The Black Room: Door Six

by Jasinda Wilder

  “I’m not asking you to do that,” I say, looking him directly in the eyes.

  “All I know is that if a woman loves you, she wants you at home, a home that is warm and cozy and filled with comforts” he counters.

  “You said it, not me.” I lean forward, touching my lips to his breastbone; the wool falls off my shoulders, leaving me totally naked in the cool air; my skin pebbles, and my nipples harden to aching diamond points. “Settling has never entered my mind either. I like you wild, Conrad. I like you rough. I rode all but naked, did I not? Without complaint, I might remind you. Do I seem like a woman who needs finery and niceties?”

  “No, but—”

  “No but nothing, Conrad Killian.” I unbuckle his belt, toss it aside, and tug at his kilt, loosening it slowly. “Take me as I am, or not at all.”

  “Oh, I’ll take you alright,” he rumbles, heat in his voice now.

  I keep loosening, until the tartan comes loose, and then he’s naked, the plaid on the floor around his feet. I take him in my hand and stroke his length. “Promises, promises,” I tease.

  I stare up into his eyes as I caress the enormous length of his cock. He doesn’t move, just stands there with his hands on my ass, watching my small pale hand slide up and plunge down.

  “Your hands are magic, Hannah,” he murmurs.

  “Are they?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

  I sink to my knees, keeping my eyes on his as I tilt my face to one side and wrap my lips lengthwise around his dick. I can barely fit him between my lips, so thick is he. I taste each vein and slither my tongue over the tautened salty flesh, sliding my mouth from tip to root, tickling with my tongue as I move downward. He groans low in his throat as I repeat the wet stutter of my mouth up and down the side of his cock.

  “Jesus, Hannah. The things you do…” he rumbles, scrubbing his hands into my damp hair.

  “If my hands are magic,” I ask, “then what’s this?” One last time I meet his eyes, let him see the small, eager, pleased smile on my lips as I move up a bit further, tilt my head straight…and bury his cock in my mouth.

  “Fuck, Hannah, holy fuck.” He can’t seem to help a thrust, an involuntary shuddering push of his hips, and his hands tighten in my hair. “No words, there are no words for that.”

  I open my throat and take his accidental thrust, then back away and focus on the broad springy tip of his dick, circling it with my tongue as I bob down shallowly. Then I back away and let him fall out of my mouth. “No? Not one word you can think of?”

  He cups my cheeks in his hands, his brow furrowed, jaw clenched, chest heaving. Then his thumb brushes across my lips, as if remembering the kiss. Or perhaps remembering the feel of those lips wrapped around his erection. He slips the pad of his thumb between my lips, and I open for him, let him tug my jaw open.

  “More,” he whispers, and thrusts himself into my mouth. “That’s one word I can think of.”

  I stretch wide and stare up at him, sitting on my heels, hands on my thighs, and let him slide his cock deeper and deeper into my mouth. His breathing goes shallow and hoarse as he thrusts gently into my mouth, pulls back, then thrusts in again. I palm his ass cheeks and pull him toward me, encouraging him to move. He groans, and his next thrust is deeper, harder.

  “Fucking hell, Hannah.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm?” I hum, turning the question into a wordless encouragement.

  He pulls back and now I can swallow properly without him in my throat and breathe for a moment, and then he’s pushing in again and immediately pulling back out, and I dig my fingernails into the hard muscle of his ass and jerk him toward me.

  He pulls back out completely, breathing hard, abs tensed. “Dammit, lass, you’ve got me ready to blow already.”

  I stroke him with both hands, one above the other, plunge my fists roughly up and down as he growls. “What if I told you to let go?”

  He’s struggling. “I want to come inside you, Hannah. In your cunt. I need to feel you clench around me as you come.”

  “Yeah?” I keep stroking with my fists, faster now. “You like it when I squeeze around your cock? You like it when I milk your cum out of you?”

  “Fucking hell, Hannah, you’re driving me mad.”

  “Good,” I murmur. “Be mad. Be rough. Be wild. Don’t ask, don’t be gentle, don’t be sweet, don’t be my lover.”

