Ravenhurst Manor

By William Campbell

Charles Ravenhurst built the 53-room manor house on a high cliff overlooking the oil town of Bartlesville, Oklahoma. After Charles and his family died mysteriously within its limestone walls it was abandoned for many years until Charles' only surviving relative John was located. John and his wife Brandy decide to solve the mystery of the violent deaths, but after moving in they soon discover that the house is just as mysterious as the deaths. During their exploration of the house and grounds they discover the family crypt which hides the entrance to an underground tunnel leading to a circular room full of what appears to be straight off the bridge of the USS Enterprise. If it's a control room, what does it control and who else knows of its existence? At least one person knows, and he is determined to own the house no matter what it takes -- even if he has to kill John and Brandy to obtain it. Fortunately the house has other ideas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Campbell
• Release date: Aug 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465764980

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Ravenhurst Manor

William Michael Campbell

Copyright © 2009 William Michael Campbell

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-1-4657-6498-0

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Cover Art and Illustrations © William Michael Campbell

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Chapter 1

The house wasn’t at all like the pictures. They had been taken at a distance with a cheap disposable camera so there was nothing which would give him some indication of scale. Now that he was standing in front of it, he realized that it was much bigger than he had thought. In fact, it was huge; the word house was an understatement—this was a mansion.

Jonathan Ravenhurst leaned against his car and craned his neck, comparing the pictures to the limestone building which towered above him. The main entryway was set in the middle of the house; two curving stairways set at opposing angles led from a courtyard up to a large porch which jutted out, protected by a portico supported by massive stone columns.

At the corners of the main structure were round towers some fifteen feet in diameter, rising above the steep roof. Small rectangular diamond-paned windows wound helically up the towers, suggesting the presence of staircases. Wings curved out at an angle from either side of the main house, making the entire structure crescent-shaped.

A circular drive surrounding what once had been a formal garden completed the picture, which is where John’s old Corvette was now parked. He tossed the pictures back in the car and wandered around, taking it all in. Why anyone in their right mind would build something like this on a high hill overlooking Bartlesville, Oklahoma was beyond John’s imagination.

And now Ravenhurst Manor was all his. He had never known his biological parents so he had been shocked to discover that he had inherited it. While some might have been excited at the prospect of owning a baronial mansion, John was not. The master of this place should be a old gray-haired . . . baron, he guessed the word was, or maybe a guy wearing a cape with long, sharp teeth. And a house this big was bound to be haunted; John imagined séances being held in the tea room, or wherever one held séances.

The weather was not cooperating with the mood of the scene. John’s introduction to the manor should have been during the middle of a thunderstorm: the wind screaming, the towers and chimneys jutting above the swaying trees—the classic dark and stormy night. Unfortunately, the sun was high in the sky; it was a beautiful spring day, and had there been any flowers in the formal garden, they would have been in full bloom.

There was a fountain just off the courtyard; a concrete bowl about fifteen feet in diameter, with a smaller one above it, supporting life-sized bronze statues of three nude girls pouring water out of pitchers. Now the pitchers were empty and the fountain was full of the previous autumn’s dead leaves.

John walked around the fountain, staring up at the maidens. They were gazing down, their long wild hair flying, standing with their feet spread apart. He was surprised to discover that they were anatomically correct—their accurately-sculpted features were prominently displayed, exaggerated by the angle at which they were viewed—it was the ultimate up-skirt shot. John wasn’t normally aroused by statues, but the sculptor had done his work well; from a certain vantage point, each of the girls looked down into his face, faint smiles on their lips, teasing him, beckoning to him. He resisted the urge to scramble up the fountain and meet the girls face-to-face, so to speak.

John climbed one of the stairways to the porch and approached the large entry doors. They were at least ten feet high, highly ornamented, laminated with copper which was green with age. In the middle of each door was a large carved R, obviously representing the Ravenhurst family.

The attorney had mailed him a set of keys along with the deed. He pulled them out of his pocket; the first three failed to work, the fourth slipped neatly into the keyhole and turned—the bolt slid back. John wondered if the door would creak when he opened it, the sound echoing ominously throughout the foyer—haunted houses always had creaky doors. No luck there, either—the door swung in as if the hinges had just been oiled. The opening paragraph from a novel ran through his mind: Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone. Despite the morning heat, a chill ran up John’s spine. This was Ravenhurst Manor, not Shirley Jackson’s Hill House. Still . . .

