Haunted Seductions

by Sahara Kelly

  It was a warm voice, accented a little with the Southern softness that Louis found so seductive when spoken by a woman. And this woman did it really well. He took a breath and waited for the beep.

  “Hello. Damn, I hate these machines. My name is Louis and I got your number from—um—er—well, this woman gave me your card and said I’d need you. And I do. Need you that is.” He winced. God, I’m sounding really fucking stupid here. “Look, I don’t know if I believe in this stuff, but there’s some really weird things happening and I guess I didn’t know who else to call.”

  Well, that’s real gracious, asshole. She’ll come running out here when she hears that.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound stupid. Anyway, I live at a place called Love Alley and my phone number—well, I’ll have to leave my cell phone number since I don’t have a working landline yet. Can you call me please? Thanks.” Louis left his number and closed his phone.

  He shrugged as he plugged his charger into one of the outlets that actually worked. The woman was probably a nutcase anyway. She’d have to be if that Zulee recommended her. Talk about freaky. Determinedly, he dismissed his lingering concerns about rolls of toilet paper that moved around of their own accord, wild-eyed old women who made jokes about his sex life and all the craziness.

  He had a house to renovate. His house.

  He went to find his chisel and his tape measure. Once again, his toolbox wasn’t where he’d left it. Louis sighed. He knew exactly where it was.

  On the fucking porch.

  And as he reached it, the final fuse blew out, taking his cell phone charger with it.

  *~~*~~*

  Cory noticed the blinking red light on her answering machine as soon as she got home that night. It had been a long, fruitless day, and she’d been reduced to bagging clothes and cleaning out the fitting rooms for Eileen in an effort to stay awake.

  Apparently the denizens of the “otherworld” were quiet, and not a darn soul needed a psychic consultation. Which sucked for Cory’s business.

  Perhaps the message would be good news. Like she’d won a gazillion dollars in some lottery she’d never entered. She giggled at herself and hit the “play” button.

  “Hello. Damn, I hate these machines. My name is Louis and I got your number from…”

  Cory staggered as an odd heat crashed into her body like a physical collision with something resembling a brick wall. Her guts churned and she literally panted, trying to get air into her lungs.

  What the fuck?

  The message had ended, so she rewound it and tried to listen to it again, holding on to the doorjamb this time in case the earthquake or whatever it was hit her once more.

  It didn’t. This time the message played through and she was calm enough to be able to jot down his phone number.

  But two words rang loudly in her ears. Love Alley.

  She’d been there once when she was a child with her mother. She barely remembered it, but knew of course that there was family history there. Her mother had been more impressed with the visit than Cory had, and all she recalled was a lot of really big trees and the sweet pecans she’d bought to bring home. They’d stuck together in the bag.

  She grinned at the childhood memory.

  So apparently Love Alley had an owner who needed her help. And he had her business card, too. That was odd. Cory kicked off her shoes and wandered around her apartment, doing routine things, all the while turning over the thought of Love Alley in her mind.

  Finally, she made herself a well-deserved mint julep and settled in her favorite chair with an old photo album her aunt had given her a while ago. Perhaps there were some photos of Love Alley in it.

  She wasn’t convinced that going out there was the best thing, although God knew she needed the job. Cory was a firm believer in letting her psychic skills help her make decisions since they seldom steered her wrong. And how better to stimulate them than by looking at pictures of Love Alley? The reaction that guy’s voice had caused was certainly out of the ordinary, but it could be just the effects of being overtired and stressed.

  The mint julep soothed and cooled her, and she casually thumbed through the well-worn album, smiling at the old-fashioned black and white photos of people dressed in clothes that Eileen would probably love to get her hands on. Talk about retro styles.

  Some were relatives she knew, others were strangers. All seemed happy to smile at the camera, although there were a few grumpy children who looked less than thrilled at the whole thing.

  She turned a page and stopped short. Her fingertips tingled and the hairs on her arms stood up. Her mother was smiling at her, relaxed and leaning up against a porch railing.

