Dom of the Dead (1Night Stand Series)

by Virginia Nelson

  His tone, the demanding voice she fantasized about. He’d marched a parade of bimbos through their lives, and she’d noticed the way he looked at them and the crack of dominance in his voice when he spoke to them which tripped her trigger every damned time….

  The dominance he refused to wield in her direction.

  Her fingers closed on the towel, a dare of sorts.

  “Don’t make me punish you, Carson.”

  Her legs shook at the snapped command. She fought dueling emotions—one part of her trembling in desire, the other mad…because, now? When he was dead and gone?

  “What are you going to do? You’re a ghost. I knew what you were when you were alive, Randall. Yet not once—never—did you ever make one sexual move toward me. Always the white knight. Always the friend. Why would that change now that you’re pushing up daisies?”

  A blast of warm wind picked her up, almost slamming her into the wall. The spectral gust pinned her hands above her head as if held by invisible cuffs and spread her legs open to the humid air. She fought down a wave of unbridled lust.

  “When I was alive, I worried my desires would scare you. I worried that what I wanted would disgust you, ruin our friendship.”

  She panted, breasts rising and falling with each inhalation. A cool feeling, like ice being rubbed against her nipple, zinged awareness and pleasure through her, but she bit her lip to stay silent, waiting for his next move.

  “I know what you want. You want me to take the control away from you, spank that round, white ass of yours until it’s red and tender. Now—”

  Held on the wall by invisible handcuffs, she didn’t care whether her imagination provided this fantasy or if a ghost toyed with her body. Wet, throbbing need between her legs demanded she hang on his every word.

  The voice came from the air next to her ear. “Now I have nothing to lose.”

  A firm twist of her nipple accompanied the comment and she writhed in her restraints. Her cry increased the pressure.

  “Silence, Carson. You will be utterly silent unless I give you permission to speak or we won’t play. Do you understand?”

  She whispered the words she’d wanted to say for so long, “Yes, Sir.”

  Chapter Three

  Carson hung suspended on the wall, unaware of the power she wielded in her submission. Randall Stokes soaked in the experience. Never before did touching a woman leave his hand trembling. He couldn’t count the nights he’d imagined his pretty next door neighbor, his childhood best friend, her thighs shaking in desire, breasts heaving as she struggled to breathe because she needed him so much, overwhelmed by passion he’d awakened….

  Instead, he’d waited.

  They’d met at summer camp, even though she lived just up the street. She homeschooled, he played football and somehow it worked out they’d never crossed paths. Not afraid to put a worm on a hook, fast with a comeback and cuter than a picture from a cereal box, she quickly became irreplaceable. Not exactly sure when the change from friend to object of his affection occurred, he knew, she made him happy.

  As a pimply faced teenager, he’d steered clear of her attempts to change their relationship into more. Back then, he tried hard, like everyone else, to figure out exactly who he was. He couldn’t afford to make a dumb mistake and lose his best friend.

  As a man, he understood himself, what he needed to find satisfaction. Not ashamed of his love of kink, but unwilling to change Carson…not for a night of pleasure and her looking at him horrified the next day.

  But the pleasure he could bring her….

  There’d been nights, late nights, ones where he’d had a drink or two and pondered leaning over and running his hand down the line of her delicate spine. He’d whispered in the shell of her ear, breathing close enough that the hairs lifted and he wondered if she suppressed a shiver of desire for him. Always he pulled back, stopped before taking what he wanted from her.

  He’d waited too damned long for her.

  Randall never expected death. An avid motorcyclist for years, he’d done everything right—wore a helmet, carried the best insurance, kept his bike up on maintenance. He never drank and rode, nor tried anything stupid to look cool.

  He owned his needs, his character. The power of the bike thrilled him, but he didn’t have to prove that shit to anyone.

  When the pickup truck ran the red light, he thought he’d manage the swerve. He’d drop the bike, sure. Some road rash, maybe.

  Even as he lay there, dying, the reality of it hadn’t sunk in.

  Later, he floated above his body, the single thought screaming in his mind, what the fuck?

  Dying wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Not to mention, if he died, shouldn’t there be some kind of white light, or hell, or something?

  Nope. No fat, naked cherubs. No red-eyed demons and fire-licked pits of hell.

  More of the same shit and no physical body to do a damn thing about any of it.

  All the things he found important while alive suddenly weren’t when he died. Why the hell would he go to work if they weren’t going to pay him? His family, never a big priority, became even less so when they bawled over his corpse like his death changed anything for them.

  The one person at his funeral who’d upset him was Carson.

  Her eyes, always a chocolate brown he fell into, reddened from her tears. Her hair, usually so carefully fixed—Carson liked life to fit into neat boxes and not even her hair dared disobedience—hung lank around her heart-shaped face.

  When her hand gripped his, he’d wanted to lift it to touch her face.

  And he followed her, into rain he didn’t feel, and crouched over her as she wept in the street and cursed God and him. Holding her, even if she didn’t feel his arms, he stayed with her. He couldn’t even get help for her, trapped in a hell like none he’d ever imagined, forced to watch her pain with no way to soothe it.