The foyer was illuminated by the multi-colored light from tall Tiffany-style stained glass windows set on either side of the entry doors. Even these depicted nude maidens: one of them contemplated a red rose, the other held a white dove in her hand.

The foyer floor was set in black and white marble tile laid checkerboard-style on the diagonal. On opposite sides of the foyer were mahogany staircases which wound up to a balustraded balcony running along the rear wall of the foyer. John could just make out some doors which ran along the balcony. Set at intervals along the side walls of the foyer were gothic arches opening into other rooms and life-sized pink alabaster statues of fantastically beautiful women, all of them nude and anatomically correct, as had been the maidens in the fountain and the windows. Apparently the former owner of the manor had been an admirer of the female figure and a stickler for realism.

John walked around the mahogany-paneled walls, trying to locate some light switches. He found a row of them; they were the old-fashioned kind, small round buttons, set in pairs. Push them as he would, he got no response from the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Not that he expected them to work; no one had lived in the mansion for nine years.

Without a powerful flashlight—and maybe a team of ghostbusters—John was not eager to explore. He was not superstitious, but the old mansion was starting to spook him.

Whatever walked there, walked alone . . .

He stepped back out onto the porch, pulling the door shut and locking it, then he walked down the stairway and climbed back in his Corvette.

There was a portal over the road at the far end of the east wing. John drove through; it led to a rear courtyard, this one bordered by a number of garage doors and what were probably some stables. Beyond the courtyard and directly behind the house was a large concrete patio and a swimming pool. John’s eyes lit up when he saw this; obviously it had been added sometime after the original house had been built.

He stopped the car and walked over to the pool. It was empty, the bottom coated with some kind of black slime, probably from rotten vegetation and rain water. The diving board was propped up against a small building which protruded from the main edifice; John assumed it was a bath house.

If John had had the money, this would have been the perfect place for a keg party; he could have invited half the population of Bartlesville, but he had no desire to invite any of his old high school acquaintances to a party, except for maybe one.

John had left Bartlesville twelve years ago after high school graduation and he hadn’t been back since. There hadn’t been any reason to come back, really; his parents were both dead, he had no brothers or sisters, and the girl he had loved had dumped him long ago.

John had always been told that his parents had adopted him when he was three days old. It had been only four months ago that an attorney had contacted him, informing him that he was a Ravenhurst; something his adopted parents had never told him. There was only one stipulation to his inheritance: he must legally change his surname to Ravenhurst. So he had scraped up three hundred dollars and changed it; he was no longer Jonathan Lee Robison, he was now Jonathan Lee Ravenhurst. What’s in a name, anyway, he figured.

John had grown up in Bartlesville. He had known of the Ravenhursts; they had been a legend. Charles Ravenhurst had been one of the early oil tycoons, along with men with names like Phillips, Sinclair, Getty and Skelly. All of them, plus many others, had come to Bartlesville and had gotten their start in this small town, leasing land from the Osage Indians and pumping oil as fast as they could drill for it. J. Paul Getty, once the richest man in America, had gotten his start selling copies of The Saturday Evening Post on a street corner in downtown Bartlesville.

The oil had made them rich, and old Charles had been among them. The Ravenhursts had lived on Raven Hill (what else would they call it?) since the 1930s; John had read the accounts of large social events at Ravenhurst Manor while he was growing up, but his station in life did not include invitations to such events; his father—his adopted father—was a humble draftsman with Phillips Petroleum Company—now ConocoPhillips—which was headquartered in Bartlesville.

So John had never driven up Raven Hill, much less seen the manor house close up. The citizens of Bartlesville could see it at a distance, of course; it towered high above them like a fortress at the top of a rugged cliff—it was as if old Charles had had a bone to pick and had built the estate where he could look down on the town and thumb his nose at the peasants.

Sometime in the mid-1990s, Charles Ravenhurst had died. Ravenhurst Petroleum had suffered during the 1970s oil crunch and some said the old man had died deeply in debt. Charles was the last Ravenhurst in residence, and after his death it had sat on Raven Hill, empty and abandoned.

As John stood by the pool, he imagined he could hear the squeals of young debutantes as they splashed in the pool and dived off the board. Wealthy young men chased them around the pool, hoisting them on their shoulders, swimming up to them and pulling off their bikini bottoms, carrying them into the bath house to make passionate love. John opened his eyes; the voices faded, the pool was empty.

