Page 10 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

JACK

Sharing my past with Belle was necessary for grieving purposes and bonding.

It was important for her to understand my past in all its grit and darkness—all its bloodshed. She may sympathize with me, perhaps empathize, but she must also understand I am not a good man. I am a broken one with a depravity most cannot control, much less master.

Belle sighs while clutching my arm, fingers still tethered in mine as I lead her to a specific location on my property. My cane still in hand. It is neither a sigh of contentment nor of sadness. It is simply…pensive. As if she is lost in thought. But she still leans her head on my shoulder from time to time. Would that I could lower my head to kiss her brow.

She must accept how I am as flawed as any man. My needs run deep. My hunger is not easily quenched. I must determine if my sweet summoner is strong enough to look at the fractured pieces of my soul and accept my darkness. My wife was stubborn, a spirited vixen. She was much like a wild horse I needed to break. A process involving respect as well as fear.

Catherine grew to trust me, and after a worthy hunt—whether in the bedroom, the gardens, or anywhere upon the grounds I chose—she would submit. A gray area of submission on account of all the cursing, spitting, and kicking. Despite how I hid my Phantom identity, I never hid my dark sexual nature from her. She preferred my seduction, romance, and mind fucks to my hunts, bondage, and floggings, but she still played along.

To say I am curious as to how Belle will respond is an understatement.

If she prefers roses and poetry by candlelight, I will give them to her. But I cannot exist in such confines. It would be a crueler fate than a cage. Something I know she loathes for herself as much as I do. She may have a host of arousing dark romance novels in her collection, but there is a vast difference between reading…and receiving.

The leaves creak in the wind. My boots crush the brambles clotting the former pathways. I can feel the late evening fog curling its chill along the ground. My cane echoes a rhythmic thud just before my boots follow.

Fallen tree to your left, Belle, I warn her.

She pauses, and before she may cross it, I raise her by the waist and lower her to the ground, her position still at my side.

“How do you know so much? Retain so much?”

My cane is not for mere decoration, I share with her. Nor a hidden weapon. I may know every inch of my land after two centuries, but it still serves as a guide through any overgrowth.

“How much can you sense about me?”

Not as much as I would like. But your warm flesh cries out to me. I can hear subtle traces of your breath through our mental bond as well as some of your thoughts. Scent is a powerful olfactory, but I’m afraid I only pick up hints.

I love that sparkling laugh.

“Eye teeth. Oh, lord. Now, tell me, Jack,”

she squeezes my hand, “Naturally, your manor is Gothic Revival, primarily constructed in the early 1800s. And don’t believe I am critiquing this in any way, but shouldn’t your home and its grounds be more…decrepit? Other than the overgrowth with the ivy and the signs of some looting, so much seems to be preserved. Especially inside. Dusty and musty, of course. But still…”

I lead her around scattered debris of cracked and weathered bricks, fallen from the outdoor garden house constructed for Catherine. In this respect of the Curse, the nature is both to aid and torment. To aid in seeking my heart and to torment with the bitter reminder of the cruel fate dealt by my hand.

“Jack…”

Her voice softens as she turns to me, her hands lighting upon my arms.

“You were not responsible for their deplorable actions.”

I glide my hands along the side of her neck, anchoring them at the base of her jawline, imagining the blessed feeling of tilting her face and taking her mouth.

While their actions were truly deplorable and damnable, and I know they are all rotting in the pits of hell with the Thorne bloodline forever cursed, the ultimate blame lies with me.

My damn pride.

The cards were stacked against me, but I dealt the hand.

Do not forget this, my Belle.

I am not worthy of your kindness.

That is not to say I will not receive it wholeheartedly…I chuckle darkly at the pun.

She swallows hard, the action nudging her throat against the base of my palms.

While your heart may romanticize the miserable wretch of a man, please do not dismiss the dark beast beyond him.

“Some of us prefer the beast.”

Gods, this woman! I stiffen at her sudden embrace, her cheek touching my lower chest.

“And please believe me when I say this, Jack Moore…”

Her fingers bear down on my arms, insistent, pleading.