  Staying with her until she collected herself to a point to go back to her car and drive to her apartment, he wondered why no one stopped her. Didn’t anyone see how she hurt? She was in no state to be left alone.

  Stripping, she got into the shower, warming her skin—every decadent inch of the creamy flesh he’d fantasized for years about—and he wished to touch it. To wrap his lips around her tight nipples and stroke his fingers between her legs. To take away, if even for a moment, her grief, and replace it with passion.

  Time slipped by differently since he died—sleep no longer an issue—so he found lots of time to experiment and try to figure out the whys and hows of his new situation, to try to find a way to let her know he was here. Dreams eluded him, trapped in a world alone with only the sight of her to break up the monotony. His cock stirred to life at the scent of her, so close, and he tried to figure out why a ghost would have a reaction like that.

  He liked his sex outside of the box. Never a vanilla kind of person, he’d didn’t share that part of himself with Carson. Not a voyeur—he knew his favorite kinks—the sight of her nudity shouldn’t have been enough to get him hard and hot, dead or alive.

  Frustrated, he considered the stiffy.

  What the hell good is a hard dick if it’s invisible?

  Listening to her hurting, he ached to soothe her, to take away the pain.

  No one heard him, no matter how loud he yelled. Nothing responded to his touch. He couldn’t jerk off no matter how bad he wanted her.

  With his hands.

  That was the first breakthrough. Once he’d realized his mind held the seat of his powers, it took a while to manipulate things without the autopilot response of reaching out a hand to do it.

  Reaching out thoughts took much more concentration.

  Turned out, there were lots of things he could do with his mind. The first time he’d managed to make her feel his touch, it shocked him so much he lost control of the thread and had to start all over.

  He figured out, slowly, how to move things. For a man used to control, it could be done.

  But w
ith her nubile body pinned to the wall while she submitted to him in ways he’d only dreamed of, all the practice with moving objects and holding books to her wall while she worked paid off.

  “You’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you, Carson?”

  She nodded. Good. He hadn’t given her permission to speak yet.

  “You want me to tempt you, to tease you, to make that hot pussy of yours wet with juice, don’t you?”

  For the first time since his funeral, her face transformed from pained lines of grief to reveling in desire, pleasure.

  He trailed a single touch down the valley between her breasts, enjoying the way her nipples puckered in response and her body shivered for him, though he regretted his inability to feel the flesh he taunted.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He smiled at her soft whisper. Curling his power into a hand, he slapped one breast, pleased at the clap of noise and the pink flush of her skin. His dick twitched at her low moan in response.

  “I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

  She nodded again, her breathing unsteady. Her arms tugged at the invisible restraints. He couldn’t keep her on the wall indefinitely, limiting his play. Her hands would fall asleep before he finished his pleasing of her but there was always tomorrow.

  Infinite tomorrows….

  “We’re going to establish some rules, Carson. You’re going to obey them. If you listen to me, I will please you. If you disobey me, you will pay a price.”

  She panted, eyes glazed in passion, telling him without words she not only wanted to play… she’d be a quick study.

  Chapter Four

  Knowing he might be there, any moment, anywhere, kept her in a constant state of arousal. He’d teased her on the wall the night before then the scent of him, the essence of him vanished.

  She’d felt his eyes though, as weird as that might seem. He refused her release, advising her toys were off limits and that if she tried to find her orgasm, he would be watching.

  Waiting.

  Perhaps she’d slipped the boundaries of sanity. Perhaps she wanted him so much she’d imagined him. The desire he created made her not care.

  Her legs rubbed together when she walked and jacked her need higher. If she didn’t get off soon, she’d go out of her mind in a different way.

  Stomping into the house, she locked the door behind her and dropped her purse on the table in the entryway. And hoped he lurked.

  Her clothes fell away, tugged off as she strutted naked into the bedroom. With a flop onto the bed, she spread her legs, determined to satisfy the raging hunger riding her body.

  “Don’t do it.”

  Her lips curled. His voice, like chocolate-drenched sin, rippled over her as real as he’d ever sounded.

  She slipped her fingers into the wet, hot slit, jiggling her clit with rapid strokes, the momentary ecstasy of the pressure enhanced by the knowledge he watched.

  Again, invisible cuffs slammed her arms above her head. Before she could gasp in surprise, she flew upward, hair whipping around her face. In midair, she flipped over.

  Dropping with a thump back onto the mattress, she wanted to lift her head but couldn’t, invisible bonds restraining her muscles, keeping them on lockdown. Her hair fell into her face but she was immobilized, unable to push it back.

  The swift hand slapping her ass had her wriggling against the bed. Sharp pain quickly changed to heat and increased the wetness between her legs. The comforter bunched as she moved, more a tease of sensation than an actual release valve for the building pressure of her orgasm.

  “Naughty girl. I almost think you like being spanked.” He repeated the abuse of her ass, but a little harder. She bit back her moan.

  That one? All pleasure.

  If he kept spanking her, she’d come.

  Trying to arch her ass higher and aim her slit at the invisible hand got her pinned harder to the mattress.

  Then his nails, ever so lightly, streaked down her back.

