by Jade London
There is a pot hanging from a hook in the hearth, its round bottom licked by the fire. He nods at the pot. “Give that a stir.”
There’s a thick stew in the pot, just beginning to steam. I realize he must’ve made it before he left, and then let the cold keep it fresh for his return. I stir it; watching the ice crystals melt on the carrots, potatoes, and chunks of meat. The broth slowly begins to liquefy.
I still have all my cold weather clothes on, and I feel him behind me, standing inches away. He tugs my hood back. Reaches around in front of me to unbutton the coat, and then pulls it off me. I’m frozen stiff, now, and not from the cold. I cannot move, I can barely breathe. He grabs one of my wrists, peels off the mitten, and then does the same with the other. He takes me by the shoulders and pushes me into the empty chair. Sits me down in it. Kneels in front of me. His eyes are brown, molten, and inscrutable. Watching my expression, he unlaces one of my boots. Tugs it off. Then the other.
I’m biting my lip, now, unable to look away from him. Unable to feel anything but his hands on my ankles, subtly sliding upward. His fingertips are on my calves, burning through my skin even through the thick wool stockings. I want to pull away from him, but I don’t dare. And I can’t. Can’t.
His eyes don’t leave mine as his fingertips slide up my leg, to my knee. Under the layers of skirts. Higher. To my thigh. To the gap of skin above the top of my stocking. And now my skin is on fire, burning where he touches me. I’m shaking, I realize. Breathing short fast shallow breaths. He curls his fingers between the stocking and my skin…and pulls down. He gently slides the stocking off my leg, caressing my thigh and knee and calf with both hands as he removes the garment. It’s hard to breathe when he does the same to my other leg.
He remains on his knees in front of me, my calves in his palms. His eyes search my face, flick to my heaving breast, then back up to my eyes. And then—god, and then his palms skate up my legs once more, trailing fingertips and palms along the backs of my knees, making me shiver and shudder. He continues his trail up the backs of my thighs, carving around to the top, up to my hips. Dancing over the flannel of my underwear, skimming over my core.
Now?
He wants to do this right now?
I’m not ready.
I know this is why he purchased me, and it’s why I’m here. I’m not ready, but I don’t think I have a choice. He said he wouldn’t hurt me, but what if I refuse him right now?
He is a dangerous man, and this is a remote, wild place. He can do anything he wants, anything at all. His word, his desire, is law.
His eyes, those brown indecipherable pools, never waver from mine as he hooks his fingers into the waist of my underwear and drags them down my leg. Not impatiently, though.
No.
Slowly. Deliberately. Teasingly.
He removes them, tosses them aside.
Then he presses his hands to my knees and shoves my thighs apart.
I resist—I can’t help it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, prepared for his anger. I refuse to open for him.
“Hannah.” His voice is gentle. Not angry. Not scolding.
He rifles under my skirts, glides his palms over my thighs, rests them near the crease of my hips.
“Hannah.” He says my name again, more insistently.
I force my eyes open and glance down into his. I look at him.
He presses his thumb to my clit, brushes the pad of his thumb in a slow circle. “It won’t be tonight.” Another slow circle, his eyes on mine, watching my expression shift as I feel the thrum of heat billowing through me. “But I want you prepared for it.”
“I…Conrad, I…” I don’t have any idea what to say or why I even opened my mouth. “I’m not—I’m not ready.”
“You will be.” He withdraws his touch, and I hate the way I ache, then. He stands up. “Might as well take off a few layers. No point in modesty.”
I can’t help but flash back to that awful room, alone with him and Thompson, Conrad’s eyes on my body, raking over my naked curves. He’s seen me nude; a few layers of wool won’t make any difference at this point.