He left the estate, winding his Corvette down the hill, through the iron gates, and then onto Highway 123 and north into Bartlesville. Cruising through the downtown area, he pulled into the Best Western motel and checked in, paying for three days in advance. He unloaded his luggage rack and laid on the bed, looking at the pictures again.

The attorney had told him that when old Charles Ravenhurst died, a search had been made to locate any living relatives. Charles had had a son and three daughters. The son, a product of Charles’ second marriage, had died in 1967. The three daughters had been by his third wife, Helen. The two oldest daughters had died in the early 1990s, and the whereabouts of the youngest daughter Sarah was unknown; she had been lost in a boating mishap. Her body had never been found, and after three years she had been declared legally dead. Because there were no living heirs, the Ravenhurst estate had sat in limbo for nine years, until some records had uncovered John’s adoption and the attorney had tracked him to Lawrence, Kansas.

The attorney suggested that John may have been born out of wedlock after Charles’s second divorce and before his third marriage. His biological mother’s name was listed as Claire Louise Nellis. It was unknown why Charles had not married Claire, but it was surmised that Nellis was Claire’s married name and that John had been the product of an extramarital affair. The lawyer volunteered to trace Claire—for a fee—but John was uninterested and couldn’t afford it, anyway—an assistant professor didn’t make much money.

The attorney had also given him a map of the manor house and surrounding grounds. The house itself, all 58 rooms, sat on 143 acres, most of it wooded except for the five acres surrounding the house. What in the world was he going to do with a monstrosity like that? It wouldn’t be suitable for habitation; it would cost a fortune to heat and he doubted if one of its features was air conditioning. Just getting the power reconnected would probably cost more than he had in the bank, and the first month’s electric bill would bankrupt him. And then there was the matter of property tax and insurance.

For several million dollars, it could be turned into a resort hotel, but the little city of Bartlesville was too small to support a hotel of that size. No, John’s best bet was to sell Ravenhurst Manor. Perhaps Osage County or the City of Bartlesville would be interested in purchasing it; make it into a museum or something. He’d check into that, but first he wanted to explore the house; maybe there was a vault in the basement full of Helen Ravenhurst’s jewelry or something, maybe some silver. He knew she had died in 1990, only a year before her two oldest daughters had died. No wonder old Charles had died a raving lunatic—he had lost his wife and three daughters inside the space of three years.

Sometime in the middle of all this heavy thought, John dozed off. When he awoke, it was six-thirty and he was hungry. Now is the time, he told himself, to find out if she’s still around. He had made it a point to drive past the Emerald Bar and Grill on his way into town; it hadn’t changed except for a new sign above the entrance.

The bar had been owned by a retired Navy Captain, Abner VanSkike. His only daughter Brandy Lynn had been John’s childhood sweetheart; they had known each other all through grade school and high school.

Brandy had been more than just a sweetheart. John and Brandy had been inseparable during their youth, had dated exclusively, had chosen each other to learn about the wonderful world of sex. It was a given between them that they would eventually marry and spend the rest of their lives together.

But then the captain had died prematurely; Brandy dropped out of high school and took over the bar. She was only sixteen at the time and could not legally serve liquor, but off-duty policemen frequented the bar and kept her secret; they also protected her from men who knew she was young and alone in the world.

Every evening, Brandy would get out the captain’s old Martin guitar and sit on a stool in front of the men, singing the Celtic songs the captain had taught her. The older bar flies, friends of the late captain, had sat and listened with tears in their eyes; they remembered Brandy doing this when she had been but a small girl sitting on the captain’s lap.

John pulled into the parking lot and walked into the Emerald Bar and Grill; there was no hostess to seat him so he found a table near the front and sat. No waitress appeared, so he wandered through an open doorway and stood at the bar. The bartender had her back turned to him. He pulled up a stool and cleared his throat; the girl turned around—it was Brandy.

Brandy squinted at him, then her eyes went wide. Jonathan? she gasped. My god, Jonathan! What are you doing here?

I came to see you, he replied. How are you, Brandy?

Brandy stared at him; her green eyes sparkling. She was a very small girl; she looked even smaller standing behind the bar counter. Her jet-black hair was still long and wavy; it tumbled down over her shoulders and back. Her face was oval and delicate; she wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any—she was as beautiful as the day he had last seen her over twelve years ago.

Brandy smiled at him. Well, she said, the restaurant is closed and you’re the only one in the bar. It’s been this way for months now. Other than that, I’m fine. Why did you come back, Jonathan? I thought you were some hotshot doctor or something in Kansas.