  Her mouth opened and she barely held back the scream of ecstasy. How did he know?

  Another firm smack on her ass and she shrieked.

  And then nothing.

  Her harsh breathing caused the hair hanging in her face to tickle her nose. Sweat broke out on her skin, waiting in anticipation for his next move.

  Nothing.

  Every muscle clenched, waiting. Her ears ached, she listened so hard for a sound from him, breath held. Not a single sound could be heard in the darkness of her bedroom.

  “If you move, I won’t touch you.”

  Her eyes closed. She imagined him smiling. The temptation to grin back waged a brief war with her need to scream at him to take her, to fuck her, to make her orgasm.

  She fought to keep still when a touch moved the hair gently from her face. “Want to use a safe word?”

  “No.”

  The clap of sound rode the waves of sensation as he smacked her ass again. To keep still, she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

  “No what?”

  Then she did smile. “No, Sir.”

  The pressure holding her lifted. “I was going to let you come but you forgot to acknowledge me as your Master. Maybe next time.”

  And his presence vanished.

  Damn him.

  Chapter Five

  She slept on her side, looking innocent and somehow purer than he remembered from his living days. Carson, his first, best friend.

  Her slow breathing calmed him. She always affected him like no other woman, so it shouldn’t surprise him that her submission would affect him like none ever before her.

  All other women paled in the shadow of her presence. They’d only been practice for this.

  Practice for claiming her.

  Regret became his new closest companion. If only he’d taken the risk and touched her while he’d been alive. Grabbed her by the hair, pinning her arms behind her and kissing her until she begged him to take her. If he’d bent her over the couch even one time and smacked her soft, round ass or licked her hot little slit.

  He wanted to taste her.

  Just once.

  He wanted to see if the velvet glove of her core would grip his dick and her hot moisture would make him slip in and out….

  Instead he was a Dominant without a cock.

  Or am I?

  Glancing at her bedside table, he used his thoughts to shove open the drawer.

  Every girl’s best, battery-operated friend. A purple-headed toy, the rabbit positioned to hit a woman’s clit while the plastic shaft pleased her slick heat.

  His lips curled.

  I can work with that.

  She woke when the blanket shot toward the ceiling.

  His smell, all around her, comforted and aroused her at once. Stretching, she didn’t try to hide her smile. “I gotta say, I like that you don’t sleep.”

  “Feel like playing?”

  “You’re asking?” she teased.

  “Not really.” Her legs shot out to be pinned to the mattress. “Don’t move.”

  “Can I speak?”

  “You can beg. Tonight, I want to hear you beg.” His voice, rough and rich with need, increased the desire awakened so easily.

  She sucked in a breath. A new game, then.

  “Are you sure you can make me?” A familiar hum answered her. “Is that my vibrator?”

  The sound stopped then started again, louder and faster. She wriggled in response, ready for it to tease her to satisfaction.

  The toy quieted again and the bed shifted, as if he’d joined her on it. In the utter blackness of her bedroom, she strained her eyes, almost sure she’d see him if not for the lack of light.

  His lips closing over hers stunned her.

  Never before had one kiss managed to say so very much. His tongue tangled with hers as he mated their lips and his breath brushed across her skin. She struggled against her restraint, longing to curl her fingers into his black hair and feel his breath on her cheek as his tongue danced
with hers.

  His kiss tasted bittersweet. She’d waited for it so long and finally found it in her twisted grief. She hated the idea it might be a hallucination brought on by the loss of him.

  Not that it mattered. A single tear for what they might have had traced its way down her cheek as she twisted in her bonds to continue the kiss as long as possible.

  His tender hand stroked her face and she stuttered out a sigh. “I love you.”

  The words, only said to him in jest while he’d been a vibrant, breathing man, slipped past her lips so much easier to the phantom.

  “Love you, too, blondie.” His earnest declaration filled her with warmth. “And now, I’m gonna make you scream.”

  His hands, suddenly everywhere, his mouth, teasing, tempting, biting.

  She lifted her arms to touch him, finding nothing to stop her movement, and all of it stopped.

  Gone.

  Panting in the darkness, she pinched her eyes closed.

  Forcing her muscles to still, she waited.

  And he was upon her again. When his tongue lapped between her legs, her hips arched up to meet him.

  And he left her gasping out his name. Punching the mattress, she glared into the darkness. “You’re not playing fair.”

  “You’re not begging yet.”

  Again, she breathed through the raging desire, the pumping of her blood running hot through her veins, and lay still on the bed.

  He rewarded her by tugging her nipples hard, pulling the tight nubs until he stretched her breasts.

  Spreading her legs, he teased the toy against her slit. In that moment though, it didn’t feel like a toy. He may be a ghost but….

  He knelt between her legs, a man—her man—in the darkness. He positioned the toy to push it into her and she urged him on.

  “Please,” she whimpered.

  Ignoring her, he rubbed the vibrating toy along her slit, collecting moisture to move faster. The urge to lift her hips grew so great, she wasn’t sure she could resist it.

  “God, please, Randall.”

  The movement stopped.

  Gritting her teeth, she tried again. “Please, Master.”