He keeps one hand tight on my hips and reaches the other under me, stroking my clit at the same time, keeping rhythm with his thrusting. Pressure is building deep in my stomach and I moan loudly. It’s not long before I’m shivering around him, ready.
He leans forward and kisses my back, the movement putting even more pressure on my clit as he skilfully works his fingers.
I cry out as the pleasure crashes through my body. He keeps pounding into me as I orgasm. His fingers are sodden. His shaft dripping. I grip the rug as my body shakes. It’s overwhelming and my head spins hazily.
When my body finally untenses, I feel him pull out of me. He grunts heavily, his cum hitting my back.
I collapse forward, breathing hard. He lays down beside me. The embers in the hearth crackle faintly as we lie, taking in each other’s bodies.
He kisses me gently.
Later, when we’re tangled together in his small bed, the fear of the night is a distant memory, eclipsed by the warmth of his arms around me. But as I drift into a restless sleep, the shimmering shadow of a charging horse haunts the edges of my dreams.
12
Morning light filters through the gauzy in curtains Ichabod’s flat, softening the room and sending a warm glow over the stacks of books and papers scattered across his desk. I’m perched on the edge of his bed, pulling on my boots, when he emerges from the small kitchenette with two cups of coffee. He’s dressed casually today, his usual polished professor look replaced by jeans.
He passes me one of the mugs. “What do you say to a little adventure today?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
I take a sip of my own drink, the cup warming my hands, and study his face. He hasn’t said any more about the Headless Horseman this morning, and I’m starting to wonder if we were both just caught up in the eerie surroundings of the dark streets yesterday. Or if I just imagined the whole thing.
“Depends,” I say, watching him over the rim of the cup. “What were you thinking?”
“The museum.” He sits beside me, slipping on his own shoes. “It’s small, but it has its secrets. Stories to tell. I think you’ll like it.”
I think back to the diary entry, of my ancestor and her date to the art gallery with her soldier.Thisis very much not a date. But after the terror of last night, the idea of surrounding myself in beautiful art and losing myself in a history other than my own sounds very appealing.
We’ve only just met, but there’s something about Ichabod that I’m captivated by. He feels very grounded, which I seriously need right now, especially amongst the weirdness of Sleepy Hollow.
It’s not a date. But it feels like the shadow of one.
The walk to the museum takes us through the heart of the town, and it’s quieter than I expected. The few people I see walk briskly with their heads down, conversations hushed. It’s no wonder, really. Two brutal murders — sorry,accidents— in such a short time would unsettle any town.
“Can you feel it?” Ichabod asks, keeping his voice low as we pass a cluster of townsfolk gossiping in hushed tones.
“Feel what?”
“The fear,” he says. “Something in this town has changed. You can feel it in the air.”
I nod. He’s right. Even in daylight, something lingers. A sense of unease.
“Well, yeah. I’m not surprised people feel nervous. Hopefully, they find the killer soon,” I say, giving up the pretence of talking about accidents. “Then things can go back to whatever this town’s version of normal is.” I try to sound optimistic.
Ichabod doesn’t answer. But his gaze lingers on mine for a heartbeat too long, as if he wants to say more but doesn’t.
The museum squats in the middle of Sleepy Hollow like a relic from another time. It used to be the town hall, beforebeing converted a few decades ago. Grecian columns hold up the triangular roof, and wide stone steps invite us up and inside. As Ichabod promised, it’s small, but indoors is a labyrinth of exhibitions filling the high-ceilinged galleries. He leads the way with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been here a hundred times but never grows tired of it. He pauses frequently, pointing out details in the paintings or sharing little-known facts about the sculptures.
As much as I enjoy the exhibits, what I find most fascinating is Ichabod’s perspective. Viewing it all through his eyes, the details he pulls out that he finds interesting, that he thinksIwill find interesting. Watching him become excited over something I’m almost certain he’s seen several times before.
His voice is low but animated and I can’t help but be drawn in — not just by the exhibits, but by him.
Our hands brush as we walk, and I feel a little jolt of electricity each time.
“This one is my favourite,” he says, stopping in front of a dark and brooding landscape, dominated by bare twisted trees and a sky heavy with storm clouds. “It’s calledHollow Secrets. Supposedly, it was inspired by the legends surrounding Sleepy Hollow.”
He’s looking at me, not the painting, head tilted slightly as if waiting to see how I’ll react.
“So, where’s the Horseman then?” I laugh. “It’s beautifully done, but kind of sinister.”
