Body Temperature and Rising - Book One of the Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy (18 page)

He liked that image. He lay back on the cushions, feeling the weight of his own need as the little ghost undid his fly and eased his trousers down over his hips with a moan of appreciation for what she saw. 

Then she stood and lifted the flapper dress off over her head. From his angle on the floor the view of her vulva, flared and dark with arousal, was exquisite. Her large clit was marbled hard at the apex of her pussy, and the sheen of her need was slick and heavy between her folds. 

His cock jerked and his balls clenched as she straddled him still standing, offering him one last enticing view before she opened her pussy with two fingers and squatted onto him with the grace of a ballerina and the tight fit of a surgical glove.

He gasped in sudden shock at the burn, the burn the presence of ghosts always brought on, but as she began to thrust and undulate, the burn was transmuted to fire like he’d never felt before, fire that threatened to incinerate him to nothing but ashes and he didn’t care. He grabbed her hips and thrust up to meet her writhing and grinding, feeling as though molten lead filled his balls, feeling as though his whole world had been reduced to the delicious tight wet grip of Lisette’s pussy.

He didn’t know when she had actually started orgasming. Her grip, her spasming, her cries of passion were all blended together. He knew that she only stopped shuddering and fell forward onto his chest after he had emptied what had felt like an ocean of semen into her tight hole. As she lay gasping and sweating against his chest, she breathed, ‘Don’t you dare fall asleep. I’m not nearly done with you yet.’

And she wasn’t lying.

The women Serina was staying with were supposed to be witches. There was supposed to be some kind of protective force field cast around their flat. They had given her some kind of herbal concoction that was supposed to take the edge off, but she couldn’t lie still, she couldn’t concentrate, she couldn’t focus, and worst of all she couldn’t satisfy herself no matter how hard she tried. She felt like someone had kindled a fire between her legs and every time she tried to quench it, they added more fuel. 

The witches, they gave her stuff to help her sleep. She suspected it was strong magic. And she did sleep, but she always dreamed of him and of the relief he would give her when he found her. Sometimes she’d wake terrified from dreaming that he had found her. She could no longer quite remember why that was. He was so good to her. Hadn’t he only ever wanted to serve her, to please her? These two crazy women pretending to be witches were just jealous, that’s all. They were trying to keep him away from her because they wanted him for themselves.

Without the herbs, she couldn’t sleep. With the herbs she had bad dreams. And no matter what she tried, she couldn’t come, even though she was certain she would die if she didn’t get some relief soon. 

Stupid women! They said it was just his spell on her. They said she had to be strong, that even now the Elementals were working to help her. The Elementals! Tara Stone hated her, probably was envious of her, probably wanted Deacon for herself.

But Deacon belonged to her, and she needed him, desperately needed him. She checked in the bathroom again. A silver wedge of the waning moon was just now peeking around the edge of the open bathroom window. Her heart raced in her throat. Down the hallway in the lounge, she could hear the telly. They were watching Casablanca. That’s all they ever watched, old films. She’d had dinner, tried to be sociable, but had finally feigned tiredness so she could prepare. She told them it was the herbs that made her so sleepy. They wouldn’t bother her, she was sure. 

She shut the light off in the bathroom as the moon moved more into the frame of the window, but it quickly became evident the angle was all wrong. With trembling hands, she started to fill the sink, hoping the moonlight would reflect in the water, but the angle was still wrong. In the end it was the reflection off the old porcelain tub that drew her attention. Practically crying with relief, she filled the tub, hoping they wouldn’t hear her, but then again, she’d just tell them she thought a hot bath would help her sleep. 

It didn’t take much, a couple of inches of water and the moonlight reflected just enough off the surface to allow her to work the magic. She settled next to the tub on her haunches so she could see her own reflection. When she felt like her skin would crawl off at any minute, it took every ounce of concentration she had to remember the spell he’d taught her.

The strain of it drenched her in sweat, and she stared so hard into the water for so long that dark spots swam like fish on the surface interfering with a clear view. But she didn’t need a clear view. She just needed him to find her. Dear goddess, she needed him to find her and relieve her suffering. 

