Dreamscape by Rose Anderson ~ The ghost of Jason Bowen discovers a raven-haired woman walking through his house as if she owned the place. Fascinated, he follows.
He watched his beautiful houseguest lug her valise along and wondered which room she’d choose to sleep in. The man she’d toured the house with earlier had called her Lanie. “Lanie”, the name rolled off his tongue. She passed the smaller, more feminine-appointed bedrooms at the top of the stairs and chose his room as hers. He smiled. The sudden idea of Lanie in his bed gave him the sensation of having a pulse.
She stood before his mirror plaiting her thick black hair into a braid. “My, my, lady, you are a lovely creature.” He said the compliment aloud but she couldn’t hear him unless he wished her to. He followed her around the room as she inspected this and that, every once in a while, she’d jot something down on a pad of paper. He read over her shoulder. It was a work list of things she needed to do. Her name lay written across the top of the pad, “Dr. Elaine O’Keefe.” He looked at her with some surprise. “A doctor, are you?” He’d only known a handful of female doctors in his time. It wasn’t an easy path for a woman by any means.
The master bath had been fitted with plumbing while he was alive, and refitted to modern conveniences in the last forty years. The look on Lanie’s face was priceless when turned on the tap, but the horror soon turned to relief as the long-sitting rust cleared the pipes and the water ran crystal clear.
The paper sack held her cleaning supplies, and she knelt beside the tub to scrub it out. The sight of her body rising and falling as she cleaned made him incredibly stiff, and he found himself imagining her thighs straddling him, his cock buried deep in her warmth as she rode him hard and fast. He sighed. He hadn’t felt a woman’s warm depths wrapped around him in a very long time. Being dead for one hundred and twenty years, he hadn’t felt warmth of any sort.
After several trips back and forth to the kitchen, she had enough hot water mixed with the cold with which to take a tepid bath. Always the gentleman in life, he was just about to leave her to her privacy when she pulled her shirt over her head. What a sight she was with her pale porcelain skin and the faintest spattering of freckles on her shoulders.
Given her thick raven tresses and skin like fresh cream, the thought Black Irish came to mind. She took off her trousers and the small, almost insignificant pantalets. To his surprise her mound had been trimmed to the skin in the style of the French, in fact she was bare all over save for that scant downy shadow there between her thighs. The sight made his fingers itch to discover if her skin was as smooth as it appeared. Just imagining what she felt like compelled his body to stir again, and he found himself holding his breath. As if he had breath to hold. When she unclasped her brassiere and those luscious breasts spilled free, to his astonishment, his cock actually got hard. He hadn’t been hard since he was alive. He clasped himself in disbelief. “How about that. If you can do this to a ghost madam, what might you wrest from a man of flesh and blood?”
She personified perfection with those lithe arms and shapely legs and lusciously rounded bottom, but especially with those lovely firm breasts. For the first time since his death, his baser desires got the better of him. His conscience made another bid to depart, but the red-blooded male he once was whispered that he stay. For after all, what harm to her sensibilities if she didn’t know he was there? In the end, his conscience lost and cock won. He stayed to watch her bathe. Walking past him her nakedness brushed his shoulder, and to his utter amazement he actually felt her. What’s more, by the perplexed look she gave the bedpost she felt him, too.
He took a seat on the closed commode and watched her secure her glorious thick braid with pins, each slight movement of her arms swaying the full succulence of her breasts. At her bath, with adorable damp ringlets at her nape and soapy hands busily washing and rinsing, he found himself aching to touch her. Unbelievably for the first time in more than a hundred and twenty years he had an overwhelming desire to unbutton his trousers and stroke himself. However, the image of him watching a woman unawares while stroking his cock made him feel depraved. His conscience again tried to pull away from the scene and leave her to her privacy, but his dead self ached to feel alive again, and watching her came wonderfully close to that.
He rationalized, “What does it matter if I watch with cock in hand? I’m invisible.” There was no one to judge this harmless action, but Jason knew himself well. He’d see to his own self-recrimination later, but not now. Not while she stood like Aphrodite rising from the foam. Stepping out of the tub, she turned and bent to pull the plug on the drain. Acquiescing to the view that angle afforded, Jason unbuttoned his trousers. He couldn’t help himself.
She whirled to stare at the closed toilet seat as if struck by a sensation she couldn’t identify. “Do you sense the man I once was?” Those endless blue eyes seemed to scan his face, though he knew that to be impossible. Nevertheless, he felt his cheeks warm as if she’d caught him in this very private act. Embarrassment stilled his hand. With no outward awareness of his presence showing, she left him there holding himself. “Oh sweetheart, you’ve given me much to think about.”
Dreamscape is a reader’s Easter egg hunt in the truest sense. Peppered throughout are hints suggesting a story behind the scenes. It’s a ghost story, a mystery, a murder, and a love story spanning two eras.
Unable to deny his own translucence, Dr. Jason Bowen determines his lack of physical substance could only mean one thing—he’s a ghost. Murdered more than a century before, Jason haunts his house and ponders the treachery that took his life. When Lanie O’Keefe arrives with plans to renovate her newly purchased Victorian mansion, Jason discovers, ghost or not, he’s still very much a man. Despite its derelict condition and haunted reputation, Lanie couldn’t be happier with her new home, but then she has no idea a spirit follows her every move throughout the day and shares her captivating warmth at night. Jason soon discovers he can travel through Lanie’s dreams and finds himself reliving the days before his murder with Lanie by his side. It took one hundred and twenty years for love to find them, but there’s that insurmountable little matter of Jason being dead.
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