John chuckled. The doctor part is semi-correct; I’m not a physician, I have a doctorate in cybernetics. As for the hotshot part, I’m a lowly assistant professor at the University of Kansas.

Wow, she said, A professor! Oh—can I get you a drink or something? I’m being a terrible hostess.

No, you’re not. Uh, I’ll have a rum and Coke.

I should have known that—it’s always been your drink. With a slice of lime, right?

That’s right—you remembered! Brandy, I’m really surprised to see you here after all these years. I’d have thought a handsome guy would have married you and carried you away from this place.

Brandy snorted as she mixed his drink. It almost happened. I did get married, a long time ago. It was after you left for college. A guy came in flashing a big roll of hundred-dollar bills. Of course a lot of guys flashed money, but this one was different, or so I thought. He said he was some government man from Tulsa; said he was up here on some sort of project up out at the airport. All hush-hush because of some government thing he said was out there. ‘Moon Dust,’ he called it, but nobody I’ve talked to has ever heard of such a place. He said he . . . but I’m rattling on. Sorry, I tend to get a little bored these days. Here’s your drink.

Thanks. How much?

No, it’s on the house. So what about you? Married? Kids? House with a white picket fence?

None of the above, he answered. No wife, no girlfriend, no lover. One cat, named Ondine; she’s staying with my next door neighbor.

I had a cat once, Brandy said, staring off into the distance. His name was Puddy; you know—for ‘Puddy-Tat.’

I know, said John. You used to tie a bow on him and he hated it.

That’s right, she said. "Of course you’d remember—you spent half your time at my house. I was at your house the other half of the time. Jonathan, my feet are killing me; do you mind if we sit somewhere?"

No, he replied. I’d really like that.

Great, she said, ducking under the end of the counter. Laura didn’t have to duck far, she was just a little over five feet tall. She was dressed in a short black skirt and white blouse, over which was a black vest. She had a green string tie around her collar which matched her emerald eyes; John guessed it was her uniform. Her legs were glossy and smooth; she had no need of pantyhose.

She led him to a booth in the corner; he slid in and she sat opposite him, a glass of water in her hand.

Ahhhh, she said, stretching. My feet always did give me problems; lately they’ve gotten worse. So, where were we?

You were telling me about the government man.

Are you sure you want to hear about this? It’s really boring.

Not to me, it isn’t—we have twelve years to catch up on.

"Okay, you asked for it. Anyway, he said he was on this secret government project. You know how the Air Force used to have that big radar base up on the hill and then they moved it to a big hangar at the airport? Well, that’s what he said he was working on. So, he asks when do I get off work and I tell him I own the joint, so he says to let my employees take over—that’s when I had employees—and he takes me to the best restaurant in town. I’d never been able to eat there in my life.

Well, things led to more things, and he said he was going to take me away from all this—buy me a house in Tulsa and get me a car—the whole bit. And I bought the whole thing, hook, line and sinker. I married him, but the guy turned out to be an asshole; gambled at the Indian casinos all the time and he couldn’t keep his hands off of other women.

Good grief. How long were you married?

Six months and three days. You know what he said to me? He said I was the worst piece of pussy he had ever had. That part was probably true.

Wow—I don’t know what to say.

Oh, it was years ago, Jonathan. It just pisses me off every time I think about it. I didn’t mean to dump my bucket on you.

No, no, that’s all right—I want to know what you’ve been doing. After all, we share a very special secret moment between us—that is, if you even remember."

Brandy giggled. Oh yes, I remember. We were, what—thirteen when we began exploring our sexuality? And as I remember, your secret was pretty little.

I was only thirteen, he grinned, "and it was a good thing it was little because your secret was so little I could barely get it in."

I was just teasing you, she said. I’ll never forget that afternoon, Jonathan. Who could forget their first time? You were gentle, even if neither one of us knew what we were doing.

Oh, I don’t know. If I remember correctly, you had a huge orgasm—or at least you said you did.

No, it was real, all right, and as I remember, you had one, too. I guess we both did something right.

And it got better and better the more we practiced.

Yes, it did. After you let me be on top. I always do better when I’m in control.

I believe that—you always were a survivor. You said you haven’t had many customers for months now. What happened?

Brandy sighed and said, It’s because of Snakeweed’s Emporium and Eating Establishment. New place, opened four months ago, west of here where the original Pizza Hut used to be. That’s where everybody goes now. Business was okay until Snakeweed showed up. Some Cherokee Indian owns three of them. I figure two more months and I’m bankrupt.

