Page 4 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

“Of course, I’d get the horniest headless man

HEADLESS HORSEMAN

Icould listen to her voice for eternity.

“My Dearest Summoner,”

she begins, and my chest clenches with the understanding of how unique my Belle is. The only one who has not run from me, attacked me, fainted, and more.

“I find myself at a loss to adequately express the depth of my gratitude for the summoning that has brought me to your side. Words seem insufficient to convey the profound appreciation I hold for your act of daring.”

She pauses, and I sense her eyes on me, although I still cannot see her. To see her, she must comply with a far greater undertaking—one I will not speak of at this time.

Clearing her throat, my Belle continues in her sweet, melodic voice, “You must certainly harbor many questions regarding my presence and our entwined fates. I shall do my utmost to provide answers to those queries and offer whatever clarity I can. However, I must reveal a matter of some gravity: the curse that binds me dictates that I must pursue you each night throughout the month of October. Fear not, for though my pursuit may seem menacing, it is not my intention to cause you harm—unless, of course, it is a harm of a most enjoyable sort.”

She mumbles something under her breath, a scoffing implied. How I long to tuck the end of my riding crop beneath her chin and command her to her knees to proffer an apology for such scoffing. Oftentimes, my wife would be purposefully impertinent, my saucy wench, a ploy to bait me with her need for a certain attention.

She’d curse me every second I trained the crop on her delightful bottom, but how I roused her. How she whimpered, moaned, and begged for my manhood once I turned her arse as red as her cheeks.

I grow hard at the thought of giving this spunky summoner the same attention.

“Moreover, know this,”—she continues to the heart of the letter—“the curse shall lift only if my heart can be reclaimed. A heart I, regrettably, traded to a soothsayer for a matter of greater necessity. While you are under no obligation to assist me, I earnestly hope you may consider taking on this task. Your aid would be received with the deepest gratitude.

“May you find it in your heart to aid me in this quest, and may our paths cross in ways that bring us both something more than mere darkness.

Yours sincerely and with great hope,

The Headless Horseman.”

I hear her breath, how it has grown heavier. To grant her what little comfort I may, I tuck a few curls behind her ear before cupping her chin.

Do you have any inquiries for me, Belle?

“What’s your name? Wait, no, let me guess please,”

she requests, and I hear the hint of eager mischief in her voice.

“Let’s get the obvious ones out of the way. Bram?”

No.

“Ichabod?”

God, no.

“Lucian.”

My spine prickles with annoyance. Belle?—

“Dracula,”

she teases warmly.

With my gloved hand, I strengthen my hold on her chin, a subtle warning. The only one I will grant. Between her churlish and childish attitude, the deadly and captivating nature of her name, and the knowledge of her abundant breasts so near with the thinnest slip of a barrier, it’s more than a man in my position can stand.

“All right, just let me try a couple more. Realistic ones like John or Jack.”

I pause. A discernible lift in her countenance is obvious.

“What? Did I guess right? Is it John?”

The latter, Belle.

“Oh, good lord, no. Your name can’t really be Jack, can it?”

She scoffs again, but in disbelief, while attempting to pull her chin away, which I, of course, do not permit.

Jackson is my full name. Jackson Elias Moore.

“It’s a good name, truly,”

she says in earnest sincerity.

Such a sweet girl. Spunky. Spirited. But sweet. None of which describes my fiery late wife. I acknowledge the blessing in disguise, resolved not to compare her unjustly.

“Belle Holloway. I go by my grandmother’s last name. She passed away last year.”

The melancholy in her voice is unmistakable. I brush my knuckles along the side of her face, wondering if she is shedding a tear. My deepest sympathies for your loss.

“Thank you,”

her voice cracks.

“She was the one person in this world who understood me and accepted me.”

That is a grievance indeed. And the miserable loss of such individuals who chose not to accept such a remarkable young woman.

“The way you speak, you sound like dark poetry. It’s beautiful.”

I do not deny how my blood grows warmer, surging more to my member at her compliment. What whimsical charm and passion this girl possesses.

What other questions do you have?

She shakes her head.

“Not a question. But it’s my turn to say something important.”

I crave your words, Belle. I make it known with another touch of her lower lip with my gloved finger.

“Do you mind if I pace? I promise I won’t run away.”

Pace to your heart’s content.

Her question for permission is a confirmation of her respect. And perhaps, her inner understanding of how I have no intention of letting her escape. Regardless, her submission is addictive.

Belle rises, rubbing against me before moving about the floor. I sense her nervous state and hear her perturbed pulse. I love the sound of her bare feet on my hardwood floor. And the subtle swish of that nightgown.

Taking a deep breath, Belle declares, “Look, for normal human beings, this is already a huge step. And fortunately, for you, I’ve never been normal, which is something I love about myself because I’ve learned to love myself.”

She pauses. And if I truly had breath, I would hold it, bated.

“Now, I sympathize with your situation. And I’m not in denial about it because that would only waste precious time. Plus, I’m not the type to deny something this…extraordinary. Obviously, I am not the one without a head here. Or under a curse. So, I figure the least I can do is be polite and help, however I can. Research. Or if you need me to dig up a body or do some blood ritual or hell, dance naked around a bonfire, I’m sure I could do that too. But absolutely no hunting. Stalk me and haunt me all you want. But hunting is not conducive to heart conditions.”

Ahh, your heart is weak?

She hisses, “My heart is plenty strong. But my PTSD makes my heart rate and blood levels have less respect for the havoc they wreak on my heart.”

PTSD?

“Post-traumatic stress disorder. Something else I will explain later.”

