Elena was thirty-one years old, a widow of two years, and she had never been fucked.

That was the ugly truth she carried into Hollowmoor Manor. She had been married at twenty-six to a man twenty years her senior who touched her like she was made of paperwork — dry, brief, missionary, lights off, finished in four minutes and snoring in five. He had died of a heart attack in his study, and she had felt grief the way one feels a draft from a window left open in someone else's house.

Hollowmoor Manor came to her through a great-uncle twice removed. She sold the town house, packed three suitcases, and drove three hours into the moor country. The manor was vast and grey — stone floors, tall windows dim with grime, a great four-poster bed in the master chamber with black drapes.

She woke at three in the morning with the certainty that someone was standing at the foot of her bed.

The cold came first — biting through the blankets, through her cotton nightgown, straight into her skin. Then the weight at the foot of the mattress. Then, out of the dark, a voice like smoke and iron.

— You wear another man's ring in my bed.

Elena's breath stopped. A shape gathered at the foot of the bed — tall, broad-shouldered, a man's outline in a long coat dripping with shadow. Where his face should have been: pale grey luminescence, two darker pits for eyes — then features pulling together like wax softening. A strong jaw. A mouth that was not kind. Eyes burning faint blue, corpse-light, fixed on her.

— Who—

she managed.

— Lord of this house.

He crawled up the mattress toward her on all fours. Frost bloomed on the black bed-drapes.

— Dead a hundred and forty years, and still the master of everything under this roof. Including you.

She should have screamed. Instead her body did something it had never done in five years of marriage: it woke up. Her nipples drew tight and hard under the cotton, aching. A slow liquid heat unfurled low in her belly and slid downward — her own wetness, sudden and shameless, in a bed with a dead man crawling toward her.

He stopped above her, braced on his arms, his face inches from hers. His breath was winter air ghosting across her lips.

— What's your name, widow?

She could not have lied.

— Elena.

— Elena.

He tasted it slowly.

— No. That's what I call you — mamacita. That's what you'll answer to, from now on.

One cold hand closed around her throat — not squeezing, just holding, his palm flat against her hammering pulse.

— I am Damion. Say it.

The word came out on a shaking exhale.

— Damion.

— Again. Louder. Let the house hear who owns you.

— Damion, — she said, louder, and the frost on the drapes spread another inch.

— Good girl.

His thumb stroked along her jaw, and where he touched her the cold sank in deep — electric — and her back arched off the mattress without her permission.

— You're going to learn three more names for me before this night is done. Domdaddy. Papacito. Master of this house. And I am going to teach your body everything your husband never did.

— Please, — she whispered, and did not know what she was asking for.

— Please what?

She didn't know. Her husband had never once asked her what she wanted. All she knew was the ache, spreading through her like ink in water.

Damion's free hand slid down her body over the blankets — slow, deliberate — and stopped low on her belly.

— You feel that? That's hunger. You've been starving for years and you didn't even know what food was.

His hand pressed down, and through the blankets and cotton she felt the cold, impossible pressure of him cupping her mound, the heel of his palm grinding lightly against her clit.

A moan tore out of her — raw, ugly, real. Her hips jerked up off the bed.

— There she is, — he breathed.

— There's my hungry little widow.

He stripped the blankets off her and they fell to the floor. She lay exposed in the thin cotton nightgown, her nipples two hard points straining against the fabric, and the ghost above her went very still.

— Take it off.

Her hands shook as she unbuttoned the nightgown and let it fall open. She was naked beneath it — she had never slept naked in her marriage, but something had made her leave off underthings tonight. His burning blue eyes traveled down her body — her full breasts, her soft belly, her thighs pressed tight together.

— Beautiful, — he said — and the word sounded like it hurt him.

— Five years married and he never —

His hand closed into a fist.

— I will kill him again for that. Look at me, mamacita.

She looked. He was becoming more solid — the cold condensing, his form gaining weight and definition. His coat was gone; he wore the shape of a man in dark trousers and an open shirt, his chest pale and broad, frost glittering on his skin.

— Spread your legs, — he said.

She spread them, trembling, her pussy bared to the cold air — and to his burning eyes. He stared at her glistening folds, and a low sound came out of him — hunger, a hundred and forty years deep.

— Wet, — he breathed.

— For me. A dead man.

He settled between her thighs, his cold hands gripping her knees, holding her open.

— Do you know what I am going to do to you, little widow?

— N-no—

— Everything.

He lowered his head — and his mouth found her pussy.

Elena screamed. His mouth was cold — impossibly cold — and the contrast with her burning heat was devastating. His tongue was a lick of frostfire — licking her in broad, slow strokes, the cold shocking her nerves awake, then warming as he worked her, his mouth heating with her arousal. She bucked, her hands fisting in the sheets, frost spreading across the bedding around them.

— Damion— oh god— papacito—

she sobbed, and he groaned against her clit, the vibration tearing through her.

His tongue pushed into her — cold, then hot, then cold again — fucking her with it, tasting her. She had never been tasted. Her husband had never once put his mouth on her. And now a ghost was eating her like she was the first warm thing he'd touched in a century and a half.

