The Seekers: Into the Light Page 2

"Long enough,” I conceded. One month, twelve days, sixteen hours, I thought miserably.

  "That's odd, because I just found Mikey feeling Missy's ass. Normally, I'd say ‘Yee-haw’ for him, but I know he does his best to ignore her advances. He doesn't want to lead her on."

  "Feeling her ass might definitely give her the wrong impression.” I laughed. “But chances are he can't help it. He's picking up the vibes. We all are—that's what you pay us for."

  "You, most of all,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “You feel more than any of us."

  He sank to his knees in front of me and settled comfortably between my still-trembling thighs. He lightly ran his knuckles along the tops of my legs. I'd never noticed how big his hands are. How strong they look. How the black hair on his knuckles accents the whiteness of his skin.

  "Can you do this?” he whispered. “You seem so exhausted lately. And sad, Martee. You seem so damn sad."

  I was fucking sad. I was sick and tired, and so damn tired of being sick and tired. I wanted Trip back. I wanted normalcy. I wanted one day without ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.

  I leaned forward and kissed him. I savored each stroke of his tongue over mine. I tasted each lip by itself, then smothered them both with my need.

  Trip's hands slid upward toward my own hand that still rested on my zipper. Each nerve sang out as his hands touched me. Each sent a message of suffocating desire to my cunt. I felt my legs start to tremble and jerk with anticipation. He pushed my hand aside and stroked me through the denim. I felt additional moisture flood my panties as his familiar touch encouraged an awakening deep in my belly. A need so stark and honest it made my stomach hurt.

  He kissed down my neck, raising a trail of goose bumps as he descended. His lips fluttered over my collarbone and traveled the shivering ridges of my shoulders. Through the fabric of my tee shirt he took my nipples in his mouth and sucked hard. I felt his teeth brush me, making the sensitive skin stand at attention. Warmth and wetness soaking through the cotton, adding to the sensitivity.

  "I want you back,” he whispered against me.

  "It's the ghosts talking,” I answered, but I pushed my clit against his hand, forcing more pressure on the swollen bud. I rose up to meet his touch, trying to turn gentle into forceful.

  "It's not the damn ghosts! I told you that outside before we even entered the haunted mansion."

  It was true, but I didn't want to believe it. I wanted to deny his feelings for me as I denied mine for him. Living with a psychic isn't easy. Loving one must be hell on earth.

  "I don't care that you have all this ... supernatural shit in your life. I'm a ghost hunter, Martee—you think that bothers me?"

  His hand rested in my lap, but it had become still and rigid.

  "I'm sorry. It should never have gotten this far.” I stood clumsily, forcing his hand off.

  "You're going to kill me,” he muttered and rose to his feet. He ran his hand through his hair and blew out a sigh. “Great. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

  He gave me a sad half smile as he pointed to his obvious erection. My heart lightened just a little with the smile. The invisible hole in my chest didn't ache quite so bad.

  "Sorry."

  "One day, Martee,” he said, and left the room.

  Lily reappeared and shook her head sadly. She was disappointed in me. Not nearly as disappointed as I was.

  "Why don't you talk to me?” I asked. “You know you can if you want."

  She shrugged and shook her head. Finally, a quiet one. She pointed to the open door and I turned.

  "She's shy is all,” said the second spirit. “I'm Hyacinth.” Unlike Lily, she had olive skin. A short black bob swung coyly around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were such a rich shade of blue they were nearly purple.

  "I'm sensing a theme here,” I said. “She's Lily, you're Hyacinth. Where's Rose?"

  "She's downstairs getting that beautiful young man to return the frumpy girl's affections."

  I barked laughter, thinking of how happy Missy would be when we called it a day.

  "So you're all flowers? How many are there?"

  She counted on long, elegant fingers. “Me, Lily, Rose, Daisy, Dahlia, Petunia, and Sunflower. Seven."

  "Sunflower?” I asked in disbelief.

  "She came later than the rest of us. It was the sixties—what can I say?"

  I smiled. I wasn't getting a shred of malice from these spirits. I was beginning to think I was dealing with a simple matter of ownership. They owned this house, and they had no intentions of leaving it, dead or not.