She didn’t know how long she had been in the trance. The moon had moved beyond the frame of the window and the stars were overlaid with thick cloud. It was an icy chill blowing over the water that brought her back to herself, naked and shivering. But beneath the ripples of the water, she was certain she could make out his image. 

‘Oh my poor darling, such a tremendous need you have for me. I can feel the ache of your womanhood across the miles.’ His voice was not just inside her head but inside her whole body. ‘I cannot bear your suffering, my love, take your ease.’ Her nipples tensed hard, her sex convulsed and soaked itself, and she uttered a muted cry.

‘There, there, my darling, hush my little bird. You feel better now, don’t you, my love? Go to your bed now and rest. I shall come for you shortly.’

Trembling and sobbing with relief, and with something else she couldn’t quite remember, Serina Ravenmoor found her way to her bed, closed her eyes and slept like the dead.

Chapter 18

The fire had died back to embers, and Tim was struggling to stay awake. His cock was still buried inside Lisette’s tight pussy, and she was wrapped around him almost like a second skin, her lovely taut nipples gouging deliciously into his chest. 

‘You’ll sleep soon,’ she whispered, brushing a kiss across his lips. ‘And you’ve earned it. I’d love to wake up next to you in the morning and feel that wonderful soreness that one only gets from a night of long, hard lovemaking. But the memory, Tim Meriwether, the memory will keep me going for a long time.’

‘There’ll be other times, Lisette,’ he said cupping the mound of her arse and pulling her still closer. 

‘I’ll look forward to it, but I won’t count on it. A full-fledged rider’s very busy. I’m not the only ghost on the farm, after all.’ 

She spoke as though there would be a future, as though at some point life would be normal again. He wasn’t sure he believed her, but he took comfort in the thought.

‘Have good dreams, Tim.’ Her last words drifted off into the soft, even breathing of sleep. He figured even sleep must be numbered among the pleasures of the flesh. He stroked her short, soft hair and ran a hand down her ribcage and along her flank. He was now a full-fledged rider, he supposed. There had been none of the tawdriness he had pictured in his mind. It hadn’t even been an act of mercy or kindness, really. In the end it had been two people giving each other pleasure because it was what they both wanted. A man could do worse than that, he thought. He stroked the face of the woman lying in his arms one last time. Her cheek twitched softly at his touch and she offered a half smile from the dream world. He could stay awake no longer, and he knew when he awoke, his arms would be empty. He could live with that. He could happily live with what he felt about being a rider right now. As he drifted into unconsciousness, on the distant periphery of his last waking breath, a shadow stirred and paced. He would have been disturbed if he could have stayed awake long enough to witness.

There were bright flashes of dreams weaving their way through Serina Ravenmoor’s deep sleep, and they always involved her dark angel, her Deacon. Strange how dreams are. She dreamed of a long taxi ride, and such a deliciously nasty dream it was with her and Deacon making love, endlessly making love in the back seat, the driver oblivious. Or maybe he wasn’t. That thought made Serina’s orgasms all the more yummy. And Deacon, sweet Deacon, was holding nothing back from her now. It was as though his whole purpose was to satisfy her over and over again. How could she have ever doubted him?

Then there was another long stretch of deep oblivion. No doubt her exhausted body needed it after her scrying efforts. Besides, she hadn’t eaten. Why hadn’t she eaten? 

And then they were at her house in Keswick. Strange how so many dreams are house dreams. And this one was so vivid. She could see her tools shining on her altar. The fresh flowers she had put there before Tara Stone had whisked her away were now wilted and dying. She made a note to cut new ones in the morning. She could see her unmade bed where she and Deacon had had sex so often that she stopped bothering to make it up. She could see one stocking still partially bound to the headboard of the bed. The marks on her wrists had faded. Other bruises had not. 

But tonight in the dream his touch was gentle. He undressed her so tenderly and kissed her bruises and abrasions, wounds he said she’d gotten on Raven Crag when she had taken a tumble. But she didn’t remember any tumble. And then he watched, stroking his cock, while she dressed in a wisp of a white negligée he’d picked out for her. He said it made her look angelic. Though she reckoned gowns for angels would have been made up of considerably more fabric. The material was soft and sheer and clung to her so deliciously. Then he asked her to take her scrying mirror. He said there was some very important magic he wanted her to do for him. He had held her so close in the dream, and it had been so real. He told her that this was why he had come, that this was why he had been sent to her. He told her that at long last she was ready to fulfil her purpose, what she had lived her whole life for. She had been so excited. Dear goddess, such a dream! The sort of dream one never wants to wake up from. 

