Chapter 10 #3
“That’s it, kitten. Show me how much you like your Master’s cock inside you,” he grunted as he felt her orgasm building again when her body tightened around him.
He reveled in it. “Yes, just like that. Fuck.” He pounded harder, the silky walls around his shaft fluttered wildly as her breathing stuttered.
“Come for me again,” he ordered in a whip-crack of command. “Now.”
“Holy shit,” she keened, arching her back as her body locked around him.
“Crone!” she screamed as her release crashed over her.
The feel of her clenching around him was too much and his control shattered.
His hips bucked wildly as he buried himself deeper and came with a guttural groan, his release spilling inside her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the scent of sex thick in the air. His weight pressed her into the mattress, cocooning her in their shared passion as his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that started gentle before evolving into primal possession..
“Mine,” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes, Master Crone. Yours.” The affirmation turned his heart into a galloping racehorse. His arms tightened around her, cherishing the raw honesty vibrating in her voice.
They lay tangled together until their breathing slowed. She shifted in his arms, tugging at his shirt. “It’s not fair. I’m naked and vulnerable while you stay covered.”
He stared at her for a long moment, reading the silent plea in her eyes. I trusted you, now please trust me. Without a word, he pulled away, gripping the hem of the shirt. A heartbeat of hesitation, then he pulled it off and turned to toss it on the chair.
Her horrified gasp stabbed through him. The lattice of old whip marks carved across his back told their own story of cruelty. But before he could retreat, her warm hands pressed against his skin. Her touch traced each raised scar with infinite gentleness.
“Who did this to you?” The question was coated with rage and grief.
“It was another lifetime.” He stayed still as her lips followed the path of her fingers, pressing healing kisses along each mark. No one had ever touched his scars, especially those ugly ones. The simple acceptance in her caress shattered the last of his defenses.
“Now I understand,” she whispered against his skin. “Why you knew exactly how to touch mine. Why you didn’t flinch or look away.”
He turned, gathering her close. “We’re both survivors, love.” His voice roughened. “Our scars prove we’re stronger than those who tried to break us.”
She pressed her face into his chest aligning their marked bodies. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel the need to hide his body.
“Stay with me tonight?” The vulnerability in his request surprised them both. Her answer was to pull him back to the bed, arranging herself in his arms as if she’d always belonged there.
Still, her curiosity got the better of her as her fingers traced the silvery-gray patterns across his brow and chest with gentle curiosity. Each scar held its own texture, some smooth, others raised and mottled.
“Why are they discolored? Some look almost metallic.”
Crone remained silent, weighing whether she could bear the darkness of his past. His fingers brushed the hook-shaped scar on her belly. He closed his eyes, understanding the cost of rehashing such stories. Dragging in a deep breath, he responded in a tight voice.
“I was a Navy SEAL on a recovery mission. I was captured and tortured by ISIS for two years.”
“Oh, my god.” She sat up abruptly with tears welling in her eyes. Her hands moved with renewed purpose, settling on his right shoulder where jagged tissue formed an irregular scar. “What… what did they use for this one?”
“A serrated knife. Three separate times.” His voice turned clinical as he deliberately distanced himself from the memories.
“They’d wait for it to heal, then cut deeper.
The last time, they poured tattoo ink into the wound.
” His fingers mapped others across his chest. “They used the same technique here. They wanted the scars visible... permanent.” He traced the trio of lines above his right nipple, then the one bisecting his brow.
“For these, they used molten silver mixed with the ink.”
“Jesus.” Horror colored her whisper. He stayed silent as he fought the phantom pain that threatened to overwhelm him.
“And here?” Her palm covered the large X above his left nipple.
“A rapier. One of my torturers thought it would be appropriate to mark me with the letter of his name.”
“Fucking bastard.” The venom in her voice matched the rage he had long buried. Her attention shifted to the webbed pattern across his lower abdomen. “This looks different…”
He lifted his left arm, revealing matching marks on his forearm. “Barbed wire. They wrapped—”
“No!” Her finger pressed against his lips as tears streamed freely now. “I thought I knew suffering, but this…” Her voice broke. “How did you survive, Crone?”
“By the Grace of God, little one.” He wiped her tears away with tender fingers. “No more crying. Not for wounds that no longer hurt.”
“Maybe so… but I also know that some wounds never heal.” Her hands drifted to her own scar and her eyes were haunted with unspoken horrors. She wanted to share, he could see it, but terror still gripped those memories tight, and she struggled to fully open the doors of the past.
He pulled her back into his arms. “This isn’t a show and tell of scars, love. When you’re ready to share your story, I’ll listen. Not before.”
“I…” She exhaled slowly. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t trust you because I do. I’ve just never told anyone the entire sordid story. Not even Master Derek or Doc Williams.”
“That’s enough darkness for tonight.” He tilted her face up, determined to replace shadows with light. “Come here, kitten. I want to hear you purring for me again.”
Her smile, though tremulous, reached her eyes.
Crone knew all too well that some scars weren’t meant to be erased.
They were bridges connecting wounded souls, offering understanding where words failed.
Tonight, they had shared more than their bodies.
They had shared their battle wounds, and in doing so, finally opened the door for healing to begin.
Crone spent the rest of the night chasing shadows from her mind, replacing each dark memory with pleasure until she melted beneath his touch.
With every gasp and whispered plea of surrender to him, the walls around his heart crumbled further.
For the first time in five years, he allowed himself to simply feel and to exist in the pure joy of holding someone who saw his scars as badges of survival rather than marks of cruelty.
The love growing within him wasn’t a weakness to fight, but a strength to embrace. In her arms, he found more than passion.
Crone Lange just gave himself permission to live again.