I stand up, reach behind my back and begin unfastening the tiny buttons up my spine. And then his hands are there, doing it for me. His breath is hot on the back of my neck. Sliding the heavy weight of my thick blond hair over one shoulder, out of the way. The dress loosens as he unfastens the buttons, and then it’s pooled on the floor at my feet and he’s lifting up the top-most underskirt. Setting it aside. Then, the next layer. He stops when I’m just wearing the thin wool slip. It’s molded to my torso and hips, leaving little to the imagination. He stands back, then, openly staring, admiring, taking me in.
“You are a lovely woman, Hannah.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He gestures at the chair, turning away to the fire. “Sit down. The food’s ready.”
He folds the layers of petticoats and underskirts and the dress, and then sets them on one of the chests. There is a mantle above the fireplace, on which are two hand carved bowls and two tarnished, battered, scratched silver spoons. He ladles heaping portions of stew into each bowl, then retrieves a canteen from the pile of gear in the corner near the door and sets it on the table.
He sits down and begins eating, then stops when he realizes I’m still standing in the center of the small cabin, hands clasped in front of me, knees knocking, barely able to breathe.
Conrad rises, stands in front of me. Cups my cheek with his rough paw. “Hannah.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. “Sit, please. Eat some stew. Try to relax.”
My cheek throbs where his hard, scratchy palm touched me. I sit down gingerly; take the spoon in hand and ladle a bite of stew into my mouth. It is delicious, hot, lightly seasoned with salt. I sit bolt upright, on the edge of my chair. I’m ravenous, but I don’t dare scarf the food like I want to. Don’t dare relax.
We eat in silence, as we rode in silence, as we sat around the fire in silence.
When we are finished, he opens the front door, scoops a handful of snow from the porch and uses it to scrub out the bowls and spoons, replacing them on the mantle when they’re clean.
He glances at me. “Time to turn in. Been a long ride.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that, so I say nothing. I remain seated at the table, watching him. He banks the fire, and now the cabin is a cove of shadows cast by the embers, nothing to see but shapes as my eyes adjust. Conrad stands in front of the bed and unfastens his trousers. Steps out of them. He unbuttons his shirt, shrugs it off, then folds both garments and sets them on the floor. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he toes off his socks.
Naked.
My pulse flutters, my breath catches.
He is the epitome extraordinary masculine beauty.
Hard slabs of muscle are sheathed in sun-tanned skin, leathery and weathered, but glistening with a light sheen of sweat. He has several scars and a thick mat of hair covers his broad chest, tapering down to a narrow trail leading to his groin. I can’t help but look. Huge, heavy balls. Thick cock, long even when flaccid. His eyes fix on me, stare at me as I remain seated, my back straight, several feet away, hands folded demurely together on my lap. My hair has fallen over one eye, obscuring half my face in a blond sheet. My breasts rise and fall as I fight for calm. My nipples are hard, poking at the fine thin wool of my slip.
There is one bed.
Without needing to ask, I know I am expected to share it with him.
He said it won’t be tonight, but considering his nudity and our situation, he’s probably changed his mind.
God, he’s fucking gorgeous.
His hair is a shaggy, hat-messed thatch around his neck and in his eyes, a wild black mane of tangles and curls, sweeping against his tan skin. His shoulders are heavy, hard, round. Biceps nearly the size of my thighs. Chest, arms, shoulders, stomach, all rippling with muscle and ribboned with scars—cuts, burns, bullet holes, stab wounds. He’s been through hell.
He lies down, stretches out on top of the blankets, leaving a space between himself and the wall, then turns to stare at me. “Gonna sit there all night?”
I shrug. “I might.”
A chuckle. “Not very comfortable, I don’t imagine.” He taps the bed. “Built this bed myself. Straw under a layer of deer hide, all wrapped in canvas. Cotton sheet, brought over from Denver. It’s comfy, I swear.”
“I’m sure it is.”
He eyes me. “I won’t bite, Hannah.”
“It’s not your teeth I’m afraid of, Conrad.”
Another laugh. “I told you I’ll leave you be, for tonight.”
“Then why are you naked?” I ask.
“It’s how I sleep in my own home. You can keep the slip on, if you feel better about it.” He pats the bed beside him. “Come on.”