“I have met the true beasts of this world. You are not one of them. You may be a scoundrel, you may have demons and horrors in your past, some dealt by your hand and some dealt by others, but you are not evil. If you were, I wouldn’t be here with you. I don’t mind considering you a beast. A dark and dangerous one, but not an evil one.”

I am not good, Belle.

She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to be. Not when the world exists in millions of shades of gray.”

Damnation, Belle! I dig my gloved fingers against her jaw, careful not to leave bruises but making my point clear. Know this, sweet summoner. You are not gray. You are gold. Your heart is gold. And I will not accept any arguments to the contrary.

She parts her lips at first, but I increase the pressure, and she sighs in defeat.

“Okay, Jack. I’ll be your gold heart if you will be my dark gray beast.”

That will suffice for now. You will have the opportunity to test your golden-hearted resolve against my morally gray.

I gesture to the standing structure, one left mostly untouched, save for the horses they stole. Revy was the one left standing since she bucked and kicked, leaving one raider without teeth and another with crushed bones before she escaped any attempts to capture her.

“It’s beautiful,”

she remarks on the carriage house.

It is. Much like my Gothic Revival manor, the carriage house possesses vaulted ceilings. The steep and gabled roof sags slightly in the middle with shingles peeling like sunburned skin. But it holds, frozen in time as I am and everything I own.

My chest clenches when I consider my Belle and what will happen if my heart cannot be recovered. While the opportunity to make another attempt next October will be possible, she will continue to grow old.

I would love her all the same, but I cannot pretend that she will not wish for a life with a man whose face she could see, touch. A mouth worthy of parting her lips and tasting her sweet essence. A man who could kiss every part of her sensual, porcelain skin. A man who could…give her children if she desires.

I cannot accept failure. Not when I am closer than ever. Not when this girl has already done the unthinkable.

I push open the double doors. They open with a groan, their iron hinges rusted and protesting. The scent of aged leather and old hay drifts in the air. Something bound to me. Something I can smell. I have no sight, but I know moonlight filters through cracked windows to cast long, eerie shadows across the dirt floor.

Empty hooks and frayed leather straps where bridles once hung line the walls. A few still remain, dangling like ghosts of the past. A workbench stands against the far wall, its surface scarred and pitted with years of use, yet sturdy as ever, with tools scattered around.

In the center of the back of the house, a single saddle stand remains upright, its wood splintered but solid. Dust thickens the air, particles dancing.

“It’s like a forgotten relic, holding its breath, waiting for a miracle to grant it life again,”

Belle observes. I appreciate the juxtaposition and how her modern tongue will slip with ease into a poetic tone. Thunderation, she moves like poetry in autumn. Catherine was the spirit of summer.

Now, I will test Belle’s spirit.

My boots thud upon the hardwood as I guide her to the back of the carriage house, approaching that prominent saddle stand in the curving shape of a horse’s back.

“Why are we here?”

I turn to her and cup her chin. Do you trust me, my Belle?

She takes a deep breath while I hold mine.

“Yes, Jack Moore. We may have known one another for two days, but what you have shared in such a brief time…I feel as if I’ve known you for longer. Like something out of a dark dream. Perhaps in another life…”

Be that as it may, I require your consent, your trust. I have made myself, my past, and my dark need known. I slide a hand around her waist, envisioning the plump flesh of her arse beyond that wool skirt. Now, I require your consent, your reception of the sort of acts you read of, ones you can only imagine in the darkest corners of your mind. Are you prepared for the dangerous rogue and not the gentleman?

She stiffens, and I brace myself, muscles hardening.

“Yes, but under one condition.”

Name it.

Her hand flattens against my chest, and my muscles bulge all the more, my chest heaving with the breath that may only rise as far as my throat is allotted.

“Don’t get me wrong, consent is sexy. But I want you, Jackson Moore. Every part of you. The gentleman and the rogue, the darkness and danger. The only hard boundary I’ll draw right now is um…I believe in your day, it was called carnal consummation.”

