Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy (29 page)

The tour guide, a long-limbed tanned
blonde, called out as people posed in front of the oversized
dollhouse. “The mound you see in front of the Sanderson Cottage is
known as the Indian Mound. The Native Americans who lived on this
island before the area was settled by Europeans would harvest
oysters from the water right over there and dumped the shells in a
pile here. Eventually, the oyster shells were overgrown, resulting
in this mound. Come on in, and I’ll show you folks around the
cottage, where we have a lot of the original furnishings that
belonged to Josiah Sanderson.”

Like ducklings following their mama,
the tourists trooped into the cottage, chattering, oohing and ahing
as they went.

I’d done the tour. Three times. Getting
a little impatient with our lack of progress, I turned to Dan.
“What are we doing on Goose Creek Island?”

He nodded at the cottage. “In life,
Tristan and Patricia worked for the Sandersons. This place is
special to them. Let’s see if they’re home.”

Oh. Now that wasn’t in the tour guide’s
rap. I wondered if it was common knowledge that the Keiths had such
a link here.

We transported in rather than walking
and dodged around the group ogling the grand piano in the
conservatory. Sure, we could have walked through them, but that was
just weird to do. Even with my aversion to passing in and out of
the living, I couldn’t help but brush against the close-packed
group. I passed right through one man’s camcorder and energy
sizzled through me. The camcorder died with a tiny beep.

As we left the knot of people behind, I
heard the man exclaim, “Hey, my battery just died, and I swear
someone touched me. You got ghosts in this place?”

“Oops,” I said to Dan and giggled, a
little giddy from the hit I’d gotten.

Dan snickered. “Don’t worry about it.
The belief that Sanderson is haunted helps bring tourists in and
makes the county money.”

We searched both floors with no sign of
Tristan or Patricia roaming their former stomping grounds. Dan was
fit to be tied. “Damn, where are those two?” Catching my glare, he
held both hands to placate me. “Language. I’m sorry.”

He wrapped an arm around me and
transported us back outside. We stood atop the Indian Mound,
looking out over the water. A sailboat wafted down the current, and
I caught the sound of laughter. A horse pulling a romantic open
carriage clomped by, and I watched with real envy as a young couple
held hands and pointed out the sights to each

other while the top hatted driver
clucked gently to the horse. The tourists spilled out of Sanderson
Cottage and crowded back onto the fire-engine red trolley,
chattering happily as they trundled off to the next point of
interest.

Mundane people living their mundane
lives, unaware of how bright and beautiful their simple pleasures
really were. To Dan I said, “They have no idea how fortunate they
are.”

He held me close and kissed the top of
my head. “We took it all for granted, didn’t we?” I hate crying. I
hate being weak. But sometimes, you have no choice but to do what
you despise because it won’t be denied. Leaning my forehead on
Dan’s shoulder, I finally gave in and let the tears flow, let all
the grief of my unrealized, too-short life spend itself. He said
nothing, just held me.

I drowned in sorrow as I put to rest
the dreams that had gotten me out of bed each and every morning. My
life was done, and all the wishing in the world wouldn’t give me a
second chance. Now all I had left was the hope I could put an even
greater end to the monster who’d taken it all away.

Chapter Sixteen

At some point during my emotional
storm, I became aware that Dan had sat down on Indian Mound,
settling me on his lap. My face burrowed into his neck as he gently
rocked me like a baby. One hand stroked my hair, and he murmured
wordless noises of comfort.

I let him soothe me. The ratcheting
sobs petered into shuddering hiccups. I didn’t feel better really.
Emptied. A husk of who I’d been. So much for the healing power of
tears.

As I quieted, Dan spoke. “Shh,
Brandilynn. It’s going to be okay, baby.”

Pain welled anew. He meant well, but
platitudes weren’t going to cut it. I pushed against him. “How can
it be okay? We’re dead!”

He nodded sadly, looking remarkably
similar to a depressed basset hound. “I know, but at least we don’t
have to pay taxes anymore.”