  Cory knew, with a rock-solid certainty, that this picture was taken at Love Alley. The pleasure-pain of seeing her mom’s face would have given her pause. She still missed her every day and probably always would. But it was more than grief at the loss of a parent.

  This was a shiver of the psyche, a ripple in that place that only Cory could see and feel. She closed her eyes for a moment or two, trying to nail down the source of this odd sensation. As was her habit, she “unclicked” the real world, separating herself from it in a maneuver that was as natural to her as scratching an itch would be to everyone else. Disconnected from outside distractions, she could focus her psychic talents and “see”.

  There was nothing to see, however. Not this time. Just the vague grey mists of another place out of any known dimensions and the glitter of mystic images too faint to identify. Frustrated, Cory prepared to drop back into reality.

  But before she could, a voice spoke quite clearly to her.

  [I need you there, chère. It’s a matter of family honor. Our family. Don’t fail me? Don’t fail us?]

  Cory gulped back a sound of surprise. Hearing voices wasn’t something she was used to, being a very visual psychic most of the time. This voice wasn’t messing around. It was clear, female, slightly accented—European maybe or French—and the urgent note of pleading could not be denied.

  She opened her eyes, fighting for balance, for that comforting feeling of having her mental feet back on the ground. The picture on her lap swam into focus and for an instant in time there was a face behind her mother’s shoulder. A beautiful woman, hair dark and coiled in a very old-fashioned style.

  But what caught Cory’s attention was the woman’s eyes. Brilliant green, they shone with life and the fire of passion. Then the image was gone, the photo normal and Cory’s senses settled back into their customary places.

  Well, fucking hell.

  She sat there, stunned, staring at the perfectly ordinary photograph, and seeing nothing at all. Her brain seethed, struggling to adapt to the new information and process it into something usable.

  One thing was clear. She had to go to Love Alley. There was no question in her mind, and the sooner the better. Her confusion was turning into an itch—a drive to be there, to go now. It was a compulsion she knew well, a focus of her psychic senses on something important, something large and something that absolutely positively had to be followed through to its conclusion.

  She picked up her phone and dialed the number that Louis, whoever he was, had left. She got his voice mail. Stupid idiot had probably turned off his cell phone. Politely, Cory left her name and number along with her declared intention of stopping by Love Alley at her earliest opportunity. She mentioned the following afternoon, ending by saying that if she didn’t hear to the contrary, she’d assume that time was acceptable.

  Her psychic nerves were quiet now, no disturbances ratcheted up her stress levels. In fact, she felt rather relaxed—as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  It was very evident that going to Love Alley was the right thing to do, and she spared a moment as she got ready for bed to wonder why she hadn’t been back there for so long. She knew it had fallen into disrepair, information like this being passed around like desserts at holiday gatherings. But recently she couldn’t recall much of anything
being said about the current owner, or anybody named Louis.

  He sounded okay. Not from Louisiana, that was for sure. And how the hell did he get my card?

  That was a question that would have to wait until she met the man himself on the following day. With all the excitement of a child on Christmas Eve, Cory snuggled into her bed. This was going to be an adventure and one that involved her family.

  Two things guaranteed to bring a smile to her face. The smile was still there as she fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Unaware that there was another woman planning a trip to Love Alley that same day, Honey Treadwell slid into her bikini and mentally girded her loins. She had some serious damage control to do, and a rather embarrassing exit to undo. Plus there was one helluva hottie just waitin’ for a fuckin’.

  And she aimed to be the fuckee. Or fucker. Whatever.

  She just wanted a piece of that sex on the hoof known as Louis the luscious. So what if her dreams had been plagued by the vision of a scarred face with hands that knew how to tweak her nipples? It was simply because she was horny.

  She was always horny, of course, but this was…well, it was probably something to do with the alignment of the planets. She just knew she was hot to trot and trotting would be one delicious pleasure with her new neighbor.