  "Where's the man of the house?” I asked. Might as well go to the source.

  "Around here somewhere,” she said with a grin. “He won't come out as easily as the rest of us, but you already knew that."

  I nodded in agreement. So—him and seven women. Walter was a player.

  "There's no was about it. He is the man of the house, and the master of us all. I have no idea what a player is but I assume it's a modern term for a man who greatly appreciates women."

  She sent me a doozy of a mental picture that nearly had me back on the bed. For just a moment, I was in Hyacinth's body, teased to the very edge of orgasm by firm but talented strokes. My cunt flooded with juices as Walter (I presume) plunged into me. He filled me with each entry, tortured me with each withdrawal. Lips teased my breasts, leaving trails of excitement with each naughty lick. I grabbed his ass and pulled him deeper. I trapped him with my thighs and held him against my clit, grinding with urgency. The orgasm bolted through me as I cried out with pleasure.

  My own cry brought me back. Back to Hyacinth and her mischievous grin. I glanced at Lily and was rewarded with another flash from her. This time her neatly trimmed pubic hair appeared. Her bright pink clit was swollen and obvious even from a distance.

  "Thanks, Lily."

  She just grinned.

  "Wow,” I said, addressing Hyacinth.

  "We're very happy here. We don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

  Great. Supernatural squatters.

  "I understand.” I no sooner spoke than the gang burst in, Trip in the lead, Liz bringing up the rear. Missy and Mikey, in between, looked quite cozy for a change.

  "Jesus! What happened?” Trip's eyes were wild, his breathing fierce. They had come rushing in response to my loud cry.

  His eyes skipped over me, lingered on my heaving chest and flushed cheeks. Our eyes met, and he grunted. I picked up the unspoken loud and clear: You can get off with phantoms but not with me...?

  I dropped my eyes in embarrassment. I was adding insult to injury, but it was beyond my control. I couldn't tune them out if we ever wanted them to leave.

  "She's fine,” Trip growled to the others. The rest gave me a questioning look as he stomped off noisily.

  "Sorry. He's right, I am fine."

  "You sure?” Mikey asked as he rubbed Missy's back absent-mindedly.

  I couldn't help but smile at Missy. Her eyes were glazed and her face had a fevered appearance. She looked like a cat in heat. I asked Mickey's guides to watch over the situation. The last thing we needed was more hurt feelings among the group.

  When they left I addressed my companion spirits. “Can we go find the others?"

  "That's easy. They'll all be in the sitting room. It's our favorite room in the house."

  Of course. The massive room with the huge sofas. I could see them there now. The remaining five women and the man himself.

  "Let's go."

  "We'll meet you there,” she said, then disappeared. I turned, and my flasher had vanished as well.

  I passed through the formal dining room on my way. I marveled at the stained glass over the large windows and the long dining table. It looked like it could seat at least twenty guests. The china cabinet held dishes that were most likely worth a bundle.

  As I came through the archway, Mikey turned with one of his gadgets in his hand.

  "We got cold spots coming o
ut our asses, Martee. Looks like the..."

  "Yeah, I'm on my way to the sitting room now. They're all in there waiting for me.” I grabbed the mug of coffee he was holding and took a sip. “Thanks."

  "I hate when she does that,” he said to Liz.

  "Take your coffee?"

  "No, finishes my sentences."

  The coffee was good, even if it didn't have enough sugar. I needed it because the temperature had dipped a good twenty degrees. The closer I got to the swinging door that marked the sitting room, the colder it got.

  "I'm coming with you,” Trip said, appearing from what looked like a pantry. It was as big as my first apartment.

  "Why? You can't see anything."

  "I don't care. I don't want you alone with them.” His mouth was fixed in a near grimace. Trip looked mad enough to spit nails.

  "You're jealous!"

  "Damn skippy I'm jealous! I love you, and they're getting all the action."

  I couldn't help but laugh. He had a point.

  He loved me?

  "That's right,” he said, reading my mind. “You heard me. I love you, Martee."