  I let a string of saliva drip from my lips onto the plump pink round of his dick and then smear it hand over hand down his shaft. Now he’s actively holding back, eyes closed tight, abs taut. I plunge my fists around him hard and fast, then, bring him to the edge, until he’s gasping and growling.

  I can tell he’s seconds from coming, and that’s when I stand up.

  He glares at me. “Not how I thought that was going to end, Hannah,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, nothing’s ended, Conrad.” I reach up and grasp his shoulders, tug him downward. “But you left me unfinished in the tub. Fair’s fair, after all.”

  He lets me tug him to his knees, and I lean back against the rough cold stone of the window ledge, spread my legs wide apart, and bury my fingers in his hair. I clutch the long black locks in my fists, and guide his mouth to my cunt.

  “Make me come, Conrad,” I say, my voice deep and husky. “Lick my cunt. Fuck me with your fingers.”

  He goes in, spreading my pussy open with his thumbs, his tongue slatherung wet and hot against my opening and flickering over my clit. I gasp, flexing my hips to push my cunt harder against his mouth. He moans as I writhe, and his tongue probes my slit, pushes in, withdraws and circles my clit, and now I’m helpless to do anything but move against his mouth and gasp.

  “Please, Conrad,” I groan. “Please.”

  “Please what?” he breathes.

  “Don’t stop.” I grind into his mouth, clutch his hair and force him closer. “I need to come.”

  He reaches a hand up and finds my breast, pinches my nipple between forefinger and thumb, pinches hard and rolls it between the pads of his fingers, and then his other hand steals up under his chin and he slips two fingers into my slit. His tongue is wild on my clit as he curls his fingers inside my cunt and slides them out and shoves them back in and curls them, and when he crooks them in a come-here motion, he finds that spot high and deep inside me that sends me shaking and shivering and makes me moan.

  I’m on the cusp within minutes, and he’s relentless in the pursuit of that climax. He knows my body, he knows my cues. Knows when my gasping goes high-pitched and my teeth clench and my hips thrust forward and lock I’m close.

  He fucks me with two thick fingers, grinding them in and out of my channel and rolls my nipple, the right one, the more sensitive one. He knows even that about me, which nipple is more sensitive.

  “Oh fuck, Conrad, yes, yes…god yes, I’m there, Conrad.” I grind and writhe and thrash and clamp teeth down on a scream as heat blasts through me and tension snaps into bliss, an orgasm barreling through me like a tidal wave.

  My spine arches and my heels leave the floor, my head tips back, and my fingers claw at Conrad’s scalp. He suckles my clit between his teeth and works it with his tongue and lips and teeth, and he’s pinching my nipple so fucking hard it hurts perfectly, the throbbing a mirror of the suckling of his mouth around my clit and the thrusting fuck of his fingers.

  And then, as I’m riding the apex of my climax, he stops it all.

  He stands up, catches me up in his arms, his hands under my thighs, lifting me off the floor. We line up so beautifully, so naturally, so perfectly that he doesn’t even have to guide himself into me, he just has to lift me up and cradle my core against his and his cock slides into my wet aching cunt so smoothly it makes me cry out in relief. He’s inside me, filling me, stretching my pussy open so wide it burns, and no matter how many times I take his cock it still burns and makes me gasp as he fills me, makes me shiver around him, makes me tremble and quiver as he slides deep. Oh, so deep. So fucking deep. I cling to his neck an
d lean backward away from him, hook my legs around his waist and crush my cunt down around him.

  “Oh fuck yes, Conrad. This—this is the magic.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—” his cursing voice is raw. “How can you feel more perfect every single goddamn time I fuck you, Hannah?”

  “Because this is what I meant, a bit ago,” I say, tilting my head forward to meet his eyes, letting him see the ragged vulnerability I’m opening up just for him, because of this. “You and me, Conrad. This? How we feel, together? It’s everything. It fucking means something, goddamn it.”

  He fucks me, then, his eyes on mine, his cock driving into me over and over and over, pounding into me, and it’s so much, so hard, so fast that it’s too much and I come apart there, holding on to him, clinging to him. I fall forward and bury my face in his neck, and he hooks his arms under my knees to stretch me even more wide open, so he can fuck even deeper, and then I’m gone, because the way he’s fucking me now is glorious, incredible. His cock is drilling so deep his balls slap against my ass and he’s driving in until there’s no way I can take any more, but I do, and I’m coming, biting his neck and screaming as my second orgasm rips through me.