Be that as it may, I regret to inform you that I have no choice but to hunt you. You summoned me. I must pursue.

I don’t mention how much I would enjoy her dancing in naught but her skin around a roaring fire. But I prefer it would be in the safety of my manor…before my eyes alone—a possibility if she agrees to certain requirements of the curse.

She pauses before me, the heat of her flesh doing no favors to my hardness. I feel her breath on my neck as she asks, “Could you maybe hunt me while I walk at a leisurely pace like I’m taking a stroll in the woods?”

Your fear is required.

“I’m not afraid of you,”

she huffs.

I seize her wrist. She does not get a moment to blink before I have her pinned against the nearest wall with one hand over her mouth and the other gripping her wrists to prevent her hands from lashing.

Do you feel that, my Belle?

I lower my hand to her chest where her heartbeat pounds, keenly aware of how close I am to the heaven of her tits. And how her breath escapes in staccato gasps. And…oh, curse me, I can feel her arousal as her heat grows between those lovely thighs. Yes, this will do. That is a form of fear. A healthy one. A thrilling one. It will suffice. Tell me, Belle, is this conducive to your strong and lovely heart?

“It’s certainly not conducive for my pussy.”

I grow harder at the term, one of few I’m acquainted with as it pertains to a woman’s lush, wet heat.

Perhaps I should confirm this, I lower my voice an octave.

“Oh, um…I-I’m sure that’s not necessary,”

she stammers, betraying her lack of confidence. The whimper escaping her throat and her heaving chest betray more, confirming her desire.

I will be the judge of that.

With one hand coiled around her throat to anchor her, I grip the hem of the nightgown, bunch it up at her waist, and use my knee to kick her legs apart. A hard swallow is her only movement as I lower my gloved finger to her nether rose and dip my fingers into her petals. I dare not use my unclad hand yet, lest I run the risk of falling upon her and driving myself deep into her.

“Oh, God!”

she moans, her hands touching my chest, putting up little effort to stop me.

As I suspected…I call her bluff with an inner smirk and lift the glove to show her arousal. Positively dripping, my Belle. I rub her juices between my fingers, then trace a solitary, slick finger along her lips. I cannot see, but I retain a dim sensory perception, including her feminine pheromones—something that grows the longer I am in her presence.

She cages another moan in her throat, but I hear it beyond her pressed lips. Her knees tremble. Before she may offer any protest, I cup her mound, sink two fingers into her, and touch her slippery bud with my thumb.

She tips her head back against the wall.

“And here I thought the stripping, washing, and dressing was already pushing the boundaries of gentlemanly behavior!”

I slap her sex, reveling in how she lurches.

“Fuck!”

she cries out as I capture her swollen pearl again.

I should take my crop to your little bottom for your uncouth tongue. This will suffice for now. I release her throat, lower to my knees, and stab another finger inside her, sliding to the knuckle. Her hands find my broad shoulders, clinging to me.

“It’s not so uncouth in today’s age, oh—holy Hecate!”

She gasps as I pump my fingers in and out of her drenched chamber.

I would chastise you on your inciting the name of a pagan goddess?—

“Don’t,”

she warns, her tone darkening, and while I am well acquainted with the wild ways of a woman, her one-word warning quite surpasses such superficial motivations.

—But I shall not, Belle. For it was a pagan soothsayer I sought for my revenge.

“Revenge for what?”

Enough talking. I would prefer to hear you screaming…or begging, I will leave the choice to you.

“Of course, I’d get the horniest headless man. Mmm,”

she whimpers again as I work her distended clitoris back and forth.

You truly must share the meaning of such a term, my Belle.

Her palms settle against the base of my neck, and all my muscles bulge from her action. The last time a beautiful hand touched my throat was my wife…a lifetime ago.

“Jackson! I-I—”

she shrieks, tightening her grip as I pump, stabbing my fingers deep and curving them to that hidden knot. With my years of expertise, I am quite skilled at how long to apply pressure to lengthen the process of urging her release. More than a skill, it is a pleasure, nay, an obsession to bring a woman to her screaming point.

“Horny…um, it means…you have a strong, chemical, and sexual attraction to someone.”

A craving for intimacy? I pause and stroke her folds, savoring the sound of her gasps and moans like a symphony. My length thickens to steel.

“Yes, your body craves it. Your more…um intimate parts respond to another’s. And sometimes, it messes with your mind and your otherwise normal proclivities.”

Now, that is a word I know well.

“I read. A lot,”

she mumbles, then shrieks when I twist my fingers deeper inside her.

Have you been pillaged here before, my sweet summoner? I dare to lower one ungloved finger to her rosebud, so damn wet. She is my little savage.

“Erm…it’s complicated.”

I pause…waiting to hear more, but all I hear are her heavy breaths, feel her arousal dripping from her well. To prevent her from second-guessing these moments, I do not torment her further. With one more spearing of my fingers, I curve them upon that inner knot while maintaining vigil on her swollen, feminine pearl.

“Jackson!”

she screams, clenching and convulsing and shuddering all around my fingers, digging her nails into my flesh and tensed muscle.

Once her sobs finally subside, I retrieve my fingers, wishing more than anything that I could but taste her release. For now, I rise, pivot my hips against her, so she may feel the evidence of my desire. I cup her breast, fully intending to pleasure these beauties soon.

“Sweet Jesus!”

she gasps, whimpering again when I take her palm and press it to my breeches.

Tell me, my Belle, would you have preferred more gentlemanly grace?

Bloody Christ!—her daring fingers curve around my manhood, and I touch her lips, eager for her response…