He found her clit with his tongue — circling it, flicking it — then sucked the bud between his cold lips, pulsing his tongue against it. She screamed, her back arching off the mattress, her thighs clamping around his head. He held her open, his hands like ice on her thighs, and drove her higher — his tongue relentless, his mouth devouring.

She came with a wail — her pussy clenching on nothing, her juices flowing — and he drank it down, groaning, his mouth working her through every spasm, dragging a second orgasm out of her before the first had ended. Frost glittered on her thighs where his breath had touched.

— Good girl, — he breathed against her folds, his lips glistening with her.

— My hungry little widow. Taste yourself.

He pushed two cold fingers into her mouth — and she sucked them, moaning, tasting her own wetness, her pussy throbbing.

He rose over her — more solid now, heavier, the cold rolling off him in waves — and she felt his weight press the mattress down. He unbuttoned his dark trousers and freed his cock.

Elena's breath caught. He was thick — thick as her wrist, long and heavy — and pale like the rest of him, the head flushed a deep, bruised purple, frost glittering on the shaft, pre-come beading at the tip like ice melting.

— On your knees, mamacita, — he said.

— Show your master what that pretty mouth can do.

She scrambled to her knees on the bed, trembling — and he gripped the back of her head and pressed his cold cockhead to her lips. She opened wide and took him in — her lips stretching around his thick girth, the cold shocking her tongue, then warming as her mouth heated him. He tasted like winter and wine and old stone.

— Good girl, — he groaned, his voice like grinding ice.

— Take your papacito's cock. Suck your master off.

She sucked him deep, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue working the underside of his shaft — and with every pull, he grew warmer, more solid, more real. His hand fisted in her hair, guiding her rhythm. She gagged sweetly, drooled, her hands gripping his cold thighs — and he held her head and fucked her mouth in slow, deep strokes, his thick cock hitting the back of her throat.

— Fuck — your mouth, — he growled.

— A hundred and forty years, and this is the first warm mouth —

He pulled out with a wet pop, breathing hard, frost and heat swirling around them.

— On your back, widow. Legs open. Your master is going to fuck you now — properly, the way you should have been fucked on your wedding night.

She lay back and spread her legs wide, her pussy glistening, her whole body trembling. He settled between her thighs — his cold, heavy body pressing her into the mattress — and dragged his cockhead through her soaked folds, coating himself in her wetness.

— Who does this pussy belong to? — he asked, his burning eyes locked on hers.

— You, Damion, — she breathed.

— It's yours.

— Say the other names. All of them.

— It's yours, papacito! Yours, domdaddy! Yours, master!

— Good girl.

He positioned his thick throbbing cockhead at her entrance — cold, then warming against her heat.

— Breathe, mamacita. Your master is going to stretch you.

He pushed in. The thick head breached her and Elena screamed — he was so big, so impossibly thick, and her pussy stretched and stretched around his massive girth, her outer lips pulled taut and glistening as his thick throbbing head forced its way inside her. Her inner walls clung and fluttered around every inch — and the cold of him inside her, warming with every inch, was the most intense sensation of her life.

— Take it, — Damion groaned, his eyes blazing.

— Take your papacito's cock, little widow. This is what being fucked feels like.

He bottomed out, his hips pressing against hers, his heavy body covering her. She was stuffed impossibly full, stretched around his thick girthy massive cock — and he started moving. Slow, deep, powerful strokes — the cold of him warming inside her with every thrust, her pussy fluttering around his thick shaft.

— Fuck — so tight, — he groaned.

— Five years married and you're still tight as a virgin, mamacita. Your husband never earned this pussy. I have.

Her pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely around his thick cock, her juices flowing. The cold had become heat — his body warming with her, becoming more real with every stroke. He reached down and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles — his thumb cold, then hot — and she shattered, screaming, her pussy clamping down on him.

— Again, — he commanded.

— Come on my cock again. Now.

She obeyed, sobbing — and he pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, hauled her up onto her hands and knees, and drove back into her from behind in one savage stroke. She screamed into the pillows, the frost-covered sheets cold under her palms. He gripped her hips — his hands burning cold — and pounded her, his body slapping against her ass.

— Who's your master?

he roared.

— You are! You're my master, papacito!

— And who owns this body?

— You do! I'm yours — your widow, your mamacita, your devoted sub!

He fucked her harder, the four-poster rocking, the drapes swaying. She came again, screaming — and he groaned deep, a sound like ice breaking, and erupted inside her. His thick cock pulsed jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy — hot, impossibly hot, like his whole frozen being melting into her. She felt every pulse, every throb, every drop — and the heat of it triggered another orgasm that tore through her like a storm.

He stayed buried in her, his body warm now — fully warm, fully real, fully hers — his lips at her ear.

— Mine, — he breathed.

— My widow. My mamacita. My devoted.

He pulled out slowly — his come leaking out of her onto the frost-melting sheets — and turned her over. He pressed his hand flat over her heart — and where his palm touched, a silvery handprint bloomed on her skin, glowing faintly.