  I shook my head for two reasons. I wanted to shake off the encroaching tears, and I wanted to make my stand known. No way. Don't love me.

  He grabbed my wrist before I could push through the door.

  "They're waiting,” I whispered.

  "So am I."

  He released me, and I forged ahead. I would not think about what he had said. I would not think about what had almost happened upstairs. I had to meet the master of the mansion. I was busy.

  Walter McLaughlin was a tall, narrow man, handsome in a formal way. A thin moustache graced his upper lip and his chin sported a cleft. He wore his hair long but slicked back neatly. His clothes were perfectly tailored and his shoes were shined. The pipe he smoked burned fragrant cherry tobacco.

  Based on their outfits, I estimated the owner moved in and started his lifestyle in the mid thirties, with a new woman coming along every few years or so. Eventually age had taken each and every one. The only exception was Sunflower, who died after a horrible bout of influenza in the late seventies. I shook my head to clear the information so I could focus on my host.

  His nod was gracious but not overly friendly.

  Trip stood near the door, his eyes taking in the entire room but not seeing a thing.

  "Are they here?"

  "They are. All eight of them."

  "I can feel them” He rubbed his arms to warm them. “It's frickin’ freezing in here."

  "It takes a lot of energy for them to appear like this,” I whispered. “They have to get the juice from somewhere."

  I took in the five women I had yet to meet. A long-legged blonde in a mauve dress—Daisy. A stunning, curvy woman with long chestnut hair and warm brown eyes—Rose. By the door, a slim nymph with hair the color of fresh wheat—Petunia. On a lovely chaise lounge, a breathtaking woman in a black evening gown. Her black hair was twisted up in a classic chignon, her lips painted the color of a fresh wound—Dahlia. Someone twirled past me, all gossamer skirts and fawn-colored hair down to her waist. Her eyes were as clear and blue as tropical waters—Sunflower.

  "Howdy, y'all,” I said with a stupid little titter. I was uncomfortable. I had never been in the presence of so many spirits presenting a united front. Usually this number meant a tragedy had occurred and they were all trapped together like survivors of a catastrophe.

  This group had chosen to stay together. Upon death, not a single one had chosen to leave. I had my work cut out for me.

  Trip's arms snaked around my waist and pulled me back against him. I hadn't heard him move.

  "What are you doing?” I murmured, not wanting to spook the gathering.

  "You're shaking like crazy. I've never seen you do this. I'm worried about you. Now shut up and let me hold you."

  He pulled me flush against him, and I was suddenly grateful for the contact and the warmth. I could feel his erection hadn't abated but I couldn't let it distract me. Somehow I had to convince this group to move on. I had to get them to understand that they could go and still keep all this. That they would be welcome and could continue to live the life they cherished.

  Walter finally addressed me. “We're very content here. I want that to be clear. I knew you were coming but you're wasting your time. This is our home, and we intend to stay."

  He stepped to the front of the group. It wasn't an aggressive move but a protective one.

  "I understand how you feel."

  "No you don't,” he said with a reserved smile. “However, we do plan on helping you to understand."

  Without warning, my head was flooded with memories, experiences, sensations. All of them sensual, all of them intense. My muscles tensed with the overwhelming stimuli. My legs gave out from the intensity.

  I was vaguely aware of Trip cradling me as my body became boneless and over-stimulated.

  One instant, the crack of a paddle and the delicious sting of rising blood on my buttocks. The whisper of a slick tongue over my clit, accompanied by the simultaneous suckling of both nipples. A cock, hard and wide, entering me with a ferocity that bordered on violence, yet containing the sweet undertone of dominance. The feel of a penis so deep in my throat I could hardly breathe while phantom hands tangled in my hair and feminine lips gathered my clit into a blissfully hot mouth.

  I heard myself moan, but the images continued their barrage. Physical, emotional, mental. The play and the serious, the domination and submission, the give and the take, the love and the jealousy.

  They whispered around me, crowding in with hunger. They relived every moment, every kiss, whisper, and embrace as I writhed on the floor.

