Page 30 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
I squirmed unhappily, then yelped as a flash of pain reminded me of my wound. The bandage around my belly was my only scrap of covering, and I chafed at its presence.
"Am I hurting you?" Eamon asked, removing his hand.
"No. But you are enraging me, because I want your touch everywhere."
"Beyond my medical duties, I have never been allowed to touch more than a woman's covered arm, or her hand," Eamon said. "You will forgive me if I am slow to do more. Seeing you, like this—it is overwhelming." His gaze traveled to my breasts, and he reached for one of them like a man enchanted, tracing the tip with his finger. He followed the curve of it, cupped its weight in his palm.
My eyes closed reflexively. "Yes. More of that."
For a while we did not speak. Our hands carried our meaning to each other—palms sweeping over skin, fingertips grazing sensitive places to elicit sweet sighs. When I had thoroughly explored every dip and groove of Eamon's chest and stomach, I slid a finger beneath the band of his trousers and arched an eyebrow at him. He removed the rest of his clothing immediately and returned to the bed, his face flaming again. I laid my hand flat against his scarlet cheek and kissed him tenderly until he relaxed.
And then, looking into his face, I touched the part of him that burned for me. Immense and well-shaped, it was altogether fascinating, the way it reacted to my tentative fingers. Eamon inhaled quick and sharp, his startled eyes staring into mine, and I gave him my most wicked smile.
All I had learned, I knew from whispers and half-heard conversations, and a few peeks into rooms or dark spaces where I was not supposed to be. For a proper Dutch girl, I had gathered a surprising amount of knowledge, and what I did not know I learned quickly from my Horseman's responses.
I pressed my lips to his throat right beneath the golden collar, kissed the line of his jaw, and then his mouth again, while I quickened the movement of my hand. He came undone in moments—his groans vibrated against my lips, and he gripped my shoulders to brace himself. His eyes were glazed, his hair sweat-damp, and his mouth so rosy I had to kiss it half a dozen more times.
"You beautiful monster," I whispered.
And he was beautiful—the curved muscle and flat planes of his stomach shining with a light sweat, his scent rich and tantalizing. I traced the edge of one massive collarbone, all the way to the hulking swell of his shoulder.
His chest slowed its heaving, and he rotated his body toward me. "Now it is your turn. Tell me what I should do."
First I adjusted my hips and arched one leg, and then I begged him to kiss me again—or at least I opened my mouth to beg and he immediately darted in to cover my lips with his own.
When he put his huge, warm hand between my legs, and one of those thick fingers dipped a little deeper than the others, I thought I might die from the sheer joy of wish fulfillment. He was clumsy, tentative, but I took his fingers in mine and showed him what to do.
"Like that. Oh," I sighed as he continued the rhythm I set.
He asked many questions, in a tone soft and innocent, but so filthy in its subject matter that I could hardly reply because each inquiry was a fresh wave of stimulation. Soon I was panting, trying hard not to arch my back or angle my hips, desperate for release but unable to move the way I needed to without suffering pain from my wound.
I gripped the Horseman's face. "Swear," I hissed. "Tell me the foulest words you know, in your deepest tones."
His right hand continued its good work, while he leaned forward and growled curses into my ear until I reached the peak I had been trying to scale and fell beyond it, into a shimmering haze of golden cloud and pink sunlight. He wrapped both arms around me and held me as I shuddered and gasped his name.
Then he pulled the blanket over both of us, and we lay, blissfully entangled, until sleep came.
***
I woke a few times in the night, prey to sickening dreams of blood and fire and dark forests. When I first arrived at the cabin, I had been too exhausted for such dreams to come, but now they plagued me whenever I closed my eyes. It was the greatest comfort to burrow between Eamon's powerful arms and know that the headless nightmare who haunted the firesides of Sleepy Hollow held no terror for me.
Eamon left the bed when first light gleamed through the chinks of the shuttered window. I luxuriated in the spot his body had heated, watching him bathe his chest and arms, shave his jaw, and clean his teeth with a bit of cloth and a sprig of mint. He brought me a mint leaf too, and I chewed it gratefully.
"You should move around a bit more today—carefully, of course," said Eamon. "A little walking would do you good. And I have something—someone—to show you."
"Someone?" I spoke through a mouthful of biscuit, quirking an eyebrow at him.
"Yes. A friend."
"I thought you didn't have friends."
"Not the human kind."
"Oh!" Understanding dawned, and I nearly dropped the blanket I had wrapped around my body. "It's your horse, isn't it? The big black creature that you ride when you're headless? It's real? I had imagined it emerging from Hell to serve you when you called for it."
Eamon shook his head. "No, Katrina, dullahan do not call up hellish steeds from the Otherworld. My horse is very real—he eats and sleeps and shits like any other."
"I am done with my breakfast." I set the rest of the biscuit down and pushed my plate away. "Let's go and see him."