— My mark, — he said.

— So every man who ever sees you knows you're claimed. Take off the ring, Elena.

She slid her wedding band off with shaking hands and let it fall to the floor. He smiled — slow, possessive, triumphant — and kissed her. Deep, claiming, his tongue stroking hers.

— Now,

he said, his eyes burning,

— I'm going to fuck my wife properly. All night. Until you forget you were ever anyone else's.

He kept his word. All night, he took her — on the bed, against the frost-covered windows, on the cold stone floor with her legs over his shoulders, in the great chair by the dead fireplace with her riding him. Every time, he worshipped her first — his mouth on her pussy, his cold tongue licking her until she screamed — and then he fucked her until she sobbed his names.

By dawn, she was wrecked — her pussy swollen and leaking his come, her thighs trembling, the silvery handprint glowing over her heart. He held her against his chest — warm now, his heartbeat slow and strong beneath her cheek — and she slept.

She woke at dusk to his mouth between her thighs.

— Mmm — papacito— — she moaned, still half-asleep, her body responding instantly.

— My widow wakes up wet, — Damion rumbled, not stopping — his tongue licking her slowly, thoroughly.

— Good. You'll wake up needing me every night for the rest of your life, mamacita.

— Every night, — she breathed, arching into his mouth.

— Yes, papacito.

He ate her until she came twice — sobbing, clutching the sheets — and then he rose over her, his cock hard and leaking, and pushed into her in one smooth, deep stroke. She moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

— Look at me, — he commanded.

She looked — into his burning blue eyes.

— Who am I?

— My papacito, — she whispered.

— My domdaddy. My master. My husband.

— Good girl.

He fucked her slowly — deep, rolling thrusts, his forehead pressed to hers — and she came softly, whimpering, her pussy milking him. He followed, groaning her name, his thick shaft pulsing his come deep inside her, filling her.

She stopped wearing clothes to bed entirely. She stopped locking doors. She walked the manor naked and unashamed, her body gleaming, her nipples hard in the perpetual chill, the silvery handprint over her heart glowing whenever he was near.

The village shopkeeper once caught a glimpse of the mark when her robe slipped, and crossed herself, and never came inside again. Elena did not care. Let them whisper. She had a husband, and he was magnificent, and he was dead, and he was hers.

On the seventh night, he did something he had never done. After he had taken her three times — after she lay ruined and glistening and leaking in the wreckage of the sheets — he lay down beside her and pulled her against his chest, and held her, and stroked her hair, and whispered her name until she slept.

— My mamacita, — he murmured into the dark.

— My devoted sub. Mine.

— Mine, — she whispered back, half dreaming.

— My papacito. My domdaddy. My master. Forever.

And in the manor on the moors, the frost bloomed across every window, and the dead master held his living wife, and the night was theirs.

Every night was theirs. He taught her everything her husband never had — with his mouth, his hands, his cock, his cold that became heat. He took her in every room of the manor, in every position, until her body knew his the way a song knows its singer. And every night ended the same way: with her shattered and overflowing and begging for more, and him holding her, whispering her names, claiming her all over again.

She had come to Hollowmoor Manor a widow who had never been fucked.

She would remain there forever — fucked, claimed, marked, kept. His widow. His wife. His mamacita. His devoted sub.

Forever.

The third night — the windows.

He carried her to the tall windows overlooking the moors — the night black beyond the frost-covered glass — and pressed her front against the cold pane. Her breasts flattened against the frost, her nipples aching, her breath fogging the glass.

— Hands on the glass, mamacita. Don't move.

He positioned himself behind her and drove his thick cock into her soaked pussy in one deep stroke. She screamed, her palms slapping the window. He fucked her hard against the glass — deep, driving thrusts, his cold hands gripping her hips, his body covering her back. The frost melted around her where her heat touched it, her breath coming in white puffs.

— Look out at the moors, — he growled, his lips at her ear.

— All that darkness, all that emptiness — and you're in here, warm and wet, getting fucked by your dead master. Who owns this pussy?

— You do, papacito! — she screamed at the black glass.

— It's yours!

He reached around and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles — and she shattered, her pussy clamping down on him, her juices running down her thighs. He groaned and erupted inside her, his thick shaft pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her, the heat of it spreading through her.

Then he turned her around, pressed her back to the window, and sank to his knees in front of her.

— My turn to taste, — he said, and buried his face between her thighs — his tongue licking her clean, lapping up his come mixed with her wetness, his mouth working her clit until she came again, sobbing, her legs giving out.

He held her up effortlessly, his hands gripping her ass, his tongue fucking her gently.

— Come on your papacito's tongue, — he growled against her clit, the vibration tearing another orgasm out of her.

— Give me everything, little widow.

She came three more times under his mouth — wrecked, shaking, held up only by his hands — and then he stood, his chin glistening, and kissed her hard, forcing her to taste the whole filthy mix of them.

— Good girl, — he breathed.

— My perfect, devoted, ruined girl.