And then she was driving her car with Deacon sat next to her endlessly stroking her. Surely he must have kept her safe because she couldn’t possibly concentrate on driving with what he was doing to her. In her little white negligee, she was driving, and he was fondling her while he told her things, stories of his past lives, stories of how he died, of his terrible murder, stories of power that she could barely imagine, power that made her tremble at the very thought, power that he said now dwelt in him. And she wondered how he could contain such a frightening thing without going mad. She would have asked if she had been able to focus on anything other than his hand between her legs.

Then the dream became more chaotic, like the dreams one has in the throes of a fever when one is very ill. 

Her feet hurt. They were bleeding, and she was cold. Were they on Raven Crag? And where were her shoes?

He told her yes, they were indeed on Raven Crag because it was there she must perform her great magic. He told her she had such strong magic within her that the pain of the walk and the cold were as nothing to her now. Perhaps that was true, but she wondered why she was crying? She would have thought strong magic could have kept emotions at bay, and yet every once in a while, just for the tiniest of moments, she felt as though she were drowning in a deep well of emotions.

She didn’t know how long they walked. Dreams are like that. In the dream, she was in a deep trance, one in which time truly seemed to disappear. Perhaps she really had reached a level of magic that she’d only ever fantasised about until now. 

And Deacon kept reassuring her that magic is only ever limited by our doubts and our fears. He promised her that she could heal, that she could commune with spirits, that she could even fly if she believed strongly enough. And Deacon said that Raven Crag was a place to test just how strong her magic was. And when the magic was done and she had fulfilled her destiny, the world would be changed in ways she could scarcely imagine. And Deacon said she would open doors to realms of power she couldn’t come close to comprehending. And Deacon said that she had served a power so great that her life and her death would be celebrated. 

But her feet hurt; they were bloody. And she was cold.

And Deacon said it didn’t matter. Deacon said she had no need of feet when she would soon fly.

He guided her with the gentlest of touches until the very tips of her toes curled over the edge of the precipice and the breeze of coming dawn was so sweet she couldn’t get enough of it.

And Deacon said something about fulfilling her duty, about magic greater than she could imagine, about her death opening the doors. 

Her feet hurt, and her hand ached. It was then that she noticed her lovely scrying mirror clasped tightly in a white-knuckle grip. She raised it to look into its sacred depths, and swayed slightly forward. It was not her face that she saw, but it was Deacon’s face there over her shoulder filling the mirror, looming large and terrible.

When she woke from the dream, the first intimations of dawn stained the fells pink. 

As Marie watched Michael walk away and vanish into a nearby copse of hawthorn, the sky was greying with dawn. She stood breathing in the fresh air, wondering how so much time had passed. She smiled to herself. What had she expected, a quick fuck and a hand shake? 

Though it hadn’t done much to cool things off, the rain of last night had left everything freshly cleansed and jewelled in droplets of water, and the air felt like warm velvet. Almost the moment Michael was gone, Sky materialised and Anderson next to her, both taking her into their arms and kissing her.

‘There is no denying, my darling, that last night, you did indeed bring the Cumbrian heatwave into the Ether.’ Anderson offered her a wicked smile. ‘You alone would have been enough to make it difficult for a man to contain himself, but Tim Meriwether’s ride only added to my struggle to keep my mind on the task at hand and keep my hands away from my member.’ 

‘Tim? Had a ride?’ Marie’s heart raced at the thought.

‘Tim Meriwether is notorious for doing things his own way,’ Sky said. ‘But damned if he didn’t enflesh Lisette last night and reward her for putting up with him all this time. Tara suspected, and Tara’s seldom wrong.’

Anderson nodded his approval. ‘Tim Meriwether’s compassion is far greater than he would let on, and what happened to him with Fiori cannot but have left deep scars.’ Then he added. ‘Tara is with him now, though it is likely he still sleeps, unaware of her presence.’

A sense of relief washed over Marie that nearly took her breath away. ‘I was so worried about him.’ 

