Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
My heels click against the pavement like a countdown, and before he can second-guess himself, we’re at my place. I swing the door open with a flourish, and—ta-da!—welcome to my Haunted Barbie Dreamhouse.
Fog spills from the hallway like the place is actively on fire, but I don’t comment.
Why would I? The fog machine’s been running since last Tuesday on a drip and cool system that I personally concocted.
The glittery purple cobweb curtains shimmer in the light of my black-and-orange fairy lights, and the animatronic werewolf in the corner perks up when we enter, eyes glowing, voice box crackling: “Get out!”
“Don’t mind him,” I say, tossing my clutch onto a glass coffee table shaped like a coffin. “He’s dramatic.”
Henry—I’m seventy percent sure that’s his name—freezes on the threshold, wide-eyed, taking in the jack-o’-lantern string lights, the velvet pillows shaped like severed heads, the chandelier made of plastic bones spray-painted pink, and one of my proudest possessions: a neon sign above the bar cart that reads Rest In Pieces in bubblegum cursive.
I don’t wait for him to catch up. I just kick my heels off by the door, toss my hair, and strut straight into the living room like this is a Better Homes & Gardens shoot. “Make yourself comfortable!” I chirp. “Couch, floor, sacrificial altar—I’m easy.”
He blinks at the couch, which is upholstered in glossy black vinyl with pink bats stitched into the cushions.
There’s a skeleton wearing a feather boa sprawled across one side, a throw blanket embroidered with gravestones draped over the other.
His face twitches like he’s calculating whether sitting means he becomes part of the décor.
I giggle, flopping onto the couch and patting the spot beside me. “Don’t be shy! He won’t bite.” I nudge the skeleton’s jaw until it clatters closed. "He's one of those vanilla skeletons. Missionary only, ya know?”
Henry swallows so hard I hear it. But he sits. Of course he sits.
He sits stiffly, like a man trying not to notice the skeleton in the feather boa inches from his shoulder. I lean into him immediately, curling one leg under me so the bottom of my dress slides higher. “See?” I purr, nudging closer. “Home sweet haunted home.”
His eyes flick nervously around the room, and I follow his gaze just in time to see the haunted cuckoo clock go off. At the stroke of nine, a tiny vampire doll pops out and shrieks, “Blood o’clock!” before vanishing back inside.
I giggle. “Don’t you just love vintage?”
He chokes on nothing, shaking his head quickly like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t just flinch.
I drape myself sideways on the couch, propping my head up on one hand and letting my hair spill across the pink-bat cushions. My dress slips dangerously low, and his gaze follows, helpless.
“So,” I say, sing-song. “Should I put on some music? I’ve got a great playlist. It’s called Bone Rattlers and Baby-Makers.”
Across from us, the neon Rest in Pieces sign flickers, casting the room in a pulsing pink-and-orange glow. On the bar cart beneath it, bottles of liquor are labeled things like Witch’s Brew and Corpse Reviver in glitter vinyl.
“Or…” I trail one fingernail up his arm, watching goosebumps rise. “We could skip the soundtrack and make our own noises.”
He swallows hard, and I swear his gaze darts to the chandelier above us—plastic bones spray-painted cotton-candy pink, glitter dripping like icicles. It sways slightly, though whether from the draft or the tremor in his hands, I can’t tell.
“Relax,” I coo, straddling his lap before he can think twice. My dress rides high, my nails trail down his chest through his shirt. “This is the best part of my haunted house. The part where you realize you’re trapped, but you don’t want to leave.”
His pupils blow wide, and for a moment, I see it—the moment cock override kicks in. Fight-or-flight? More like fight-or-fuck.
Behind us, the animatronic werewolf growls again, “get out!”
His breath is uneven, shallow, but when I tilt my head down and brush my lips across his, he caves instantly. Desperation overrides hesitation every time. His hands finally rise to my hips, tentative at first, then gripping tighter as I press against him.
I kiss him slow at first, syrupy sweet, letting him think he’s steering this ship.
Then I open my mouth wider, teeth grazing his lip, tongue sliding in with a hunger that makes him groan.
His grip tightens, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away, but I’m not going anywhere—not until I’ve wrung every drop of nervous lust out of him.
The fog machine lets out a loud hiss from the kitchen, pumping mist across the floor like the entire room is on fire. I giggle against his mouth, biting gently at his bottom lip. “Spooky ambiance,” I whisper, before devouring him again.