I cannot help my rising chuckle, and I sense her vexation, a soft prickling as it were. My cock stirs in my breeches at the thought of unleashing the crueler, baser parts of my nature upon her.

“Consider all other boundaries nonexistent,”

she declares, bolstering my hopes and my resolve.

“Give me everything, Jack. And don’t tell me. Please. Moving forward, I want it to feel real and raw.”

You may regret this, Belle. I’m a goddamn throbbing storm of need.

“Don’t do that,”

she warns with a firm tone.

“How old are you, Jack?”

Thirty-six. Give or take two centuries. I smirk internally.

She pauses, and I wonder if she’s pursing her lovely lips, chewing on her inner cheek.

“I’m almost twenty-eight. I’m a grown woman. And I’ve been through my share of…experiences. I know what I want. I am prepared for any risks or consequences. I love all manner of emotions. Pain, pleasure, hurt, love, longing. I want it all. No, I need it all. If the primary thing you want me to know about you is your balance of skill and identity, then please, accept this about me. For so much of my life, I never felt real. I never felt human. And I certainly have never felt like a woman. Will you treat me like one?”

Bloody hell. I lift my cane to her chin, holding it there in a finality of a warning. A last choice. You are a woman, Belle. A beautiful young woman. But I will treat you as many things in whatever way I see fit. And I have had two centuries of never feeling goddamn real. You have brought me to life, and I will, in your words, make up for lost time?

She shoves me. Damnation! I catch myself on the bench behind me, but her anger is palpable. Her act was so unexpected, but it gets me harder than ever. And I feel my wrath and hunger scorching my blood.

“I already said yes. I named my one condition. I gave you my consent.”

With a calculated rage stirring in my blood, and my manhood growing harder, I advance toward her.

“I told you something I’ve never told anyone. I asked you to treat me like a woman with free agency who may choose whatever the fuck she wants and needs. I told you what I want and what I fucking need, Jack! But if you’re not man enough without your head?—”

I move in and grip her throat, chuckling at the sudden quickening of her pulse and the flush spreading down her throat. I spin her around, bending her over the saddle stand.

She doesn’t fight me. By thunder, she doesn’t kick her legs or spit or curse as I grip the coiled rope along the end of the stand. She says nothing as I bind her hands and fix the rope to the hook in the ceiling. Enough to stretch her arms while keeping her upper half curved over the stand.

The moment of reckoning.

I may not have a heart, but my pulse still thrashes in my veins when I lift that gray skirt and gather it between her stomach and the saddle.

Well, now…her stockings do not cling to her bottom. No, they end at her upper thighs. If I didn’t know any better, I would think my sweet Belle was preparing for this.

Tonight, it’s good that I can only feel her, cannot see her. The sight of her lovely, swollen sex, clad in wet lace, would be too irresistible. And none could fault me after two centuries. All control snapped. And I would make her love every moment. But as I do not know her past, I am grateful that I cannot see her.

I have no intention of taking her tonight.

First, I take her luxurious curls and weave them into a thick braid. Grooming a horse is a significant bond between owner and beast. I will groom you, Belle. But tonight is for the art of bringing you to the broke state. In this nature, in this environment, you will call me “Master”

or “Sir”. Is that understood?

“Yes, Sir.”

Good girl. I use the same tone as I do with my Revenant, Revy.

I touch her. Her arse clenches. Damnation. So soft and plump but also firm. Gooseflesh erupts in my hands as I hook my fingers under the lacy edges of her bottom coverings. She trembles as I slowly, achingly pull them down to join with the stockings at her lower thighs.

I pinch the flesh. She hisses through her nostrils.

Such a lovely arse, Belle Holloway.

She shrugs.

“I was always told I had pancake butt.”

I pause, unable to help the amusement I feel at the term, but a heated indignation flares more. I care not if your bottom does not curve like the ripe shape of apples. Your cheeks fit well in my hand. I squeeze her arse, giving her my reassurance. And your flesh is firm, bearing the signs of the hard work you’ve dedicated to giving others the gift of literature, comfort, baked delights, and validation.