I rise, slowly, then pad on bare feet, knees weak, to his bed. There’s a footlocker at the end of the bed, battered wood bound with thick iron straps, a padlock through the hasp, unlocked. I crawl over the footlocker onto the bed, rather than attempting to climb over him. I lie on my back as close to the wall as possible, and then fold my hands on my stomach. I’m stiff as a board, tense and barely breathing.
A few moments of silence.
“Jesus, Hannah. You’re all wound up tighter than a spring.” He rolls to his side, facing me. “Breathe. What are you so afraid of?”
Bitterness, anger, and fear bubble up out of the cage I’ve had them in, all the way here. “You own me. You bought me. I’m in bed with my master. I’m here against my will. You are going to expect sex, whether I want it or not.” I finally risk a glance at him, not bothering to mask my emotions. “And you ask what I’m afraid of?”
He sighs. “Have I mistreated you in any way, thus far?”
I’m forced to respond honestly. “No.”
“I touched you, a bit ago, but you didn’t exactly seem to mind, unless I was reading you wrong. For as much as you’re afraid of me, I don’t think you minded. Am I wrong, Hannah?”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “No, Conrad. You’re not wrong.” I meet his eyes. “But that doesn’t change my other points.”
“Yes, I gave Thompson money, and now you’re here. And no, you didn’t have much choice. Still don’t. But—” A pause. “I never received a bill of sale. No record of ownership. The deal was marked by nothing more than a handshake and an exchange of cash. So…stop thinking about it like that, in those terms. I don’t technically own you. Not that any law would recognize it, anyhow. Think of it more like…you were a mail-order bride, only I went and got you in person. You’re not a slave. I don’t consider you my property. Human beings aren’t objects.” His voice hardens. Darkens. “One man can’t own another.”
“Yet you attended a sale of human flesh, and spent a large sum of money in exchange for the life of a person.”
He doesn’t look away, doesn’t shrug. Just stares at me, looking into me. “Yes. I did.”
“And I have no choice about being here.”
“For now, that’s true.”
“Then how am I not, in some sense, your slave?”
“Because I’ll make you a deal.” He stretches out a hand, rest it on my waist, just above my hip. There’s less than a foot between our bodies, and it feels at once like a mile and a hair’s breadth: too far, and not far enough. “Give me a month. If you’re unhappy, if you hate me, if you hate it here, I’ll take you back to Denver and set you up.”
“Deal.” I don’t even have to think about it. I know it’s too good to be true, but I accept anyway. Mostly because, once again, I have little choice.
He smiles, a very small, very guarded smirk. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He nods. “Good. Good.” He rolls onto his back and I can’t help the fact that my eyes are drawn to his cock, to the way it flops to one side as he moves. “It’s not so bad here. I’m not so bad.”
“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” I close my eyes, trying to let myself drift off to sleep.
A long, drowsing silence.
I can’t help the question from bubbling out. “Conrad?” He grunts a query. “Why?”
“Why what?” His voice is sleep-thick.
“Why me? Why like this?”
“Different questions, different answers.” He rolls toward me again and reaches out, brushing a lock of hair away from my eyes with just the tip of his forefinger. The touch is exquisitely gentle. “Why you? Because from the second they led all of you women out, I saw only you. If anyone had bid on you, I’d have outbid him. I never even looked at any of the others. Don’t know why, rightly. Just…something about you. You’re beautiful, yes, and I want you, yes. But…there’s something more. Don’t have words for it, exactly. Something in me recognizes something…kindred…in you.”
My throat closes. “And the other question?” I don’t look at him; I stare at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but into his eyes. Anywhere but his face. If I look at him directly, I’d…I don’t know what, and don’t want to know.
But I do know what would happen. The connection I cannot deny would deepen, and I am afraid of what that would mean.