  "Martee ... Martee!” Trips voice came from a deep well. A million miles away. From the lengths of a long, long tunnel. “Jesus!” That I heard clearer, a sharp intake of breath, a ragged cry.

  They'd gotten to him too. I tried to warn him out of the room, but the messages and sensation were too much. It was a matter of riding it out.

  They subsided a little. The flood turned into a stream of images, pleasured cries, muffled sensations on my skin.

  My heart beat in my crotch as my skin sang from the onslaught.

  Hands gripped me firmly, and then smoothed over my hips. I jumped at their solidity. They were not phantom hands or long-remembered imprints of passion and arousal. They were Trip's hands, roving and exploring over my jeans. He sought blindly for the zipper, his eyes hooded and hungry.

  "Trip, it's them,” I protested.

  "It's not them,” he growled. “Don't you think I know the difference between them and me?"

  The fingers found what they sought and popped it open. The zipper followed with a small metallic protest.

  "They're carrying you away,” I argued, but my body didn't flinch from his touch. Instead I rose up to meet him.

  His hands pushed past the denim to meet cotton already moist from the bedroom. The whisper-thin material yielded to his force.

  His finger entered me. I was already willing and wet, pulsing in the expectation of his gentle invasion.

  "We have an audience, don't we?"

  I glanced around and saw eight self-satisfied smiles. Eight sets of eyes drinking in our essence. We were alive.

  "Yes,” I gasped as a second finger joined the first. He applied just the right pressure, just the right motions. I tripped over the edge into an orgasm. Just like that, I was gone—riding a small wave of pleasure that teased my nipples taut and arrested the breath in my lungs.

  "God."

  "Do you care?” he asked, pushing at the waistband of my jeans. “Does it bother you that they're watching?"

  "They always watch,” I managed “Every time. If it's not this group, it's another. I can see them, so they feel like it's okay to see me. Whenever they like."

  A tear escaped despite the pleasure. That was the sad truth of my life.

  "I can help you,” he said, lowering his head to my be
lly and resting there a moment. “I talked to someone. It can wait, though. For now I'm right here. I want to focus on us."

  I pushed my hands into his hair and breathed in a moment of peace. Let them watch. It didn't matter.

  Trip kissed over my hipbones and I shivered at the tenderness. His kisses grew more insistent as he descended. When he finally took my clit in his mouth I thought I would go over again. It had been too long without the feel of him. I had missed the humid caress of his breath on my cunt, his tongue probing my slit.

  I became wet again. My wetness mingled with what he added. When he looked up at me, my heart seized just a little. The look was the purest thing I'd ever seen. Need.

  He straddled me and stripped the tee shirt from my skin. The frigid air rushed over my breasts and the skin rose up in chill bumps. He swirled his hot tongue over my nipple. A soft cry escaped me.

  Button-fly jeans—gone. Button-down shirt—gone.

  The first stroke was surprising, and I yelped. I took the full length of him in one slick motion. My cunt, already hungry, became ravenous as it pulled and tightened. It quivered around him as he drove into me. I could hear his breathing, a barely controlled rasp.

  My skin seemed on fire. Euphoria fluttered my stomach as if I were riding a roller coaster. I heard whispered comments from the ghosts but ignored them.

  "Deeper,” I managed. “I want you deeper."

  Trip pulled out, and I whimpered. He hooked one hand under me and flipped me onto my stomach. His fingers raked down my back, explored the puckered entrance of my ass. Urgent sounds flooded past my lips.

  "Up on your knees,” he growled. “Hurry."

  I obeyed, not caring that we could be discovered by the others. The ones who were alive.

  I stuck my ass high in the air and pushed back eagerly. All I could think of was having him in me. I held my breath, waiting. I could feel his energy behind me, feel it invading my own. He was stroking himself while running his fingers over each cheek with the lightest of touches. He was making me wait. I would never take this for granted again. It was lesson time.

  Trip is a good teacher.

  "Please,” I sobbed.

  With that one word he took me. Drove into me with a force that knocked me to my forearms. My hair brushed the floor and covered my eyes, effectively hiding the spectators from my view.