Her breath leaves in shallow gasps. No words are necessary. Her body gives way, utterly composed, upon the saddle bench.

I leave the stockings where they are and take a moment to envision the beauty of her arse. With that vision sealing itself in my mind, I collect one crop hooked to a nearby wall. As I draw it along the base of her cheeks, Belle shivers. Her fingers clench in preparation. Those muscles flex, but the rest of her is serene to my touch. Fuck, what I’d give to see her, but I know I would rut her if I did. Her rosy, slick petals would be too irresistible to resist.

Maintaining a firm and controlled grip on the handle, I remove my other glove in preparation before touching the crop to the side of her bare neck. Her breath hitches. I draw the edge along the curvature of her spine, but she continues to soften, to melt against the saddle stand.

The crop is to be used thoughtfully—I tell her. The master must respect the horse’s sensitivity and temperament. It is meant as a guide, not a punishment. But when it comes to a beautiful woman, I prefer to call it discipline.

A flick of my wrist, and the crop strikes her bottom. The slap echoes off the carriage house walls. Her whimper is my melodic reward. At some point, I will use my hand. But I must maintain a safe distance, a controlled distance.

I swing the crop again. No whimper this time, but I take hold of her braid, ensuring I feel her stretching with the vibration humming through her. Then, she turns blessedly still. Her arse is warm to the touch, and I trace my bare finger along a pink striation. I cup her shoulder, and her breath heaves while I roam my palm along the side of her arm. Curse me, her muscles—despite how I bound her to the hook—are soft, responding but molding to my touch. I’ve never experienced one woman who was not tense.

Belle’s submission undoes me. If I possessed a heart, she would unravel its strings. And I would bind them around her wrists and throat to show her how much I must possess her.

I flick the crop again, harder.

My chest swells with my breath, and I command her, Be my eyes, Belladonna. Tell me what you are doing with every strike of my instrument.

I bring it down again. She hisses and releases a soft moan. If the whimper was a melodic reward, her moans are the harmony.

“Um…I’m on my tiptoes. Sir. But I wish I weren’t wearing shoes so my toes could curl up more.”

After a pause of hearing my heavy breath in my mind, wondering if she may hear it, too, I sweep a hand along the backs of her calves. A tremor shudders through her, but with ease, she lifts the heel of her ankle boot in offering. I don’t need to untie the tight laces. I give the boots a quick jerk, removing each one, then draw a finger along the curve of her stocking-clad sole. I thrill in her toes curling up for me.

Rising, I whip the crop against her bottom without warning. This time, I let it linger—enough to sense her thrusting her ass toward me.

My. Belle. Mine.

How rough does she want it? I demand to know.

I rain down strikes upon her. My actions extend beyond guidance, beyond discipline. I punish her. For my sins, I unleash the deepest and most depraved hell. I disappear. Back to that goddamn night. The ruthlessness, the black-hearted vengeance that stained my soul, I rear back the crop, then throw it up on her plump flesh.

Intermittently touching her with my bare hand, I find she is no longer warm. She is hot as a steady flame.

Another aggressive strike. Her body lurches. I touch her arms. She tries to hide it, to soften and relax for me, but the muscle is coiled all the same. Her hands clench. For the first time, I press myself against her, smirk internally at her gasp. Through the layers of her bunched-up skirt, she can feel my manhood like iron against her.

Sliding my hand around her pelvis, I lower my fingers to her folds, pleased but unsurprised to find her wet. So very wet. Sopping.

Yes, Belle, my precious girl. You love this, don’t you? The forbiddenness, the sin of it all?

I touch her pearl. “Jack!”

she gasps, bucking for the first time. I rub two fingers along her pubic lips while capturing her plump little nodule, working it back and forth.

“Umm, fuck, Jack!”

I pinch her clit, reveling in her squeal.

“Sir! Sir!”

she corrects herself.

Dirty girl. I should wash your mouth out with soap. No. I correct myself. I have something far better in mind to fill your mouth…and your throat.

