The Moan Of Hallows’ Eve (Teaser)

The front door creaked open with the jingle of keys and a gust of autumn air.

Liam stepped inside, arms full — paper bag rustling with Halloween candy and a string of plastic skeleton lights tangled around his wrist. A fresh bunch of Thai basil peeked out from the top of the bag.

“Hey, babe?” he called. “Got the goods. And guess who snagged the last ghost prop at the Dollar Store?”

Silence.

Not tense. Just… still.

The house felt oddly warm. A humid, low heat, like the air after a storm. The smell of curry hit next, rich and heavy.

He glanced toward the kitchen. The lights were low, only the stovetop glowed orange. The faint hum of the overhead fan buzzed.

Then he saw her.

She stood by the counter, back turned, barefoot, wearing nothing but the oversized wifebeater. It clung to her like a second skin. Damp in places, translucent in others. Her hair was loose, curls wild and slightly matted at the ends, like she’d just come out of a long nap. 

She turned slowly, as if time had no grip on her anymore.

Her eyes met his.

Something in them had changed.

“Did you get the basil?” she asked, smiling oddly.

Liam froze in the doorway, eyes raking over her.

It was Tara — but not quite the Tara he’d left.

There was something… sharper in her silhouette. Her posture, her presence.

She looked like sex personified. Flushed, radiant, slightly undone. Did she…? Had she—

His cock twitched in his jeans.

She stepped forward, hips rolling with prowling grace, each movement measured, as if she’d rehearsed it for the pleasure of her own body moving.

“Tara,” he murmured.

She smiled, slow and wicked, and took one step closer. Her fingers skimmed the fabric of his coat, tracing the line of his zipper.

“I was thinking,” she said, lips barely parted. “About your name.”

His brow ticked. “What about it?”

“How it’s mine now.” Her voice dropped, syrup-thick. “Mrs. Liam Donovan.”

She tasted the name like wine, each syllable pronounced with indulgence.

“I practiced saying it while you were out,” she added, leaning into him. Her mouth grazed his jaw. “Mrs. Liam Donovan. Fuckable, filthy, Mrs. Donovan.”

He swallowed hard.

“I love how it sounds when I come,” she whispered. “Wanna hear?”

His pulse kicked like a drum in his throat.

She leaned back a fraction, watching him. 

***

Liam laughed, a low, giddy sound. “You’re going to kill me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let me at least eat something before you drag me into round two.”

Tara blinked, then grinned — sweet, almost shy. For a heartbeat she seemed to soften, like she’d just stepped out of a dream. “Fine,” she said, backing off with a mock pout. “Food first.”

She turned, moving with that same grace, but lighter now, less predatory. She handed him plates from the cupboard and, as he set the table, she washed the basil under the tap, breaking it apart with her fingers and dropping it directly into the curry. The smell rose at once, bright and sharp. She set the rice and the steaming pot down between them.

They ate together at the small kitchen table, knees bumping, teasing each other with bites of curry and mouthfuls of rice, the heat of the food matching the warmth still coiling under their skin. He told her about the chaos downtown — kids in costumes, last-minute shoppers, the checkout line — and she listened, eyes sparkling, still half-lost somewhere he couldn’t see.

When they’d scraped the plates clean, she stood and drifted to the freezer without a word. He watched her pull out a tub of ice cream, easing the lid with a quiet thud.

Instead of bowls and spoons, she carried the tub to him, still in that oversized shirt, still barefoot. She set it on the table, then climbed up after it, straddling him with a slow, liquid roll of her hips until she was perched on the edge of the table, one leg on each side of his chair.

She opened herself to him, the shirt hiked high now, no thong in sight — and dipped two fingers into the ice cream. A bead of cold cream slid down her inner thigh. She shivered and smiled.

“Dessert,” she murmured, holding his gaze. “Eat it off me.”

Liam’s eyes flicked down, then back up to meet hers. His breath caught. There was mischief there, but something else, too. A darker shimmer beneath the play, like her pupils had swallowed the light. For a second he swore her eyes looked older, heavier, as if another woman was watching through them.

“You serious?” he asked, voice already thick.

Tara dipped her fingers into the tub again, dragging another swirl of melting vanilla cream along the inside of her thigh. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

She leaned back slightly, bracing herself on her palms, legs spread wider. The overhead light caught on the slick trail of cream tracing her skin. Her pussy was already glistening, flushed, and bare beneath the rising steam of the curry-scented kitchen.

Liam didn’t speak. He pushed his chair back just enough to lower himself between her legs, his hands running along her thighs, following the cold path she’d drawn. He kissed along the line of cream, tongue warm against the chill. Tara sucked in a breath, her head tipping back.

She dipped her fingers into the tub again, then dabbed a cold, creamy dollop onto the top of her thigh. Her eyes never left his.

“Lick,” she said. Not a request. A command.

Liam didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, tongue dragging over her skin, collecting the melting cream in one slow stroke. She shivered from the contrast, from the heat in his gaze, from the way her body had become a canvas for pleasure.

Before he finished, she pressed another dab just above the last. “There.”

He chased it.

“And there,” she whispered, smearing a trail higher up, just beside her inner thigh, where her pulse thudded under warm skin. His tongue followed blindly, hungrily, as if guided by her scent alone.

Tara let out a soft, pleased sound, then sat upright, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She grabbed the hem of the oversized wifebeater and pulled it off in one fluid motion. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, flushed and peaked from arousal and the cool air.

Without a word, she dipped into the tub again and swirled her fingers across one nipple, coating it with cream.

“Now here,” she said, voice low, just a touch darker.

Liam surged forward. He sucked the cream from her nipple, letting his tongue swirl before pulling back to look at her, eyes glazed. Her back arched toward him, offering the other.

She reached for the tub again. “You’re not done.”

Another chilled kiss of vanilla hit her breast, just above the areola.

“Lick.”

He obeyed, trailing his mouth across her skin like she was the only flavor he’d ever need.

“Good boy,” she purred, fingers in his hair now, holding him there.

Her thighs tightened around his ribs as he licked and suckled and kissed every speck she gave him. She guided him like she was writing a spell across her body, and he — wide-eyed, breathless — followed every stroke.

“Tara…” he murmured, voice cracking under the weight of hunger and awe.

But she wasn’t done. 

Looking straight at him, she smeared a thick swirl of cream down the center of her chest and over her belly, stopping just where her pubis met her labia.

She tilted her head. Her eyes shimmered, the pupils darker than they’d been earlier. Almost glowing.

“Now finish dessert.”

And she dipped her fingers into the tub again, scooped out a thick mound of melting ice cream. She let it sit, dripping, right at the apex of her sex.

The shock of cold against heat made her gasp. Her hips rolled forward on instinct, her breath coming out in a shaky laugh. “Oh, that’s…” she whispered, eyes fluttering, letting it melt into a glossy sheen over her folds.

With both hands she reached down, spreading herself open, inner labia glistening, clit peeking, the cold cream sliding over dark pink. Her skin quivered where her own fingers stretched her, the contrast making her shiver and moan at the same time.

Liam stared, eyes wide, lips parted. The scent of her, the sight of her, ice cream dripping down between her thighs — knocked the air from his chest. He licked his lips unconsciously, his hands gripping the edge of the table like he might fall forward.

Tara cupped his face in both hands, forcing his gaze up to meet hers. Her eyes glowed faintly, a shimmer of amber threaded through the green. Her voice dropped to a low, velvety rasp.

“Here,” she murmured, tilting her hips toward him so the cream ran down and pooled just above her opening. “Lick me here.”