Tombstone Dance ~ a Friday Free Read

This week's sexy free read comes from the world of His Cemetery Doll. 

 Please enjoy this bonus scene that didn't make it into the novel!

Conall woke in the middle of the night. Not with a start or a cry, or even the slow, dawning awareness of simple waking. He woke with abrupt, instant clarity, as though he hadn’t really been sleeping at all.

Had he heard a footstep in the hall?

Had it been...her footstep?

For several moments, he lay still in his bed, listening. At first, he hardly noticed his own trembling...or, his adamant hardness. If he hadn't already been dreaming of the doll, he was certainly thinking about her now, and in the close, quiet spaces of midnight, his mind conjured quick and illicit imaginings. A tryst; a rendezvous. Sweet, cold kisses in the dark; ivory limbs, tangled with his in these rumpled white sheets.

His cock gave a throb. Hardly realizing he did it, Con gave a soft, husky groan.

Dreamin', man, he told himself. Nothing more...only dreamin'.

But the doll was a waking dream, wasn't she? His grey lady of the graveyard, his perfect ceramic beauty...his empty, haunting ghost.

Is she out there?

I must be daft, even thinking such a thing! Daft...to so desire it.

He didn't move. He stared into the thick silence, replaying in his mind the frantic sensual moments he'd shared with the stranger—the ghost. Even her flawless porcelain skin became soft under his touch; her yearning, straining body begging him for more.

Goddammit. I...want her.

Almost before he realized it, he'd climbed out of bed. He seized his boots, but didn't bother with anything else. Clad only in the trousers he'd retired in, he crept silently to the hall, like an adolescent sneaking about while his parents slept.

By the door to his daughter's room he paused. She'd left it ajar—a habit, lately, since the doll had begun haunting them. The reminder sent a chill down his neck. When he peered in, Shyla rested quite soundly: her golden hair spilled over her pillow, and one small pale hand curled around her stuffed dog. She must have found it again, after the doll brought it to him instead.

He noticed her other hand. She lifted it up, to her own chest, and she held something tightly in her fingers: Shyla's stuffed dog.

Again, the cold frisson, and a wild, excited hunger stirring to life in his gut. A flush rose to the back of his neck, and he tiptoed past his daughter's room.

The night outside met him, crisp and sweet with the flavors of autumn. Cool air brought up a shiver of goosebumps on his skin. Conall listened carefully. At first, there were no sounds but those of a sleeping wood: cricket-song from the grass, the flutter of a bat flapping by in its hunt, the far-off chorus of deep-throated frogs on the river. The breeze tickled its way through the grass.

When he'd stepped out his door, the yard stood empty, the path leading down to the cemetery clear in the half-moon's light. Now—moments after he'd appeared—he beheld the first reaching fingers of silver-grey mist, drifting up from the place of the graves. The mist carried her voice to him: soft, like her silk ribbons. Humming, Quietly singing, somewhere below. When at last the fog overtook him, Con shut his eyes to bask in its touch. Her touch: velvet, loving, yearning. It said to him all that she couldn't, with her frozen porcelain lips. Come to me. Touch me.

Love me.

Make love to me.

The stirring in him swelled to a fluttering heat in his chest. She waited for him, down in the ring of tombstones. Like an excited youth, his heart raced to be with her. He almost forgot the old injury in his leg as he hustled into the reaching lair of fog. Her lair.

The sound of her voice, ethereal and entrancing, led him through the impenetrable gray cold. His feet were sure upon the path. The farther he followed her in, the further he wandered away from the waking world, from his place as gravekeeper, soldier, injured man, even father. He became young again: a green cadet, an eager young man, fresh-faced and excited and bursting from anticipation for the girl singing to him such sweet promises.

Soon he reached the central ring of the tombs. The angel's circle, though of course the sculpted graveyard angel stood there no more. Instead, his Broken Doll awaited him.

She moved about the tombstones, drifting in wide, wheeling arcs as she sang in toneless distraction, expression as always frozen in perfect, impassive ivory. The gray ribbons winding around her body rippled behind her in streams, and briefly Con saw the figure not of an ageless, sultry beauty, but of a helpless, pale marionette, guided aimlessly and at the whim of some unseen puppet master. The ribbons were strings and shackles binding her; when she spun to face him, he would see the wild, yearning hunger for freedom shining in her eyes. The doll had no eyes, though, none she would allow him to see. When she did turn to face him, his heart fell: she still wore those  ribbons like a blindfold to hide them. That gray satin sparked a flash of heat in him, angry heat, and before he realized what he did, he shot forth to seize her by the arms, and crushed a kiss down on cold, sweet, stone lips.

Broken Doll answered him in a rush of joyous surrender. Her body molded to his, ribbons winding to embrace him, limbs gratefully welcoming him.

"You," he grated before the heat inside him demanded he kiss her again. "God, I can't get you out of my head, lass..."

Porcelain fingers slipped into his waves of dark hair; cool ivory gently grazed his scalp, making his neck tingle.