She trembles with another moan. I should not slide my other fingers along her slick flesh to the divine opening, but I do. Her scent must be so fragrant and intoxicating. The moment I sink two fingers inside her slit, she clenches, sucking them into her wet heat. Thunderation!—how she would suck my member.

Do you want more, my Belle?

“Yes,”

she whispers.

How much more? I stab another finger in her, and those inner muscles squeeze so beautifully. My wife was responsive, but not nearly to this degree.

When she doesn’t respond, I remove my fingers from her swollen nub.

“No,”

she whimpers.

No, what? I growl at her.

“No, Sir.”

Do you wish it was my…cock? I recall the present, arousing term for it. My manhood thrust deep inside your tight, sopping sex?

She shudders again. My shaft rages in my breeches with my hunger.

“Yes, Sir. But I’m…I don’t think I’m ready for it. I’m sor?—”

I smack her sex. She bucks, and her warm juices coat my palm. She has nothing to apologize for.

Before I progress with my filthy motives, I retrieve another necessary item and tap her lips in a silent “open”. Bite.

She responds with instant obedience, clamping her teeth down upon the leather strap. At some point, I will bridle her. I snap at the vision of her with a bit in her lovely mouth.

Switching to my riding crop, I train it on her folds. It’s the first time she truly rocks her hips, straining on the rope. If you need me to stop, Belladonna, simply spit out the gag and tell me.

It might just kill me, but I would stop for her. Her command is mine to follow.

I thwack the crop against her, striking that lush nether rose. She shrieks through the gag.

After another few swings, I reach around her to rip at the buttons of her ruffled shirt. She gasps through the gag. But no words. I need to touch the sheen of sweat upon her skin, feel how hot she has grown, and the pounding of her heart.

I trail my fingers to the mounds of flesh that barely fit into the delicate lace covering them, not sliding them beneath but stroking the swells until my thumb and finger catch her erect nipple. She throws her head back, the braid flicking against my neck. She cries through the gag, squeezes her thighs, and…

By thunder!—the sound of her release nearly spurs on my own. I’ve never lost control with a woman. But it’s been too long. Too goddamn long.

Following my pinch to the pebbled bud, I target her sex. With every slap, her scent perfumes the air. I alternate. My strikes turn chaotic, mad. Driven by lust and fury, enough to last centuries, I unleash the beast inside me. I growl, snarl, and roar inside the sanctum of the bond we share.

I wage an assault upon her arse, her sex, her thighs, and everywhere else I deem. I strike her tits, too, and thumb the exquisite nipples, hot to the touch. This causes her to moan the most.

By the end, her muscles have locked, her spine straight. She came two more times. She fucking squirted a well upon the musty floor.

I’ve welted her buttocks. She won’t likely sit down for a damn week. Her petals are inflamed, her bud red and engorged from the crop. Her nipples are inflamed, hard as little gems. The backs of her thighs bear my marks, striations of my transgression. A violation.

I cut the rope. She slumps against the saddle stand, gag still in her mouth, as I fall back against the stall, gripping onto the edges so hard, splinters push under my nails and slice my fingertips.

It was nothing but a slaughter. I savaged her. If I’d had teeth, I’d have mauled the side of her neck. Left marks there, too.

Hellfire!—what she must think of me. I was a monster. I am a monster. I deserve to rot in hell for what I’ve done to her. And yet, I have no regrets. No remorse. It is why I am a monster.

I hear her stockings brushing across the dried leaves and dirt. I expect her to pass me by, to leave me. She would spare herself. The last thing I expect is for her to wrap her arms around me. All my muscles lock up. She doesn’t cringe. Or pull away. If anything, her grip tightens.

“It’s okay, Jack. I’m okay. I’m here, Jack. I’m right here.”

I explode in my breeches!

Her soothing voice was my final snapping point. I’ve never once ejaculated in this way, but by the devil!—the release thunders through me with the force of a goddamn battering ram. And I know she can feel it.

A few heartbeats, hers, pass before she sucks in a deep breath. “Jack?”

Hmm…

“Did you just?—”

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 to feel.

“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.”