That sucks, Brandy.

"Yes and no. I’ve been running the Emerald since I was sixteen years old, Jonathan. I’ve never known any other life—I can mix drinks you’ve never heard of; I’ve only been stumped once. Well, okay—twice. If I lose the bar, what will I do? I’ll be damned if I’ll tend bar for anybody else.

On the other hand, I keep telling myself that maybe this is the best thing that can happen; if I’m ever going to do anything else, now is the time to do it. I just don’t know what it is, yet. Is that somebody out there in the parking lot?

John looked over her shoulder; there was a middle-aged couple climbing out of a Lincoln Town Car.

Yeah, he answered her. You have customers.

Brandy waited until they had come in. Sorry folks, she said. We’re closed.

They turned around and left; Brandy slid out of the booth and locked the door, turning the Open sign around so that it said Closed. Then she came back to the booth.

There, she said. Now we won’t be disturbed. I was thinking of closing, anyway. You want another drink?

Only if you let me pay for it.

Deal—I’ll bring the whole bottle and sell it to you wholesale. She fetched a fifth of Bacardi light, a two-liter bottle of Coke, a bucket of ice and a glass for herself.

Okay, she said. This is great, seeing you again. You were my only friend, Jonathan; I dropped out of school so I didn’t know anybody, and even if I had, they were too young to come in the bar. I’ve dated a few guys that came in, but I’ve learned over the years that a bar is no place to meet a man, or a woman either, for that matter—not if you’re looking for a long-term relationship. You’re not a bar fly, are you?

Not really, he said. Actually, I came in because I was curious about you. Also, I wanted to get something to eat. You used to serve excellent corned beef.

Yeah, she said, well, my cook quit three months ago. I can offer you some microwave popcorn and some packets of taco sauce I stole from Taco Bell.

John laughed. I’ll tell you what, Brandy—since you’re closed anyway, why don’t I take us somewhere to eat? I don’t have a roll of hundred-dollar bills so I can’t take you to the fanciest restaurant, but I can do better than McDonald’s.

You’ve got yourself a date, and I know just the place: Snakeweed’s. I haven’t been in there yet—I want to scope the place out. Give me a second to change; I’ll be right back.

John wandered around the bar. Brandy had done it all in a nautical theme, with models of sailing ships, oars, ropes, big ship’s wheels and other things reminiscent of the sea.

She came back wearing a stretchy black sleeveless dress of T-shirt material which came halfway down her thighs; it fit her like a glove. John remembered her body well, he had explored every inch of it in his youth. Wow, he said, admiring her. You look fantastic!

Brandy put her hands on his shoulders. So do you, she said. I’d say we’re doing pretty good for thirty-year-olds. She reached up on tiptoe and gave him a little kiss on the lips. That’s for coming back to me, she whispered.

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Snakeweed’s was all done up with Chinese-manufactured American Indian artifacts; they were seated by a girl dressed as an Indian princess, with a fake eagle feather in her hair, a hip-hugging leather miniskirt and a little bikini top of small leather triangles held against her large breasts with leather thongs. Her nipples were evident through the thin leather; John could understand why the place was crowded.

The girl leaned over the table as she took their orders, giving John a bird’s-eye view of her cleavage. She also leaned against the corner of the table, pressing it into her crotch.

Brandy snorted as she watched the girl’s antics. That’s something I haven’t tried, she said. Maybe I should hire a few of these Hooter’s wannabes and go topless, wear little tiny shamrocks on my nipples. Bottomless would even be more exciting.

John laughed. You’d outdo all of them, Brandy—I always did like your hooters—they’re very squeezable.

Squeezable hooters, Brandy snickered. You men are all alike. You really think they’re squeezable?

I know from first-hand experience.

Humph—they barely filled out my B-cup bra when you fondled them. Oh, well. So tell me, Doctor Robison: why in the world would you come back to Bartlesville?

You’re not going to believe this, he replied. He explained about the attorney and the mansion and the Ravenhurst name. This is a picture of the house, he concluded, sliding one of the photos across the table.

Holy shit! she gasped, holding it in the light. This thing is yours?

Yep, every nook and cranny.

