His Cemetery Doll (10 page)

A tiny spatter of clear liquid dropped upon that hand, and Conall raised his face to see she too, had leaned forward, watching him inspect it. From under the ribbons hiding her eyes, tears traced down her cheeks. Another fell to join the first upon her stony skin, and she tried to draw her hand away.

Conall tugged gently back, declining to release her. He kept his eyes on her face, though, and he inclined his head to plant a kiss in the cup of her palm.

Her tears tasted of salt.
Real
tears. They were warm, and when he glanced up again more fell from her hidden eyes.

The ribbons drifted with a little more life as he dropped her hand and moved closer to her, cupping her masked face. He kissed the tears from her cheeks. She tried to hide the cracks on the right side, moving away in shame, but he drew her back, kissing even more gently. The sharp edges of the shattered porcelain proved even colder than the rest of her: frozen, perhaps. They made an ugly contrast to the perfection of the rest of her. He kissed them anyway, carefully navigating their lines, and next he kissed her lips. He reached up to run fingers through soft, vaguely damp tresses, and his thumb caressed the delicate line of her jaw.

"I'm sorry," he repeated as he kissed her again and again. "Whatever has happened...whatever made you this way...I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She returned the affection with gestures still oddly stiff, but full of thankfulness. She leaned into him, a very few ribbons brushing and curling about the flesh of his arms, his own face. They spread goosebumps along his skin.

Somewhere in the slow flurry of sensation, it became clear the doll's lips moved.
Really
moved, as he kissed them. Instinct overtaking him, he slid his tongue past them and searched for hers to respond. She met him, and her mouth proved warm, soft, eager, and pliant. Her fingers came up to his chest, but very softly nudged him away. She appeared to be searching for him, even as her hand rested firmly on his collar. She tilted her face up to him and lifted her chin, straining to say something.

To his surprise...she
did.

Are...you...afraid?

He gave a start as the voice—like a muted rush of wind and sleet—came not to his ears, but directly into his mind.

Are you...afraid...

Of me?

The words came in a strange tone, an uneven gust of volume and hush, echoing and tinny but then bright and clear. At first it shocked him so much he hadn't even realized she'd asked a question. Unless he'd imagined what he heard?

"Did you...
speak?"

The doll dipped her head in a nod.

"
How
did you speak? Have you been able to do it this whole time?"

She appeared to struggle, making discordant, jerky movements, like she meant to clear her throat. Of course her throat didn't show any movement itself: it remained a motionless white pillar, formed as one piece with her collar.

The attempt brought more tears, and abruptly the doll gave up, wrenching away from him and hiding her face in her hands.

"No, no," he whispered, reaching for her. "It's all right...no. I'm...I'm not afraid of you."

She trembled in his arms, and the sharpness of the movements struck him. When she shook, she didn't
feel
as a human would: weightier, softer with muscle and the slight springiness of flesh. Her body shook with the hard clatter of bones hung like a wind chime. She
rattled.
He found it terrible, and would do anything to make it stop.

So he renewed his kisses. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders he leaned her back, bracing them both with his other hand flat on the grass behind her. He claimed her mouth again, and at first he found her lips frozen in their previous state. The heat of his kisses coaxed them quickly to life, freeing her to answer his affection with her own.

Her tongue met his, and she gave a quiet gasp of apparent pleasure at the touch. He tasted her, finding the faintest sweetness, and before he realized it he was stroking her hair, drawing the ribbons away from her body with slow, attentive motions.

"You came to me before," he whispered. "You came to be
with
me."

She raised her arms to embrace him, lying down beneath him. As before, the ribbons began to unwind themselves, without his help: soon she lay naked on a nest of them, her fair hair splayed carelessly in a fan over the slick green grass. The last of the ribbons—those wrapping her eyes, of course, and her pretty choker—remained in place, but she arched to him with eager, supplicant motions.

Questions rambled through his mind, but Conall's body wanted only to take this impossible beauty once more. He wanted to trace the lines of her limbs with his caresses, kiss her neck, shoulders, breasts, and belly. He wanted to part those pristine thighs and gaze upon her pink cleft, to feel the softness of it as she melted to him, her stone stiffness easing into ardent need.