He sighs. “That there is a sight more complicated.” He is quiet a while. Awake, staring into the past. His carefully cultured voice and precise articulation softens and curls into a slow drawl, not thick, really, but noticeable. “There was the war, and…the things I did, the things I saw…it takes a toll on a man’s soul. On the ability to relate to folks in a normal sort of way. I marched south with Sherman. Damn near deserted a few times. Probably should have. Might be—might be able to sleep a sight better if I had.
“I met a woman down there. When things ended, I just sort of stayed around Atlanta, what was left of it, leastways. There was this girl. Daughter of a smith. Pretty as could be, and had a smart mouth on her. Lordy, she could flay a man to bits with just her words when the ire took her. We married, and after a bit I got restless, ‘cause I’ve never been one for settling in a place very long. She was game, packed a valise and put on a bonnet and rode shotgun with me. I was thinking Oklahoma, all that land down thataway. We hitched up with a wagon train of other folks headed out in similar directions. We split off on our own after a while, separated from the rest of them. After a few weeks on our own we got hit by a Sioux war party. Just me and her, no one else for hundreds of miles. I held ‘em off for…oh, days. Had a good spot where they couldn’t surround me, and I had my Springfield and plenty of rounds, and she would reload for me. Then they…they got my wife. Stray round, I guess. I went a little crazy, took after ‘em with my pistols and a knife. They let me be, after I’d laid out enough of ‘em. Respected warrior an’ all that shit, you know how they are. Nearly died, myself. A half-breed tracker saw the buzzards angling for me, kept me from crossing the Styx.”
He sighs. Scrubs his face with his hands.
“Don’t rightly remember much after that. Wished I’d have died. Took up drinking whiskey like it could bring her back—that or put me in the ground with her. Somehow, after a length of time I don’t remember and don’t care to…I ended up in this valley. There was this little herd of paints running free. Miles of green grass, the lake, the mountains. Something about this valley made me want to put down the bottle and…” he shrugs, “I dunno. Live, I guess. So I did. Built this cabin. Caught some of the paints and broke ‘em. Rode ‘em down to Prescott, sold ‘em for a bundle. Turns out I’ve got a knack for horses, and this stock is prime, pure. Made a bit of a name for myself on account of my pai
nts. I’ve had a few dustups with the Utes who claimed this valley and the horses in it, but I taught ‘em respect the only way they understand it. But I never—I just don’t know how to…” he sighs, a deep, frustrated breath. “I’m not the go-courting sort. Wouldn’t know who, or where, or how to go about it. But it’s lonely out here. Lonely on the trail. I need a companion. Someone to talk to. More than someone to just warm my bed…I need someone to share my life with. And you…you stood there defiant. Chin up. Giving no quarter. Even when Thompson took your robe and left you bare, you…you didn’t back down. I respect that.”
There’s not much I can say to that story, so I don’t say anything. But I do relax a little. And when he falls asleep and shifts a little closer to me, his knee touching my thigh, his breath hot on my shoulder, a hand splayed possessively over my hip…
I don’t move away.
…
I wake slowly. The air beyond the bed is cold, enough so that I can see my breath. But there’s a fire going in the fireplace, a merry yellow flicker of freshly lit kindling and as yet untouched logs.
Conrad is beside me, asleep again, on his back.
The blanket is draped low over his stomach, baring his magnificent chest. And an inch or two of his massively erect cock.
Despite the cold air, he’s warm. I’m close to him, barely an inch between our bodies. I’m on my side, one hand beneath the pillow, the other between our bodies. He’s billowing heat. And I’m cold. My nipples pebble into diamonds from the cold. But just from the cold, though. Not because of him. Not because of his hard body and obvious erection. And god…what an erection. The top couple inches are exposed, the plump, bulbous mushroom-shaped head, the flesh stretched and straining. The length of him that’s not bared is outlined by the blanket, giving me an impression of his girth. And, holy hell, the man is absurdly well endowed. Enough that my breath goes shallow and my mouth goes dry and something shifts inside me, low in my belly. An ache blossoms between my thighs.