  Lascivious thoughts brought the heat to her pussy as she hopped into her pirogue and began poling down the familiar bayou waters. She’d slicked enough body lotion on her to grease a herd of pigs, topped it with a dab of suntan lotion so that she wouldn’t get tan lines or—God forbid—wrinkles, and touched her breasts with her favorite perfume.

  It was still early enough that the mosquitoes and bugs wouldn’t be a problem and she had no intention of returning until daylight tomorrow. Mr. Nice Body was in for a long hard ride tonight, and no mistake about it. Her bikini bottom rubbed softly against her mound and she smiled as the heat rose through her crotch.

  Oh yeah, baby. We’re cookin’ now.

  The heat shimmered through the low hanging foliage, a caress of moisture that added to the sensual arousal flooding Honey. The dabs of fabric that masqueraded as a bikini seemed to abrade her breasts, making her nipples sensitive and hard beneath the silky stuff.

  She couldn’t help but remember the feel of that…that thing, that wild and crazy moment when she’d fought off the urge to scream and come like gangbusters. That face, harsh and ugly and…and sexy.

  Yeah, okay. Sexy in a horrible rough sort of way. The corset thing, too, tight and constricting and exciting. Lulled by the heat and the rhythmic swish of the waters, Honey let her mind drift along with the slow current, wondering what it would be like to lie in the bed of a man like that.

  Thinking about Louis had gotten her aroused. Thinking about him, scars and all, got her shivering and wet—aching almost—and needy in a way she wasn’t quite sure she liked. She had no idea what the fuck had happened in Louis’s bedroom, or what she’d seen in that mirror. It sure as hell wasn’t her.

  But the things she’d felt—the things those hands had done with just a fondle and a pinch—fuck. If it had been a real moment, instead of a heat-induced hallucination of some sort, Honey knew she’d have been on her back with her legs spread in no time flat. And from that point on, she had a sneaking feeling there would have been no limits to what that man demanded.

  And no limits on what she would have surrendered.

  Her thighs grew clammy as her juices soaked her bikini and dampened her skin. She was more than ready to take on Louis. He’d do just as well.

  At least she told herself so. His jetty was in sight now, and she brushed away the thought that he probably wouldn’t be as good as her imaginary villain. Louis was real. So was his cock. That was all that counted today.

  That was all she wanted. A good fuck.

  *~~*~~*

  If he’d thought about it, Louis would probably have said a good fuck was pretty high on his list of things to do as well. But since he was knee-deep in sanding the bottom of a couple of doors and trying to get them the same dimensions, the issue hadn’t actually crossed his mind for a couple of hours.

  Until he saw Honey. And wondered why she’d plastered some black electrical tape over her breasts and pussy.

  After he’d blinked away the sawdust, he realized she was wearing something that could have passed for a bikini or a couple of potholders. Whatever it was, it didn’t look too secure.

  Her breasts were front and center, and all but popping out to say hello, her nipples hard buds revealed by the clingy top. The rest of her was mostly naked, with just one small black triangle modestly hiding her pussy. A part of his mind spared a nod of awe to the engineering principles that kept the thing in place. The rest of his mind just stood there and drooled.

  This probably wasn’t a neighborly call to borrow a cup of mint julep. This was a flat-out “I’m here to do you” visit. There was no mistaking it.

  Louis swallowed awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look other than at her crotch or her breasts. “Uh…hi.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Well, hi yourself, darlin’. I figured I surely oughta come over heah and tell y’all how sorry I am for running out on you like I did.” She batted her eyelashes and walked closer, reaching out and brushing a drop of sweat off his chest with a fingertip.

  “You just got me so excited I din’ know if I was comin’ or goin’…” She paused and giggled. “I think it was closer to comin’ if you get my meanin’.”

  She wiggled her hips just in case Louis hadn’t got her meaning. He had.