He tastes like scotch and nerves, all heat and sharp edges, and I ride that tension like it’s my favorite roller coaster. His hands slide up my waist, trembling, until his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts through the silk. I arch into him with a delighted hum.
Behind us, the vampire cuckoo clock pops open again, shrieking, “Blood o’clock!” like a tiny cheerleader. He jolts. I don’t. I just laugh into his mouth, grinding down against the hard bulge pressing into me.
“You’re jumpy,” I tease, pulling back just enough to trail my tongue down his jaw and over the artery in his neck before biting softly.
He makes a strangled noise—half laugh, half groan—and kisses me harder, like if he keeps my mouth occupied, I won’t say things that make his blood run cold. Poor man doesn’t realize it just makes me want to say more.
I rock against him, nails scratching at his chest, and his hips jerk up in response. My hair falls forward, brushing his cheek, and a piece of glitter dislodges, clinging to his lips when I pull back.
“See?” I murmur, plucking it off with a wicked smile. “Even the house thinks you look better with a bit of sparkle.”
Then I kiss him again, deeper this time, until he forgets to be afraid.
His lips finally lose their hesitation, pressing back against mine with something that actually feels like hunger. His hands slide up my sides, more sure now, and for a moment I think—yes, he’s in, he’s mine, the horny override has fully taken control.
I giggle into his mouth, rolling my hips against him, and he groans, gripping tighter. For a hot second, it feels almost normal. Almost.
And then-
Crash!
The sound splits the air like a gunshot. Across the room, the upright coffin I keep propped in the corner bursts open with a bang, and an animatronic mummy lunges out, arms flailing, wailing at full volume: “I want your soul!”
Henry practically levitates us both off the couch, ripping his mouth from mine with a strangled yell.
I collapse into his chest in laughter, clutching my sides. “Oh my God, I forgot I set that one on a delayed motion sensor!”
The mummy thrashes in its coffin, head jerking, bandages unraveling as it groans again: “Death is eternal!”
Henry stares at it, pale and wild-eyed, chest heaving. “What the fuck-”
“Isn’t he great?” I beam, tugging his face back down to me like nothing happened. “I got him on clearance at Spirit Halloween. He’s the life of the party.”
“The…life?” His voice cracks and his entire body jerks like I just dumped ice water down his spine.
The mummy wails, its head lolling forward like it’s sulking.
I lick the corner of his mouth, slow and teasing, then pull back just enough to whisper, sweet as sugar, “ignore him. He’s just jealous.”
Henry doesn’t get the chance to answer—I seal my mouth over his again, devouring him.
His gasp melts into a groan, and his hands finally snap into motion, sliding down to grip my ass like he’s been starving for it all night.
I groan against his lips, rocking harder, nails clawing at his chest through his shirt.
His hips jerk up like he can’t stop himself, a desperate rhythm matching mine.
His mouth is frantic against mine, messy, his hands shoving up under the silk of my dress like he’s finally realized there’s no escape, only indulgence. His palms skim over my stomach, my ribs, then higher—cupping my tits with both hands, squeezing like he’s been dying to since the restaurant.
I giggle into his mouth, arching into him as he yanks the neckline open until my breasts spill free, nipples hard and aching in the cool air. His groan vibrates through me, deep and hungry, before he ducks his head to suck one into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.
He makes the most delicious sound—half groan, half whimper—fingers digging into my thighs so hard I know he’ll leave marks. His cock jerks against me, straining, and I grind against it until he hisses, fumbling with his belt.
“Mmm,” I sigh against his mouth, saccharine sweet. “Do you know how many people die during sex every year, Henry?”
“My name’s not-” He freezes. “…Wait what?”
“Hundreds,” I chirp, eyes wide and doll-like. “Heart attacks, aneurysms, sometimes strangulation. Can you imagine being the last thing someone sees before they die? Isn’t that romantic?”
His cock twitches beneath me. He’s hard as a rock and pale as a ghost. God, I love men. So conflicted. Half terrified, half turned on.
I’m just about to pull his cock out myself when-
Click. Whir.
The ceiling above us shifts. I barely register the sound before panels slide open and a cascade of dark objects drop down all at once. Dozens of animatronic spiders of all sizes dangle from invisible threads, red eyes glowing, mandibles clicking as they lower themselves right above us.
Henry rips his mouth from mine with a strangled scream, flailing so hard he nearly throws me off his lap. One particularly fat tarantula lands squarely on his shoulder, legs twitching mechanically as it hisses.