He laid atop her, gently holding his weight on his arms, feeling her the length of his body. He kissed her face, running fingers through her hair as he brought her mouth to his, brushed his lips over her cheeks, her brow, even the tip of her nose. All the while, he felt his response building. Soon his clothes were too much in the way, but he could hardly tear himself from her long enough to strip off his shirt and shuck his pants. She helped, those articulate hands soft on his skin: the tips of her fingers ran down his chest, delicately engraved nails rasping over the dark curls of hair. He seized her hand and kissed each perfect fingertip, the inside of her wrist, down the length of the limb until he came to her chest.

She moved to meet him; Conall nuzzled the twin mounds of her breasts, rubbing his warm cheek along the tender shape of them, gently blowing warm breath over their pert tips. The mere sensation of that breath upon her brought a silent, stirring groan from her; though she made no sound, her body rolled to him, her head lolling back in the grass as her white lips parted in pleasure, and he understood it entirely.

Slipping his hands beneath her torso to lift her closer, he brushed his mouth over each nipple, barely touching, planting light, fleeting kisses to them. He could feel the tension in her by the languid, wanting motion of her arms, her hips: she arched her spine, offering herself up to him, pulling him to her breasts in desire.

He kissed more deeply this time. Teasing, he traced the tip of his tongue around the barely perceptible ring of darker porcelain marking the sensitive tips, before taking each tight peak into his mouth. The cold bud, like a sweet chip of ice on his hot tongue, thrilled him. Though crafted like fine china, her skin proved responsive as any other woman's. She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening in his hair, and he wanted to immerse her completely in deep pleasure. He wanted to experience her total surrender to him and carry her to unimaginable heights.

"Sweet...little...doll..." he whispered between kisses, beginning to move down her body, leaving a trail of mischievous, hinting delights. "Beautiful...cemetery doll..."

She tightened when he reached her stunning white sex. He slid his arms under her thighs, curling hands around to ease them apart, and, as before, he began merely by nuzzling. Yes,
here,
her flesh grew soft and warm. He found her tiny bud of pleasure with the blade of his nose and traced it with worshipful adoration. He breathed on her again: she writhed. Even her gray ribbons curled up from the ground in arching, needful tension.

His tongue dipped between the folds of her pussy, drawing a long, slow line up the valley of rosy pink flesh. The heat and scent of her drove him wild; his kisses found her ready, silky, delicious. He would savor her until he had her shaking beneath him, until the memory of her helpless rattling porcelain had been replaced with the needful, fervid trembling of a woman on the edge.

She lifted her hips as he stroked his tongue up and down her cleft, growing hotter, wetter. When he slid his tongue inside her, he sampled the very real, sultry savor of her essence. She'd become slick, so ready for him, and he sampled her generously, licking her with deep, hungry motions. As he lavished her sweet pussy, she undulated to him, twisting in the grass, hands balled into tight fists. She thrashed her head and he believed he had her truly in the throes. Still he licked slower, with more deliberate, broader motions, until one bright, sudden, and desperate word came to him in ghostly whisper.

Please!

He obliged. Changing his rhythm, he flicked the flat of his tongue over her clitoris before plunging the tip inside of her. She came up from the grass, rocking with him while he repeated the pleasure, feeling for her change in tension or the groan of her voiceless ecstasy. He'd grown hungrier, though, hungry to taste her coming against his mouth, feel her muscles squeezing tight. There were plans beyond the first orgasm, but he could hardly think of them as he drove her higher and higher, marking every twitch and quiver of her body.

She lifted long legs to wrap them behind his neck as she reached the point of no return. It swept her up, and her thrusting hips demanded him as she climbed, until finally she paused, going completely rigid for one hesitant breath.

Then her climax broke and she fell into violent, clenching orgasm. The taste of her cum ran over his tongue, wild and sharp, setting his mind and mouth to ravenous need. He wanted more—he
had
to have more.