  “Anyhoo, in spite of that, I’m heah now. I’m sure hopin’ we can kinda pick up where we left off. Gettin’ to know each other, that is.” She lifted her fingertips to her lips and licked off the bead of his sweat. “Mmm. Bayou sweet, chèr.”

  Louis’s throat moved as he swallowed again. He knew by this point he should be as hard as a rock and ready to rip off that tiny bit of nonsense prior to fucking Honey Treadwell long and hard.

  Which was clearly just what she wanted.

  But something was interfering with the natural order of things and his cock barely managed an interested twitch. He would have started to tremble at that if he hadn’t been holding a heavy door steady with one hand and his planer in the other. His very sharp planer. Perhaps it was the distraction of his tools that was damping down the hormones.

  It certainly couldn’t be this sexy curvaceous blonde in the itty-bitty black bikini.

  Could it?

  Carefully, Louis put down his planer and tugged another sawhorse beneath the door to steady it. Then he turned to see that Honey was headed inside the house where it was a little cooler. The black strip of fabric that separated her smooth buttocks danced from side to side as she walked, and made Louis sweat some more.

  But still didn’t get anywhere near as aroused as he would have expected.

  He followed her into the shade of the large hall, glad the portable fan he’d bought was still circulating some air. Perhaps he had one stable electrical circuit at last. The whirr of the blades was a quiet accompaniment to the lazy hum of crickets and he had no problem hearing Honey call him. “Louis, chèr, c’mere…”

  He found her in a small room staring at an old and darkened painting. “You know who this is?” She pointed at the scarred face.

  “Er…no?” He leaned over her shoulder. “There’s a caption here…” He rubbed a bit of grime off the small plaque. “M. Jean Argent, 1804. Whoever that was.”

  “I can see that.” Honey’s voice was sharp and had lost a little of its Southern drawl. “I need to know who he is.”

  “It’s ‘was’, Honey. Judging from his clothes and the age of the frame, he’s got to have been painted a couple of hundred years ago, maybe.” Louis stroked the wood surrounding the painting. “This is original. Hand-carved. The detail puts it definitely in the late seventeen hundreds, maybe early eighteens. That would be my best guess. I’m no expert on the art, just the woodwork.”
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br />   With a visible effort, Honey turned away from the painting and faced Louis, the heat from her body brushing his. “Well, never mind him.” She licked her lips. “Although he seems like someone who could give a woman what she needed…”

  Louis looked at the man’s face, noting the raggedly cut hair, and the scar that creased a full lower lip. “You think so?”

  “Mmm hmm.” Honey brushed her fingertips up Louis’s biceps. “It would be nice to have a man like that around.” The fingertip went back down and then came back up again to trace his pectoral muscle. “You look like that sort of man, too, Louis.” This time the fingertip found his nipple and played with it.

  “I do?” I don’t have any scars on my lips. Louis gulped, uncomfortable now, and not from the fit of his shorts, but from a desire to retreat from that persistent finger before it slid downwards and stripped him naked.

  “Yeah, you do, sugar.” The accent was back. “You look like a man who’s got what it takes to make a woman scream and get all crazy, you know?”

  Sure enough, the finger was moving lower, tracing the line down his chest toward his belt. “Uhh…well…”

  Louis took a step backwards but she followed him like a well-trained dance partner. “Don’t be all modest ‘bout it, chèr. You’re a real man and I’m a real woman. We could have fun exploring…” The finger found his navel and toyed with it. “…the…” It dipped beneath his waistband and popped the snap securing it. “…possibilities…”

  Louis grabbed her wrist before she could discover he wasn’t wearing anything under his shorts but his skin. He had a bad feeling that a guy going commando was an open invitation to assault from this Southern belle.

  And he so didn’t want to be assaulted. Perhaps the heat had sapped all his testosterone. Perhaps he was coming down with a cold. Whatever it was, he knew without question that he just wasn’t interested in fucking Honey Treadwell.

  Since she had the opposite goal, this was going to be one interesting piece of fancy footwork.

  Louis moved to the right, Honey followed.