His Cemetery Doll (16 page)

"Up," he gasped. His hands crept around her to grasp her buttocks and guide her as he commanded, sliding her to straddle his lap. His shaft rubbed along the wet, spreading softness of her folds, her slick heat welcoming him. He recognized it in her slow, rhythmic motions as she rocked to him: exactly like before, in her vision, they had been made for this dance. Their bodies fit together, meant to slide perfectly into one another's arms. He held her firmly, rounding hips up to meet her, sliding the head of his erection up and down her cleft, and teasing the tight bud of her clitoris.

"You're warm for me," he whispered against her throat. "Already...so quickly..."

His doll arched. He caught the soft gasp not from any breath but from the quick quiver of her lips, the brief tension of her shoulders. She closed her arms around him, pulling his face to her breasts and pressing her entire length to him. She threw her head back in elation as he slid his cock up and in, sheathing himself in her velvet wet sex.

Thighs tightened around him; Conall fell back on one arm, the other circling her by the waist, as he thrust slowly, savoring every inch of hot, delicious tightness inside her.

"You...were made for me," he breathed. He pressed his lips to her neck, then licked the graceful curve of it, tasting flawless white skin as smooth as glass. His doll rode down on him, accepting him with glorious, worshipful indulgence—if she'd heard him, she hadn't reacted, and he didn't mind.

"
Yes,"
he gasped. "You...and me...I want to be with you, Asya...I want...
you...
so much..."

The sound of her name seemed to electrify her, and she moaned—he
heard
it, a real moan from deep in her chest. It might be the first time in thirteen years she'd heard her name from the lips of a man.

His pace quickened, each thrust thrilling him from tip to core. His doll—
Asya—
matched his movements, embracing him, riding with him and kissing him as she writhed in bliss. Her breathing became heavy, interspersed with pleasured moans, and her rhythm became more deeply intentional: moving in eager, hurried arches and then slowing, stalling their climb but heightening his joy as she leisurely savored his cock. The ribbons twisted around his limbs, sliding up and down his skin in silky, raspy affection. They
thrilled
him.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "Asya..."

Another moan. She buried her face in his hair, nuzzling and caressing. Her fingernails gently scraped his scalp, a sensation sending tingles through him.

"Yes," he whispered. "You like it?
Asya...
"

He paused, slowing her motion with him and drawing her face to his to kiss sweet cool lips.

"Don't want to come too quickly." He kissed her neck, traveling from the slender curve of her elegant shoulder up to right behind her ear. His hand slid to her hip, holding her firmly in place. Asya surged in his embrace, arching her spine and rolling her head back. The sound of her panting pleasure echoed in his mind.

"Oh," he gasped. He stroked his cheek along hers, finding her ear with his lips. "Beautiful...my beautiful ballerina..."

She swayed to him, rising and falling in his lap, fingers curling against his chest. This time her yearning sigh came warm across his skin. She found his hand and squeezed it with her own, and she nuzzled his throat. Trembling, urgent murmurs fell from her lips. Con slid his palm down to cup her buttocks and guide her up and down.

"Lover..." she whispered. "Yes...
Conall...
yes..."

The sound of her voice, very real, husky with need, made his cock swell. He moaned loudly as he drove it deep into her, yearning for her core. She
glowed,
unfathomable in her exquisite beauty. He thirsted for her, to hold her as her Captain had, see her through her Captain's eyes again. She must have been beyond words.

He
wanted
her. She affected him like no other; endearing and terrifying all at once. His pace became more frantic. He sunk himself into her, working them both into a frantic beat, pleasure climbing higher, plunging deeper.

"Do you want me to...
come...
inside of you, Asya?"

Her response came in an eager, slow roll, and she nodded. She dug nails into his skin—he noticed in sudden surprise her hands had softened as though to flesh: the doll-like joints disappeared.

Now Con rolled his head back, groaning out loud.

"You're so beautiful..." he gasped. "I need you, beautiful. My perfect Russian ballerina. Need to...
come—
"

He thrust deep to punctuate the sentiment.

