Her nipples tightened in the cold air, unused to being uncovered. He had never seen her disrobed in such a way, and she wondered if she might have been better off simply raising her skirts. When the phantom horse drew closer, Katrina held her breath. A huge hand, gloved in black leather and unfurling like a shadow, stretched out. She thought he meant to reach for her exposed breast. That would have been typical, after all, and she supposed it was the point. Katrina Van Tassel was no stranger to the lewdness and desires of men, and those desires rarely died along with the body.
Instead, his hand stretched higher, a whisper against her cheek that went through her like smoke. He was unable to touch her, but she could still see his aim. Her eyes filled with tears as his thumb traced the curve of her lips without ever making contact.
“Youdoremember.”
His hand continued to hold her face — hold her without touching her at all. The thumb traced her mouth, the back of his fingers gently gliding over the apple of her cheek. He was little more than a shade and held no permanent shape, but she imagined she could feel the soft brush of his fingertips against her skin all the same.
“You’ll be able to touch me soon.” She tried to take his hand in hers, lowering it to her pebbled nipple, but like dust motes in a sunbeam, she moved through him. “You’ll be able to have me again soon. When the veil grows thin. Until then . . . How far are you able to ride with me?”
He rode with her back through town, down the hill and over the bridge. She kept Applesauce tightly rained as they traversed the darkly wooded dell, traveling a short distance down the road before he hung back. Katrina twisted in her saddle, smiling at his small bob, hand raising to tip the hat that wasn’t there.
She rode straight on to the Van Brunt residence, tethering the pretty horse to the hitching post as ifshewere the suitor coming to call. She supposed she was, Katrina thought, rapping on the door, already pulling down the front of her dress.
His fox-like smile had been wide, dark eyes glittering as they narrowed knowingly. Sly and cunning, with a loose moral center. When she bared her breasts tohim, Brom Bones did not hesitate to reach for them. He was able to cup their weight in his giant palms, rolling her nipples between the thumb and forefinger until she cried out. When he pulled her to sit astride his lap, guiding the tip of his engorged cock to press to the mouth of her sex, lowering her slowly, she did not resist. His mouth was hungry andhot, able to touch her, able tosqueeze, and as he rocked upward into her, he sucked on each of her nipples until they were puffy and swollen.
“That’s not the only thing they’re good for,” he’d groaned, nearly dislodging her from his lap with the vigor of his thrusts.
Katrina squeaked in surprise when he lifted her — off his cock, off his lap entirely, spinning her to retake his seat in the chair. He stood above her, straddling her legs, holding her breasts in his huge palms. She gasped in shock when he nestled the meat of his shaft between her breasts, squeezing them together tightly with his hands, thrusting his hips as if he were still hilted in her cunt. His cock erupted, pulsing between her breasts, milky-white spend hitting her neck and coating the top of her exposed breasts as he groaned. She cupped his testicles as he emptied, coaxing out every last drop, the very least she could do for him.
The differences between them were staggering, she thought as his release pooled at the base of her neck. So alike physically, yet so uncomprehendingly different . . . even ignoring the fact that one was a headless undead soldier. Different pieces laid end-to-end, spoiling the intended design, but no matter. What she lacked in skill with a needle, she made up for in her adaptability. It had taken her an entire year to understand what had brought her to Sleepy Hollow and the summer had been long, but the time to act was here, and she was nothing if not a woman of action, mistress of her own fate.
And so it went. Katrina Van Tassel was no stranger to ghosts, and even if she had been before she had moved to Sleepy Hollow, there would be no way to claim ignorance since coming here, for the Headless Horseman rode nightly. He rode seeking his head.Sherode seeking his companionship. An odd duet, but she had always been odd.
She stayed in her classroom once her pupils were dismissed each afternoon — working on her lesson plans, writing in her journal, writing letters. Letters to the mother she had never met, to Annika Van Wees, to the headless man to whom she felt inextricably tied, and to the hot-blooded man with the sly smile and the admiration of the whole town. When the streets were lit with naught but moonlight, she would head east, back to the Van Wees farm, tarrying at the churchyard until his horse melted from the shadows. The night that he reached out to grip her wrist, holding tight for several heartbeats before his form wavered and he slipped through her, she knew it was time. Mistress of her fate, life tethered to death.
Themoonwasnearlyfull the night of the Hallowmas celebration at the Van Wees farm. The road was lit with its bright, white light, useful as she readied Gunpowder in the shadow of the empty stable.