Before her orgasm subsided he mounted her, sliding up between those crossed legs until he could sink his rigid cock into her in one smooth, hard motion.

The doll threw her head back with an expression of overwhelming bliss. Her legs tightened to hold him inside her as her pussy tightened around his girth, still seizing and quivering.

"Ah, yes," he breathed, staring down at her. "Yes...you feel...so ready."

More than ready—her first orgasm subsided into an immediate second, tightening on him with renewed demand. He moved out of pure, mindless hunger, surging, withdrawing from her heat with slow deliberation and plunging deep again.

His doll caught his rhythm readily and moved with him, her expression intent, seeming to meet his own stare as he claimed her. His thrusts came hard, but her wetness wanted him, tantalizing and sweetening each motion. His cock swelled. Pleasure intensified: her tight sheath squeezed him, stoking pressure to life. He imagined his whole body coalescing into one heavy release.

Please,
the doll's voice repeated in his head.

"I want to," he gasped. "Yes...I
need
to. Need to...
come...
inside of you..."

Something like a breath hitched in her, and Conall gritted his teeth as the rake of pleasure became nearly too intense. He slowed, then picked up; slowed, then pumped harder, working his need to a head.

"Fuck," he breathed. Her porcelain fingernails raked through his hair, and her breasts pressed cool against his hot, damp chest. "Fuck, yes...
Fuck...yes—"

The pressure tipped then came crashing down through his whole body. He came hard, burying himself, pouring himself into her. Throb after throb of cum coursed from him into the deep heat of her sex, release so intense it dizzied him. For some moments he irrationally thought he might not
stop
coming, until finally the tremors started to fade.

"...fuck..." he panted heavily. "...ah...
ah,
damn..."

Several more moments passed before he found the strength to withdraw. To his shock, the motion struck up a trembling rush, the tightness of her entrance stroking him to a second, practically instant climax: stunned, he gripped his cock in his hand as the first fresh jet of cum shot over her pale, smooth stomach; another and another marked her, breasts, belly and even the freshly dripping pink heat of her pussy. Conall's eyes rolled back, heavy contentment akin to exhaustion settling on him as the last spurts of his cum fell to the grass.

He gazed down at her. She lay supplicant, arms bashfully held close to her chest, but her legs still spread open to him, welcoming him, should he want more. She
offered
more. She said so with the tender set of her body, and the way she actually nibbled her bottom lip with desire.

For a moment, he hung over her, seeing her before him,
his.
A wolf growled in the pit of his heart, predatory and possessive for the ethereal creature. She'd been hurt; he would see her healed. She'd been sorrowful; he would protect her from any more grief. The sheer senselessness of the emotions meant nothing him. He stretched himself over her, taking her by the wrists and gently pinning her to the grass, kissing her. He closed his eyes, merely to taste her, imprint the memory of her mouth under his. She returned his affection, and he imagined he heard a soft, satisfied sigh escape her cool lips.

Time slid by; Conall had no idea how long. They shifted together until he held her in his arms, her smooth back to his chest, her long ivory legs tucked in close to her body as he shielded her with his. In the shining mists all around them, day might have melted into night, then resolved into sharp morning once more. While their bodies touched, though, Conall had no sense of the moments ticking away. Everything here drifted, suspended in a single crystallized stillness: the heart of a cold, white ember.

"What happened to you?" he found himself whispering at one point. He had the sense he'd been speaking for some time, murmuring against her chill ceramic flesh, asking her questions she could not answer. His arms tightened around her as those questions cycled through his mind anew.
Who are you? Why do you come to me? Why are you shattered?

The worst of them:

How can I help you?

He believed she heard him, believed she listened to the thrum of his voice in his chest, where she rested her head. She didn't reply, of course not...but she heard. Perhaps, somewhere deep in her own chest, she held all the answers, and ached for the means to communicate them to him.

Conall buried his face in soft curtains of golden mane. She smelled like winter, and evergreens, and rain. He drifted to sleep with the weight of her safe in his arms.