"I want to make you
mine,
oh...Oh, Asya...please?"

She nodded frantically, and arched her whole body with him. She lifted her legs up, wrapping them tightly around him to pull their tangled forms into magnificent rhythm. Her pussy tightened around him, and he moaned loudly, the sound turning into a desperate, breathy rush.

"Yes,
yes...
Asya...I...I'm going to—"

She arched again, and it sent him over. Con's grip on her locked up tight, and deep in her sex his orgasm exploded, pumping jets of semen into her, filling her.

She threw her head back in a very real cry of ecstasy, her body shuddering all the way down to her curling toes:
curling—
no longer fixed porcelain. Muscles tightened, milking him for more, and her whole body wracked in climax.

"
Conall!"
she gasped, thrusting with him through the pleasure, cresting and falling with him over and over. "Oh—
Conall...
yes...
yes!"

Their pleasure twined together, interwoven throughout their limbs, along their damp, sweat-slicked skin. Even as the tremors of their culmination began to fade, Conall clung to her. He breathed in her scent; her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Asya," he whispered. He could feel the soft feather of her breath still on his neck. He didn't want to move, too afraid to disturb the perfection of this moment.

Soon, though, their bodies succumbed to gravity. Together, they slid down to the dewy grass, easing out of their embrace to lie side by side. Conall drew her into the circle of his arms, and she took his hand in hers, lacing fingers together.

"What happened to you, Asya?" he murmured, kissing her hair.

Reduced to silence once more, she made no answer. After a thoughtful pause, she could merely shake her head and nuzzle closer to him. She shivered.

"Why do you come to me?" he asked. "Like...this?"

The question made her shift to face him, gazing sightlessly up into his eyes.

You've cared...for my baby.

You've cared for her when I could not.

"I knew," he replied. "When I found her there...I knew you couldn't have wanted to leave her behind. I knew she had a mother who loved her very much. One who...simply didn't have any other choice."

She moved to kiss him, guiding his hand to the place over her heart.

For rescuing her...I would give you the world, as your reward.

He stroked her long hair, beginning to understand. "But...you can't. You have nothing..."

His hand moved to her cheek, and his thumb brushed away the first silvery tear escaping from underneath the wrap of ribbons.

"Nothing...except yourself."

Her silence was answer enough. He caressed her, thinking of the way she'd come to him the first time: how she'd held Shyla's toy and clutched it to her heart. He'd told her,
I made that for her.

Asya had warmed to him as soon as he'd said it. She'd offered him the one thing she could: herself. Affection, pleasure, and...
connection.

As he touched her, she returned the gesture, stroking fingers through his hair, exploring his features. Conall gently lifted her hand, inspecting the delicate doll-joints which had returned. He massaged her palm, kissing each knuckle, nudging each digit with the blade of his nose.

"You started changing," he whispered, drawing her close to kiss her brow. "Did you see it too, Asya? Your hands..."

He kissed each fingertip one more time. Then he trailed one hand down her side, drawing lines down the silhouette of her thigh until she brought the leg up in response, extending it in pointe. He fondled the subtle curve of her foot.

"Your toes..."

Her doll-mask had fallen back into place, but he imagined he might have seen the slightest quirk of a smile as he stroked her body with the back of his roughened hand.

"And you spoke. For real...you said my name. Do you see?" he whispered.

The doll kept her silence, but after a long second she inclined her head in the slightest hint of a nod.

"Do you think...can you..."

She shied from him, drawing her hand from his and lowering her leg. Conall reached for her, but she pulled away, rolling to her other side and pulling up into a sitting position.

"Asya..."

She'd taken on her total, unflinching stillness again. The ribbons came up to wrap themselves around her body, then froze along with her.

Conall crept to her side, gingerly putting his hand on her shoulder. The doll didn't move in response to his touch; her gaze drifted out from the hill, over the quiet lanes of Whitetail Knoll.

"What...Asya, are you..."

He followed the direction of her focus.

"Are you...looking at something?"