  I’m barely aware of him moving. He drops me on the bed, on my back, and I’m staring up at him, gasping, shaking all over. He’s so fucking gorgeous. Long hair wild and loose around his broad, hard shoulders, abs taut and ridged with six-pack muscles, cock glistening with the wetness from my still-spasming cunt. His cock stands up straight against his belly, the tip just below his navel, the shaft curving ever so slightly back toward him. His balls are heavy and taut, veined. He’s a god, this man. And he’s all mine. I wait for him, gasping as the after-shocks ripple through me.

  “I need to come now, Hannah.”

  He climbs onto the bed, kneeling over me. Lifting my legs as he slips back into me, he tucks my feet into his armpits, spreading my thighs apart.

  “Touch yourself, Hannah. I need to feel you come once more, while I’m coming.”

  I’m still throbbing and quivering from the last orgasm, but I press my fingers to my clitoris as he slides slowly home, filling me inch by inch until he’s buried against me. He watches himself, watches his cock disappear into my pussy; I watch him. Watch his face contort as he begins to move, pulling back, thrusting in, and I shake as my fingers press just so and circle with a light fast pressure, and his cock hits me every time he thrusts in, hits just right against that magical spot inside me, and I think it’s him fucking me that has me ready to come within mere seconds rather than my fingers. It’s going to hurt, tearing through me, ripping me apart. I welcome it. My hand slides across my body and finds my nipple and now I’m pinching myself and fingering my clit and he’s fucking me in slow hard thrusts, and I’m shaking, thighs quaking, mouth open, eyes wide, lip quivering, a scream stuck in my throat.

  “Hannah,” Conrad grunts, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, a snarl on his face, in his voice. “Come for me, Hannah. Clench me so I can come.”

  He fucks into me, and his cock hits that spot, and I come, and I can’t stop the scream so I bite down on it and let it seep through the gate of my clenched teeth and I stare up at him, meeting his gaze, refuse to look away as I come, and as I knew it would, it hurts. This pain is beautiful, though, bright and sharp and clear and powerful, a knife slicing inside me, but the pain and the knife are pleasure so taut and exquisite and perfect that it shears through me as an agony of ecstasy.

  “Conrad!” I cry, through gritted teeth.

  His name becomes a sob, and the sob becomes another cry as the orgasm continues to rifle through me, because he’s still fucking, and each thrust pushes me further and further into the climax. I feel my cunt squeezing, clamping, and I bear down as hard as I can, watching him, squeezing with every ounce of strength I have left.

  He snarls like a wolf, releases my legs and falls over me. Plants his hands beside my face and I hook my heels around his ass and claw my hands down his back, raking him as I come and come and come, and now I feel it, now I feel him. He’s coming.

  Oh god, he’s coming.

  I feel the first spurt, and I swear the hot wet rush makes me come again, and I cry out and my fingers dig like claws into the flesh and muscle of his wide hard back, and I’m writhing under him, thrashing against him, clenching with my vaginal muscles around his driving cock.

  He pounds into me, and another wave of his cum fills me, and now I feel it inside me, a wet ocean of his hot seed. Another thrust, harder yet, our flesh slapping together. His cum leaks out of me, again, and again, each time he comes.

  He gives me his weight, then, gasping, still rock-hard inside me.

  I’m still not sated.

  I roll him away to his back, and I surprise him when I slide down his body and take his cock into my mouth and I taste his cum and my juices mingled, taste them together, taste his flesh. It’s never enough, no matter how much of him I get, I want more. I need more. I wrap my hand around his cock, slide my fist on the sticky shaft and suck at the head, loving the taste and feel of him, of us, and he groans, arches.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, woman, you’re gonna make me come again.”

  I moan in my throat because that’s what I want—I need it. I’m desperate for him, aching for him, for more, for everything he is, to taste him even as I still quake from the shocks of my orgasm, to taste his cum on my tongue and feel him send it shooting down my throat even as his cum drips down my thighs.