Applesauce had proven to be an obedient mount, quick to learn and easy to calm. The horse had gotten over her initial skittishness towards their phantom companions each evening, a relief when compared to Gunpowder’s cantankerous temperament . . . but the filly and her calm demeanor were not what Katrina needed that night. Gunpowder knew the road through the dark woods and up the hill better than any horse in Sleepy Hollow. Katrina was sure his obstinate panic would return after months of pampering in the Van Wees stables, but muscle memory would kick in, and he would carry her through the bridge.
“What do you think you’re doing? Where are you going?”
His deep voice was an accusatory rumble at the front of the stables, and Katrina ignored him with a petulant air.
She had been reminded that evening that she was merely the schoolteacher, while Brom Bones was Brom Bones. The Verhoevens had returned from their travels, and the rich farmer’s daughter was in attendance that night, the same girl he’d had an eye on marrying the previous year. Katrina wasn’t sure what had changed.Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he had spent the past year biding his time, waiting for the girl to be a touch older, a match more to her parents’ liking, and fucking Katrina in the interim. A satisfying diversion and nothing more. As soon as the thought occurred to her, Katrina knew it was true. Her nostrils flared as she finished fastening the billet, forcing herself to suck in a slow breath. She was not acting from a place of jealousy or malice, and it wouldn’t do to start now.
Brom had been at war with himself since arriving, his attention torn between the two women, the younger girl putting on a fine display of jealous pique. Katrina had kept her composure, keeping her smile affixed for the other partygoers, her eyes narrowing and her lips freezing into a scowl whenever they passed over the handsome town heartthrob. When the young woman made a great show of simpering over a story he was telling, Katrina made a point of catching his eye, letting him see her rise. She’d stalked out of the room, through the house, making for the stables with her heart in her mouth.
She half expected him to not follow her at all, but now he was here, glowering down. Of course. Men and ghosts, both predictable in their natures — she gave chase, and they pursued.
“I don’t see why it makes any difference to you. You ought to be getting back inside, make sure your little turtledove hasn’t fluttered away.”
“Katrina, be reasonable. She’s —“
“She’s what?” Katrina demanded hotly, temper getting the better of her for a heartbeat, snorting as he floundered.
Her father was rich. The unspoken answer hung between them, and her face screwed up in what she knew was an unattractive scowl. She knew the way things were; knew her pace in the world and the value she held, which was scant, but she couldn’t help the way her fists clenched at her sides at realizing the full extent of the hypocrisy that permeated the town.
Brom Bones was a braggart. An uncouth, boastful storyteller whoexpectedpeople to be in his thrall, was bastard born and no owner of any great wealth himself, and it mattered not. His every word and deed had a shiny gold sheen, while she needed to live in constant fear of any minor ailment being blamed on the witchery of the women in town, particularly the single, literate ones. She was forced to tolerate the unwanted advances of lecherous men, had to suffer their ale-sour breath and groping hands and eager cocks; had learned totoleratejust so she couldexist. They were lucky she didn’t lead the Horseman to each of their doorsteps, axe in hand, to show them what an unwanted hand felt like.
She didn’tliketime spent in Brom Bones’s company, had only sought him out time and time again for the comfort of his body, the heft of his cock, and the familiarity to another that wrapped around her mind like a warm blanket.
“Do you know, I don’t even like you?” he spat out, his thoughts evidently a mirror of her own. “You think you’re cleverer than anyone else around, that you’re too good for any of the simple, small-minded folks in town, and that’s how you see every man here. I’d say you needed a good fucking to put you in your place, if you didn’t already open your legs so willingly.”
Katrina gasped in outrage, and Gunpowder whickered, distressed that his mistress’s honor was being impugned. Brom Bones was not finished.
“I could have any woman in this village or in any other, Katrina. Some of them I’ve already had. But here I am, coming round to call on you, when I don’t even like the sound of your fucking voice. But I can’t stay away.” He was right in front of her now, hands locked around her shoulders, tight enough to mark her skin. “Why is that? What sort of witchcraft have you used to turn my mind?”
She agreed with his sentiment, and knew he was right. They were entwined, entangled, caught in the Fates’ web, for she was meant to be here and this was all meant to happen, but she could not tell him that. She pressed against his chest, skating her hands down his front until she was able to scrape at the erection tenting the front of his breeches. If she closed her eyes, she could still smell the canopy of apple trees above them, dappled sunlight warming their skin. She had given chase, and he had pursued, catching her as she was meant to be caught. It was how she wanted to remember him.
