coiling the rope sensually around her ankles.
Tension grows with every shallow breath she takes. A deeper connection forms as I finish binding her, a tangible reminder of our shared desires.
I rub my mouth along the marks I have already wrought on her skin. Her hands flex, and I know how much she longs to touch me.
I’ve eaten her out so many times tonight, drinking my fill of the warm elixir of her sex, her pussy. But I’m drunk on her, hopelessly and eternally addicted. This time, I go deeper, angling my head and stabbing my tongue into the core of her womanhood. She rolls her hips, my good girl, but I control her pleasure.
She is sweet as the cinnamon tea I gave her an hour ago. I kiss her cunt, mouth diving as deep between her heavenly labia as I edge one finger inside her, nudging my tongue. Those hands tighten on my strands, fisting with her need.
“Jackson Elias Moore, bloody pumpkins, stop tortur?—”
I give each thigh a strong slap, chuckling darkly.
Finally, I tie a blindfold around her eyes. It’s the first time she snaps her teeth at me. A weak snap. Too adorable to be an attack. But her feminine snarl is more adorable.
She opens her mouth, but I softly slap her breasts from one swell to the next, loving how they knock against one another. She blushes deeper, and I cock my head at the little whimper that leaves her throat. Any words have perished on her lips as she arches her back and softly thrusts out her chest.
Leaning in, I suckle the swell of one breast, watching every response, testing, testing, testing. Another soft strike, but I follow with kneading the mound and giving the bud a proper pinch. I trace my tongue around her areola and flick her nipple with the tip. Longing moans. Sweet whimpers.
It seems as though I’ve discovered one of her many kinks, a stronger one. Her nipples are a deep pink, taut, with the faint imprint of my teeth marks around the areola.
The fool of her former husband, who must have mistreated such beauty, deserves to be castrated. And hung on a proper gallows for her to watch his bleeding body swinging in the wind. The last thing his eyes would see is how a real man can pleasure this woman and fuck her until she screams her euphoria.
I return to the heaven between her thighs. Kissing, suckling, drinking, and eating my fill of her. She trembles beneath my mouth, her gasps and cries a symphony that will play in my mind once my head is gone. It’s taking all I have not to rut her like a starved beast.
“Jack, please…don’t stop!” She releases a shrill but oh-so-pretty screech, her inner muscles squeezing around the two fingers I’ve slid to the knuckle. Thunderation, she’s so wet, her inner flesh soaked to the core with molten cream. I circle her plump clit with my tongue, then flick it back and forth.
Her inner muscles start to flutter. I retrieve my fingers and pinch her pearl. “Not yet, beloved Belle.”
“Jack fucking Moore!” She tries to buck, and I laugh at her writhing, greedy body. “Fuck you, you Jackanapes!” she spits out.
“Someone has been doing more ‘19th-century insults’ research.” I rub one leather-clad finger along those wet petals. I fully intend to see her flesh in the full light of dawn before my head disappears.
“I need?—”
“I know what my woman needs,” I tell her sternly, scolding her and smirking at how she sinks back into the sheets. Yes, there is my good girl responding to the command of her master.