Wow. I’ve always dreamed of living in a castle, with butlers and maids and cooks to jump at my command. I was in the house, one time—I tended bar for some bash they were having. Everybody was wearing gowns and tuxedos and they even had an orchestra—I think it was some girl’s debutante party. It was just like out of Cinderella, except I wasn’t wearing glass slippers; I think I had on a pair of Red Wing shoes because my feet hurt so bad. They had it in this huge ballroom. I remember it even had a big organ; there were thousands of pipes on the wall and some more behind a screen at the other end. I wonder if it’s still there.

I don’t know, John replied. How would you like to find out?

You mean go up there?

Sure—I just stuck my head inside, I haven’t explored the place. I was going to do that tomorrow morning. Would you like to come?

Hell yes, I’d like to come. I don’t open until four o’clock, that pretty much gives us all day. And we’ll need it, too—the place has hundreds of rooms.

Great, said John. It’s a date, then. I’ll get us some flashlights and some bread so we can drop crumbs along the way.

Brandy giggled. It’s not a cave, silly.

The waitress brought their orders: huge hamburgers, side orders of crispy hand-cut French fries, and frosty mugs of beer.

Mmmm, said Brandy, this burger is fantastic. I might as well give up; I can’t compete with this.

The Emerald doesn’t seem like a burger joint, anyway, said John. If I remember correctly, there were always a bunch of Irish guys sitting around tables drinking ale and swapping tales.

Yeah, Brandy said wistfully, but those guys are all gone now—they’re up there spinning yarns with the captain. It’s all changed, Jonathan. I need to just sell out and move on.

Seems to me that would be a shame, he said. I wish I had some money to help you, but I don’t.

Thanks, Jonathan—that’s sweet. But, it’s the story of my life. And after that asshole with the hundred-dollar bills, I’ve decided that I don’t want a man for his money. If you had come into my bar flashing a roll, I wouldn’t have given you the time of day, John Robison or no John Robison. Except that it’s Ravenhurst now. I just can’t get over seeing you again, and now you’ve got a fancy name and a fancy house.

But no money. What in the hell am I going to do with Ravenhurst Manor, Brandy?

Hmm. Well, the first thing I’d do would be to get it declared some sort of historical landmark, then I’d set up some kind of non-profit thing as a tax dodge and conduct tours. Do you know if it’s even furnished?

I have no idea—there was nothing in the foyer except a bunch of naked lady statues, and that’s as far as I got.

Brandy giggled. Knowing you, I can guess why you never got past the naked lady statues. Seriously—if nothing else, you could at least sell the furniture; it must be worth something.

I hadn’t thought of that, he admitted. I’m glad I met you again, Brandy. For a lot of reasons.

I’m glad I met you again, too, Jonathan. It’s been years since I just sat with somebody and talked. Conversation in my bar usually goes something like, ‘What color panties are you wearing tonight?’ I tell them I’m not wearing any; they don’t know what to make of that.

John laughed. "So what color are they?"

Why, Jonathan—you’re just like all the rest. Brandy’s green eyes stared into his. No, you’re not. Unless you’ve changed, you’re still the sweet gentle guy you always were. I’ll answer your question—give me your hand.

Huh?

Give me your hand under the table.

John put his arm under the table; Brandy took his hand and pressed his palm on the inside of her smooth thigh, slowly sliding it up under her dress.

You told them the truth, he whispered. His hand caressed her; she moved her knees apart and slid toward him as his fingertips crept up her thigh.

Oh, God, she gasped, her eyes going wide. Are you finished eating?

I am if you are.

Then let’s get out of here.

He paid the waitress and they walked to his car. He opened her door, but instead of climbing in, she put her arms around his waist, pulling him against her; she was breathing heavily. My place or yours? she breathed.

Mine’s closer, he said. Brandy slid into the seat and slid down, her dress riding up around her hips. Hurry, Jonathan, she said.

John drove erratically the four blocks to his motel room, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand between Brandy’s legs. No sooner were they inside than Brandy was in his arms, her mouth over his, her tongue exploring. John wrapped his hands around her waist, slid them down to her ass and pulled the dress up. Brandy moaned deep in her throat, tugging the dress off over her head as John struggled out of his clothes.

Picking her up, he carried her to the bed and laid her down gently, then he stretched out alongside her and pulled her against him, kissing her, stroking her back.

Don’t be gentle, she whispered. Hurt me, Jonathan—I need you to hurt me.

He pushed Brandy onto her back, then he crawled between her legs, his hands squeezing her breasts, rubbing her nipples, his lips over hers.

Oh, God . . . she moaned, drawing her knees up and flopping them apart. "Now, Jonathan,"