  I fist his cock hard and fast and bob around the head with my mouth and suck, and he curses under his breath in Gaelic the whole time, spine arched, heels digging into the mattress.

  “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Hannah, there it is, Jesus Christ, I can’t stop it—fuck, it hurts to come this hard—”

  I let go with my hands and fuck him with my mouth. Fuck him desperately, taking his hot, hard erection as far as I can, as hard as I can, and I cradle his balls in one hand and massage them, massage the cum out of them, press a finger to his taint to make it better, make him feel it harder.

  “FUCK!”

  When I feel him throb and feel the beginnings of his orgasm, I back away so I can fuck just the upper few inches of him with my eager lips, stroke his root with both of my hands and caress the orgasm out of him. He’s incapable of words, then, as the climax rips through him.

  His cum spurts onto my tongue and I swallow it, lick the head with my tongue and pump more out of him until finally there’s nothing left. He goes slack in my hands and I give his beautiful cock one last kiss and then lay his lovely spent member against his belly and climb up his body.

  “Fucking Christ and all the saints, Hannah.” He cradles me against the warm solid wall of his chest, curls his arm around my shoulders and cups my ass with the other hand. “I’d no idea that was even possible, to come so hard so soon.”

  I only kiss his chest and trail my fingers over the flat disc of his nipple.

  “Hannah.” His voice is soft, surprisingly tender and hesitant.

  I tilt my face up to look at him. “Hmm?”

  He rolls into me. Palms my cheek, thumb brushing across my lips, and then…

  He kisses me.

  My heart stops, my gut twists. Lurches. My eyes prick hot. I lean up into him, curl my arm around his neck and brush the stubble of his jaw. I kiss him back, and imbue the kiss with every last morsel of desperation I possess, pleading with him silently. My heart aches, twists, yearns. Hopes. Fears.

  This time, he doesn’t stop kissing me.

  How long we kiss, there in that bed, I don’t know. At once, for both forever and a moment. We kiss until neither of us can breathe, until we’re gasping, panting. Until I feel him hardening at my thigh. I shift, and take him into me, and this time it’s slow and languorous. We move together, kissing, his mouth warm and strong on mine, the slide of his cock deliciously slow. How long do we writhe together, thus? I don’t know. Not long enough. So long I lose track of minutes, of kisses, of anything but his mouth
and the joining of our bodies.

  This…there is nothing of fucking in this.

  We both come at the same moment, and he pulls me down and kisses me breathless.

  He’s everything and, here with him, it’s so perfect and beautiful.

  Yet…why is there a dull heavy throb of dread lodged deep in my gut?

  Fear, dread. Loathing. It’s there, and I can’t deny it, can’t shake it, can only push it away and drink in the luxurious, relaxed warmth of Conrad’s arms around me, and the throbbing bliss of having just come yet again. I refuse to do anything but soak up the moments I have with him, kissing, making something together with our bodies that is deep and true and real and meaningful and fraught with a roiling sea of emotion.

  It’s all there is, and it’s all I need.

  I sleep again, and Conrad snores behind me, spooning me, wrapping me up in his strong arms.

  *

  Early the next morning, well before dawn, we prepare to leave. I’ve finally got some warm clothing thanks to the young woman I met yesterday. I wear a woolen shift, a fine cotton dress, thick stockings and sturdy boots, and a warm cloak fastened at my throat with a bronze brooch marked with the insignia of Clan Campbell. Conrad and Angus are armed for conflict once more, each of them with the Brown Bess muskets taken from the dead redcoats, Angus with his broadsword and claymore and traditional dirk, Conrad with a borrowed claymore—plain and rather more crude than the one taken from him but still sharp and serviceable—and the saber taken from the slain officer Martin, Markham’s friend.

  The Campbell’s wary hospitality extended so far as to provide us with some basic foodstuffs and a small jug of whisky, which apparently is considered a necessary staple of survival.

  And, indeed, as we ride in the blustering cold, the jug is passed around and when it comes to me I take a small slug of the fiery, smoky liquor and feel it slide down my throat and hit my stomach like a firebomb, and then the heat spreads through me, suffuses me, warms me. I cough and snort and wince the next time it goes around, but I do drink, much to the men’s amusement. The warmth is worth the raw burn in my throat.