Con grasped her, lifting her against him and swinging her around to the nearest surface he could find: one of the graves. The utter blasphemy only filled him with deeper, more wicked greed. He withdrew his hands only long enough to undo his belt and free his needful cock from his trousers.

"Will you have me, lass?" he gasped. The young soldier in him trembled; the hot, hungry man, though, waited for no reply. Avaricious, his palms closed around her bared belly. As he slid them down toward her hips, to part her thighs, her ribbons unfolded from white stone skin; grey satin unveiled her nakedness.

"Aye," he whispered. He bowed his head to taste her nipples, little frozen berries atop her modest pale breasts. The sweetness of them, clean and smooth under his tongue, small, glistening candies.

One arm cradled her close, kept her balanced on the rough, dark granite of the headstone. The other roamed down, finding the pink, wet heat between her thighs. He could smell her arousal. A little muted, a little faded among the brighter scents of icy graveyard, but he caught it. He could have drunk it up from the softness of her pristine cunt.

"Fuck, darlin'," he drawled. With his thumb he found the swollen pearl of her clitoris and stroked it in a circular motion. His Broken Doll shuddered and her legs came up to wrap around him.

When she pulled him tighter to her, her intention was very clear. Trapped and silent behind that porcelain mask, still she needed no words to tell him.

Conall took hold of his cock—damn if it wasn't already sore and aching from the want of her—and guided it into her wet, welcoming sheath.

"Och," he groaned, a long, loud sound of pleasure. Her pussy—hot and tight as any mortal woman's—quivered at his entering, and the tiniest gasp—just a soft, eerie echo of night breeze—escaped her frozen lips. Her thighs closed in a scissor grip around his hips and she squirmed, plaintive motions begging him deeper.

Make love to me...

Make love to me.

Con groaned, easing himself into her, moving with her in slow, languorous pleasure. She dropped her hands to the surface of the tombstone. To Con's astonishment, she sunk delicate ceramic fingers straight into the stone. She leveraged herself, grasping the rock, cracking it, crumbles of it tumbling from between jointed ceramic knuckles while she moved to match his wild and zealous rhythms. Her thighs closed on him, pinning him to her body, trapping him inside her. As if he would ever want to escape.

She felt like decadent satin and indulgent cream. Even the smooth, cool ceramic of her doll body sent him striving. He own hands closed on the grave to help keep her steady and his thrusts quickened, sank deeper. His hands—inside her hands—flanking her hips. Their pace drove higher and higher...but Con wasn't ready yet, to succumb.

"Oh, lass," he panted. Her hips rocked to his motions, drawing him closer into her, all of her. "Oh, lass...oh, lass..."

She was a beautiful sort of cold: a kiss of ice on the lips in the heat of a fever. His skin tingled where their flesh brushed, all except for that single, central, key union. He could smell her, the scent of rain and evergreens but deeper, stronger was the sharp rush of fierce arousal, wild desire. An animal sensation overtook him: the ferocious, possessive need to join, to mate, to cleave to his doll and love her. All thought of the world beyond these tombs fell away, because all he wanted, all he wanted, was her, here, someone to be his, all his, someone whose heart he could keep all to himself.

Her long, slender limbs, grasping him, twining with him; the slim, white column of her porcelain throat bared as she threw her head back in pleasure. No pulse fluttered beneath that flawless skin. He thought he could almost bite her, taste her frozen blood, like poison.

"Oh!" he groaned again, loud enough it was almost a shout. Each driving thrust threatened to be his undoing; every sweet plunge into her sweet, soft, savagely perfect cunt might be the one to steal his mind. When she arched back, supple as a bow, she thrust her breasts up toward the sky.

"Lass—" he stammered. "I'm...close—"

She bucked in answer. Con moved his hands from the stone and closed one around her pale, round buttocks; the other fisted in her hair. He lifted her off the tombstone, holding her up, thrusting still.

"Oh, yes...oh...oh, my girl..."

She writhed. He couldn't hold back any longer: with one final, driving plunge, his cock gave a twitch, and then the iron knot of tension caved. He cried out as he came, and clasped her to him. She clutched him in return, and he felt her whole body quiver, her panting breath warm against his ear—a wild, strangled note of pleasure. 

Their bodies, so tangled, so twined, fit together in their climax perfectly, and each hot throb of his cock inside her, each coursing pump of thick seed, stirred an answering flutter in her. In that instant, they moved as one, even breathed as one, and Conall lost all sense of himself, becoming utterly, totally hers.

 

Discover the Mystery of Broken Doll

She's not your typical Graveyard Ghost.

 

 

 

And other Brantwijn Serrah Paranormal Titles:
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.

Even fallen angels
Can have a Christmas Wish

A courtesan's love...
A vampire's curse.

 

  

Ronnie meets a
black-magic boy
in "Rhythm and Blues",
Part of My Bloody Valentine

Dreaming is a waking nightmare
when an incubus makes you his prey.

The dragoness Sarayana
meets her wizard for
a heated fertility rite
in "Equinox", part of Ravaged, Vol.2