Banshee's Howling Ecstasy Claims Her Ghostly Highland Laird

The mist clung to the crumbled stones of Dunravens Castle like a lover who refused to let go. Rowan McAllister pulled her rain jacket tighter around her curves, boots crunching over centuries of fallen masonry as she swept the beam of her flashlight across the inner bailey. At twenty-eight, the American paranormal investigator had chased ghosts from Savannah to Prague, but nothing had prepared her for the electric prickle that raced up her spine the moment she stepped through the broken archway.

The air grew heavier, colder, scented with wet heather and old iron. Her breath fogged in front of her. Then the fog thickened, coalesced, and took the shape of a man.

He was massive.

Broad shoulders strained against the spectral folds of a plaid kilt, the fabric translucent yet detailed enough to show the heavy leather belt and the dull gleam of a phantom dirk. His chest was bare beneath a half-draped tartan, every carved muscle limned in faint blue-white light. Black hair fell to his shoulders, framing a brutally handsome face scarred by old battles. His eyes burned like twin emeralds lit from within.

Laird Callum MacTavish.

Rowan’s research had been thorough. Died 1746 at Culloden, last laird of Dunravens, said to haunt these stones forever searching for a woman brave enough to match his war-lust in the bedroom. The legends had always sounded like horny folklore. Until now.

The ghost’s gaze locked on her. A slow, predatory smile curved his mouth.

“Ye smell alive, lass,” he rumbled, voice layered with the echo of distant bagpipes and clashing steel. “Warm. Wet already. I can taste it on the wind.”

Rowan’s thighs clenched involuntarily. A strange heat bloomed low in her belly, spreading outward like liquid fire. Her throat tightened. When she opened her mouth to answer, the sound that emerged wasn’t her usual smoky alto.

It was a low, trembling keen—half moan, half otherworldly note—that vibrated through the stones and made the laird’s kilt twitch visibly.

Callum’s glowing eyes widened. “Banshee,” he growled, stepping closer. Each footfall left faint frost on the flagstones. “The blood of the old ones runs in ye. I felt it the moment ye crossed the threshold. Yer cunt is waking her up.”

Rowan tried to speak again. Another helpless, throaty wail slipped out instead, longer this time, curling around the laird’s spectral form like invisible hands. The front of his kilt lifted, the heavy shape of an enormous cock pushing against the phantom wool. Even translucent, it was terrifyingly thick, veins faintly glowing, the head already slick with ghostly pre-cum that shimmered like liquid starlight.

“Oh God,” Rowan whispered, but the words fractured into another rising keen that made her own nipples ache against her bra. Her pussy fluttered, suddenly drenched, clit throbbing in time with the eerie music pouring from her throat. She could feel the banshee inside her stretching, purring, hungry for the dead warrior standing before her.

Callum’s control snapped.

In two strides he was on her. His hands—freezing yet crackling with supernatural energy—seized her hips and slammed her back against the nearest wall. Ancient stone scraped her shoulders through her jacket. The contrast between the icy grip of his fingers and the burning need between her legs made her cry out, the sound spiraling into a full banshee moan that shook dust from the rafters.

“Two hundred and seventy years without a warm cunt,” he snarled against her ear, lips brushing her skin and leaving trails of frost. “I will no’ be gentle, banshee. I mean to ruin ye.”

“Yes,” Rowan gasped, fingers clawing at his massive shoulders. The muscle there felt strangely solid now, as if her rising wails were feeding him power. “Take it. Take me. I need—fuck—I need you inside me.”

His hands tore at her clothes with effortless strength. Jacket ripped open, shirt shredded, bra yanked down so hard her full breasts spilled free into the cold air. Callum groaned at the sight of her stiff pink nipples and immediately latched onto one with his mouth. The shock of icy lips and tongue sent a bolt of pure pleasure-pain straight to her core. Rowan’s head fell back against the stone and the wail that tore from her was louder, richer, soaked in raw lust. The sound visibly throbbed along the laird’s glowing cock, making it surge another inch longer beneath the kilt.

He dropped to his knees only long enough to rip her jeans and soaked panties down her legs in one brutal motion. Then he rose again, lifting her effortlessly. Rowan’s back scraped stone as he pinned her there, thick thighs spread obscenely around his hips. The head of his spectral cock—now leaking freezing trails of ectoplasmic fluid—nudged against her dripping folds.

“Sing for me, banshee,” he commanded, voice rough as gravel.