‘We all were, sweetie,’ Sky said. 

‘News is already filtering through the Ether that there are two new and powerful riders in Cumbria, and they are not to be trifled with,’ Anderson said. ‘Shall we return to Elemental Cottage, then?’ He reached for Marie’s hand. ‘I believe Fiore is preparing a celebration breakfast.’

‘I’m starving,’ Marie said. ‘Just let me get my shoes from the cave and I’ll be ready to go.’ She ducked inside.

Tim woke on the floor to find the fire stoked and the smell of bacon wafting through the house. He was just beginning to think perhaps the spell had not dissipated as he slept and that Lisette was still in the flesh. Then Tara stepped through the door from the kitchen carrying a mug of coffee. ‘You need to eat, Tim, the magic of a rider is hard work,’ She handed him the cup and nodded to his cock, which was already half saluting her. 

He pulled himself into a sitting position and contemplated covering up with the throw, but he liked Tara seeing him naked.

She offered him a half smile and nodded to the kitchen. ‘Even you flashing your fine package at me won’t get you breakfast in bed.’ She folded her arms across her breasts, barely hidden in a thin vest and no bra. ‘However, I won’t make you dress for the meal.’ She turned on her heals and headed back into the kitchen offering him a very fine view of her lovely arse clad in khaki walking shorts. Even if he hadn’t been famished, he would have followed that into the kitchen. 

But his exhibitionist streak didn’t quite extend to eating breakfast in the buff, so he slipped into a pair of track bottoms, which afforded his burgeoning cock a little more breathing room than his jeans.

In the kitchen, Tara was just placing full plates on the table, and the sight of bacon and eggs made his mouth water, though he wasn’t sure how much of his salivation was due to the meal and how much was due to the chef. She took in his less exposed state, offered a knowing smile, and nodded for him to sit.

‘Fiori’s the cook in the house, for the most part, I can’t be arsed, but even I can’t mess up bacon and eggs.’

She watched him as he tucked in. ‘First peaceful night’s sleep you’ve had in a while.’

He swallowed a mouthful of egg and nearly scalded his mouth on the coffee. ‘You been talking to Marie?’

‘Didn’t need to, Tim. Dream magic is my specialty, and your dreams were enough to have the whole house on edge.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, blushing hard. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.’

‘Well you should have. You should have disturbed us all loudly. I told you this isn’t a journey to take alone. How long have the dreams been going on?’

He avoided her gaze, and chased his eggs around his plate with a fork, suddenly not sure he could get food past the knot in his throat. ‘Since he … since Deacon started hurting Fiori. They got worse after he … after her death.’

‘Bloody hell, Tim, no wonder you couldn’t work the spell. It’s a wonder you’re still sane.’

He forced a smile, more like a grimace of relief. ‘Not sure I am really. Certainly not sure you are.’

She chuckled softly and looked up at him from beneath thick lashes as she buttered her toast. ‘Ever been to a three-D film? Notice how things almost make you dizzy until you put the glasses on, then everything’s not only clearly focused, but it’s three-D.’

He nodded.

‘We dreamers have to learn to filter, Tim, or we let in everyone, everything, and some things we don’t want in our heads. You’re a witch. You have a feel for magic, whether you like it or not, and after last night there’ll be all sorts of new tools on the shelf for you to play with. But your gift, your true gift, as is mine, is to traverse the dream world and to understand it.’

He suddenly felt dizzy. ‘Dear God, I hope that’s not true because –’ 

‘Because you saw Marie die the way you saw Fiori die. I know. It’s not prophecy, Tim, and in your case, Deacon has been getting to you in the way you were most open. He invades your dreams and shows you what you most fear. That’s why you need to filter, set guardians around the perimeters of your sleeping world, protect yourself. You have a lot to learn, Timmy Boy, and you have to let us in so we can teach you.’

The sigh of relief was so damn near a sob that he would have been embarrassed if circumstances had been different. But Tara had seen him at his most vulnerable, and she was not squeamish at looking into dark corners. His stomach growled, reminding him that he was ravenous. 

He was half finished with his eggs before he thought to ask the obvious, and even then he felt silly asking. ‘I’m a rider, then?’