Her hand came up to touch his, but the direction of her unseen eyes didn't change. Conall sensed a rigidity in her—a tiny quiver, or perhaps a thrum—running under her cool ceramic skin.

He searched the landscape below them. Out of instinct he drew her closer to him, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"When I came back from the war," he said. "I...I'd lost my family, my old home, in the Scottish Blitz. I wandered about the countryside for a time, until I found myself on the highway there."

He pointed out to the road. This time Asya's attention followed him.

"A gang of men attacked me a few miles up. Stole what little I had and left me there for the next traveler to decide what to do with. There's how the Little Sisters of Margaret found me, and—"

Without warning, she struggled in his grip, thrashing as if he'd burned her. Her ribbons whipped up into action, wrapping and writhing more tightly around her, moving in a kind of defense.

"Whoa, Asya!" he stammered, removing his hands from her in a sense of guilt. "Did I...I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Her motions lost their normal smooth grace, and she pulled herself back into composure, but now stiffer, more a re-arranged marionette. Conall's brows knit: he was losing her.

"Asya," he begged, closing his hands around her arms again. "Don't. Don't withdraw from me, lass...I want you to stay. You started to warm, didn't you? Can't you tell me what's happened to you, and how I can help you?"

Her head spun on its joint, turning completely around, and bloody tears streamed from under her ribbons. Conall flinched back with a cry, as the cracks on the right side of her mask deepened—
spread.

Take her away.

The doll's words came in a heavy, desperate demand. The echoed at him like wild winds in a gale at sea.

Take her away. Never bring her back to this place.

"But...I—"

The doll sprung to her feet in an impossible gesture, trading sitting for standing with hardly a bend of her joints. The clatter of ceramic limbs made him wince.

"What did I say, lass?" he begged her. Whatever arcane wind snatched at her hair and the winding ribbons covering her form, it caught him too, now, nipping and biting.

Take her away. Tonight.

I never want to see her again.

Take her AWAY.

"Why, though? Why would you say such a thing? Did you not want her close by you and safe? I promise I'll keep her safe, of course I will!"

Her voice deteriorated into a low, railing cry, a sharp-edged song along the edges of shattered glass. The doll buried her face in her hands, shaking her head frantically, and Conall gaped as the ribbons began to tighten on her limbs, strapping her in—

Like a straitjacket.

Conall climbed to his feet quickly, putting his hands out in desperate attempt to calm her. "Asya...please. Please stop, I'll—"

She backed away from him though, shielding herself. When he pursued, trying to grab her wrists, several quick lashes whipped at him from her costume, wrapping around his own arms and even his legs. Asya's hands closed on
his
wrists then, her fragile porcelain fingers digging into his skin. She lunged at him, and with their faces mere breaths apart those white lips moved.

"If you don't take her away," she hissed. "
I will."

P
anicked, Conall rushed back to the graveyard and his home. The cold threat of the doll's voice grated on him like tinfoil between his teeth. He ignored the wailing complaint of his injured leg, his mind burning with urgency.

If you don't take her away...

I will.

The ghost's voice carried cold, sharp malice, but even more pressing had been the chilling, feral note of derangement. She'd changed.
Everything
in her had changed. The soft Russian ballerina disappeared like a paper lantern set ablaze, leaving warped and broken wicker framework behind. Another side of her, with its own vicious, hungry identity.

Broken Doll.

He caught sight of the cemetery gates ahead, gilded with the first light of sunrise. He limped on, fast as he could manage. What could the doll have meant? Would she simply take his daughter?

Would she...kill her?

I never want to see her again.

The flat heat of adrenaline rushed down his limbs as he came closer to the iron bars. Tendrils of black, thorny growth wound up around the metal lattice. Jointed into awkward, manic angles, they could have been the many grasping legs of enormous black spiders clambering toward him. Beyond the gates the mist crept along the ground, but in the orange light of dawn it simmered with rusty, ugly meanness. The whole graveyard loomed unfamiliar and unfriendly, like a suspicious beast.