I gaped at him, my tears ending like
someone had switched off a faucet. Anger warred with angst for a
brief moment before shocked hilarity bubbled past both. I shrieked
with laughter at my gorgeous jackass. It made me mad that he’d
interrupted my pity party, and for some reason that only made his
stupid observation even funnier. I laughed and slugged his chest
all at the same time. He bore it with a big, goofy grin.

“You are such an idiot!” I yelled,
jumping upwards to straddle his hips so I’d have a better angle
from which to punch him.

Chuckling, Dan grabbed my shoulders and
yanked me close to deliver a lip-smacking smooch. I stopped
pounding on him and wrapped my arms around his neck, deepening the
kiss until we both gasped.

I tugged at his collar. “Clothes off,
you big jerk. I’m getting me some payback for that one.”

Dan fell back naked on the grassy
mound, his arms splayed wide. Sotto voice, he called,

“Oh, help. I’m being ravished. Oh,
won’t someone save me?”

My clothes melted away just as fast.
“Shut up and take it like a man,” I growled, positioning myself
over his ready length.

I slid over him, moaning
unselfconsciously as he parted my folds. Once I’d fully enclosed
him, I sat still for a few moments, enjoying how he felt inside
me.

I only now acknowledged where we were.
Outdoors on the front lawn of Sanderson Cottage, with tourists and
cyclists all around. Naked and making love. I had to laugh at the
blatant spectacle we would have been making had anyone else been
able to see us.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Dan
asked, the twinkle in his eyes telling me he only
teased.

“You be quiet and accept what you’re
given. Let’s see how you like being dominated for a
change.”

“What’s my safeword?”

I grinned evilly at him. “You don’t get
one.”

I ground my hips in slow circles,
eliciting a delighted groan from him. Propping my hands on his
chest, feeling the crinkle of his light sprinkling of hair, I moved
up and down, around and around on his eager length. Dan sighed, his
eyes glazing over. His big hands found my breasts, which fit his
palms perfectly. He rubbed the pebbled tips with his calloused
thumbs, sending shivers down to my clit.

I rode him slowly so I could feel every
luscious inch filling then drawing out of my clutching sheath.
Watching Dan’s face soften with pleasure let me know he enjoyed it
too. When I flexed inner muscles, tightening my flesh all around
his, he groaned.

I could have lingered like that all
day, gently raising and lowering over him, watching his bliss
slowly climb in response. Dan didn’t have that kind of patience,
however. After awhile, the slow intercourse made him eager for
more. Just as I knew it would.

“Faster, Brandilynn,” he breathed, his
eyes half-closing in anticipation.

“I’m in no hurry,” I answered. I kept
the steady pace I’d established.

“Come on, baby girl,” he urged. “I know
you’ve got to be on fire too.”

I was, but he didn’t need to know that.
“No topping from the bottom,” I chastised, pinching the flat disc
of his nipple. “Be a good boy and mind me.”

Dan growled at me like a shifting were.
I grinned and moved slower still. If Dan was half the Dom I thought
he was, he wouldn’t put up with this much longer.

What most don’t get about the BDSM
dynamic is that it’s the submissive who is in control. We can stop
an encounter at any moment with our safewords. And we can drive a
dominant lover into doing exactly what we want without making a
single demand. Dan was about to learn a very important
lesson.

“You’re not having fun?” I asked him,
grinding a slow circle and constricting hard around him. I reached
beneath my rear to caress his balls, which were drawing tight to
his body. “I know I am. I should top more often.”

Dan’s jaw clenched. His grip on my
breasts squeezed until a slight shock of pain sizzled down to my
sex. Yes, my big, bad man was getting riled.

I rose until only the head of his cock
remained inside me. I went completely still. Sneering down at Dan,
I gloated, “You’re such a girl. Next time, I think I’ll make you
wear a pink tutu and fairy wings.”

“Brandilynn.” His teeth gritted around
my name.

“With sparkles. And lip
gloss.”

Dan reared beneath me, a low roar
pouring from his lips. His hands clasped my hips hard enough to
have left marks on living flesh. He yanked me down brutally,
spearing me with his rigid length, and then pushed me up again.
Using that granite

muscle of his, he powered me up and
down, taking me with amazing force. His cock found that beautiful
spot inside me that lit me up like the Fourth of July.

I came hard, flopping over his driving
body like a rag doll. He didn’t let up for a second, piledriving
like he’d batter a hole right through the top of my skull. My
shrieks rang through the sea-salt air as more fireworks poured
through me.

Dan shouted as his rhythm faltered. He
shouted again, his hips lifting me high off the ground while his
hands pulled me down, making me take him as deep as I could. His
cock jerked hard inside me as if trying to bash its way out. I came
again.

I sagged over Dan, tiny orgasms
tickling me in response to his sex’s every little twitch. His hand
cracked a sharp report against my buttocks, sending more lovely
ripples through me.

“The only lip gloss I’m wearing is what
your mouth leaves on my cock. Understood?” His voice was raw from
bellowing his climax.

“Yes Sir.” I smirked against his chest
so he couldn’t see.

Dan’s tone gentled immediately. “Are
you okay now, baby girl?”

I rubbed my cheek against the sprinkles
of chest hair, giving my emotions the once-over. The void in my gut
had departed, taking most of the agonizing grief with it. I was
still shaky, but not nearly as hopeless. “I think I’m all right
now. I’m sorry I lost it on you like that.”

His big hands were warm as they rubbed
up and down my back. “Don’t worry, you’ll do it again.”

I propped my chin on his breast to give
him a brave smile. “No, I think I’m done.”

Dan shook his head at me. “It comes
back, especially when you least expect it. When it does, give
yourself a break, baby. We all cry for the dead, especially when
the dead is us.”

I didn’t want another repeat of the
unbearable sorrow. There had to be a way to avoid it. Before I
could tell Dan that, a muttering voice caught my attention. I
looked around, trying to locate the source.

For the moment, we had Sanderson
Cottage to ourselves. Even the bike path was empty right now.
Still, the sound, like a woman humming a monotonous tune, grew
louder.

“Who’s doing that?” I asked
Dan.

“Doing what?”

“It sounds like singing.” I changed my
mind as the voice grew louder still. “No, it’s
chanting.”

Dan only looked confused. I sat up on
my knees, and he levered up to look around us. He shook his
head.

“You can’t hear that?” I said, and a
rotting odor wafted into my nostrils. Like long-dead vegetation.
Like rotting trees. Like a gator’s butt.

The pull in my gut confirmed my sudden
horrified realization, and I recognized the voice doing the
chanting as Erica Ford’s. Before I could scream a warning to Dan, a
yanking sensation tore me away.

Chapter Seventeen

Being pulled from one place to another
against my will was nothing like the hopping around I do with Dan.
Much like Erica Ford’s earlier attack, this was more akin to being
hooked in the belly by a sadistic fisherman and reeled in through a
lake of molten lava. In short, it hurt. A lot.

I emerged screaming in a dilapidated
shack. I could see patches of sunlight between the boards overhead,
trees between the boards of the walls, and water between the boards
of the floor. The smell was pure swamp, most likely the Okefenokee.
Despite all the gaps between its silvery boards, not much light
filtered into the shack. The main illumination came from a
hurricane lantern, which cast a soft glow on the surroundings.
Brokenly painted wards covered every surface I could
see.

Staggering but glad to be done with my
trip, I located Erica Ford pretty fast. She still chanted, her face
fervent with effort. A folding card table sat next to her, on which
lay the lantern, a knife, stubs of flickering black candles, and
what looked like a medieval chalice. Erica was in desperate need of
a new decorator.

Most disquieting of all were the
wraiths. Easily a dozen faded, gauzy spirits drifted aimlessly
across the ceiling, passing through one another, and moaning in
thin, lost voices. I could barely hear them over the skin-crawling
buzz of insects.