20. Clara
CLARA
Holy mother of medieval blacksmiths.
My gasp echoes between us while my brain performs a full system reboot. Because I’ve felt that thing through his pants. I’ve had theories. I’ve drawn mental diagrams. And every single one of them undersold it.
It’s almost as long as my forearm. I know this because I’m staring at my forearm, then at Aldric’s dick, then back at my forearm, doing math I never learned in school.
Thick enough that my fingers wouldn’t meet around it.
Curved upward like it’s asking a question my pussy has the answer to.
A ladder of gleaming barbells climbs the underside, and there are stitches on the shaft—fine, careful stitches, like the ones scattered over the rest of him, over the ruined map of his body. Even his cock is scarred.
His balls hang heavy beneath it, groomed just like he said.
I drag my eyes up. Force myself to take in the whole picture, not just the headline.
The exposed ribs. The crystal heart pulsing blue in its cage of bone.
The wolves inked across his chest, the words in dead languages, the places where flesh receded.
Grotesque doesn’t cover it. Neither does beautiful.
He’s both at once, a cathedral that got bombed and kept standing anyway, and a thought goes through my head that makes me bite my lip.
He’s monstrous. Sexy.
Mine.
“Come here,” I purr.
Aldric doesn’t move. His jaw is set like he’s braced for a verdict, standing there in all his ruined glory, waiting for me to scream or flinch or look away.
“Aldric.” I rise onto my knees in the water, petals sliding off my shoulders. “Come. Here.”
He crosses the stone floor in two strides and stops at the lip of the tub, towering over me, blue light washing down over the water. Close enough that his cock is at eye level, flushed and straining, a bead of moisture already gathering at the tip.
“Clara.” His voice comes out rough like gravel. “You do not have to—”
I wrap my hand around him, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat.
He’s cool in my grip, silk over stone, the piercings pressing into my palm.
And no, my fingers don’t close all the way around. Not even close.
I pull him closer, using his cock like a leash. Aldric stumbles half a step, this seven-hundred-year-old warlord, yanked forward by his own anatomy, and the strangled sound he makes might be the best thing I’ve ever heard.
Then I take him into my mouth.
“Fuck—” He jolts. One hand flies to the edge of the tub, knuckles going white against the copper.
He tastes clean and faintly of salt, and the first barbell rolls over my tongue, cold and smooth, and I moan around him before I can stop myself. I’m rewarded by a growl that raises every hair on my body.
“By Saint—Clara—” His free hand hovers over my head like he’s afraid to touch. “Your mouth. Your mouth, I have dreamed of—centuries, and nothing, nothing—”
I take him deeper and gag, my eyes watering, drool escaping the corner of my lips, and I don’t care.
I want to be greedy. I want to be a mess.
I pull back, breathe, and go again, working my hand over what won’t fit, which is a lot, because there’s an absurd amount of him that won’t fit, and I’m going to need a strategy and possibly a yoga regimen.
“Look at you.” His voice is dark and reverent and filthy. “Choking yourself on my cock like you were starved for it. Were you, little intruder? These nights, while you slept in my bedroom, did you dream of this? Of kneeling in my bath with your lips stretched around me?”
I moan my answer. His hips twitch, and he swears in a language that probably hasn’t been spoken aloud since the plague.
“Yes,” he hisses. “That sound. Make it again.”
I make it again. I make it louder. His hand finally lands in my wet hair—not pushing, just holding, trembling.
“Your tongue on my piercings—ah—do you feel what you do to me?” His breath saws in and out. “If you could see yourself. Drooling for me. Eyes streaming. The most beautiful thing these walls have ever held, and you are debauching yourself on a monster.”
I hollow my cheeks and suck, dragging my tongue up the ladder of metal, and his thigh muscles lock under my free hand.
“Clara—” Warning now. Urgent. “Clara, I am going to—if you do not stop—”
I don’t stop. I grip the back of his thigh, scars and all, and pull him deeper. His cock swells against my tongue, his growl turning desperate and helpless.
“Clara—”
He floods my mouth.
There’s so much cum. Pulse after pulse, thick and endless, and I swallow and swallow, and still it leaks from the corners of my mouth, spilling over my chin, dripping in warm ribbons down my throat and over my breasts.
He groans through his orgasm like a dying man, both hands in my hair now, his enormous frame shuddering.
I release him slowly, letting the last barbell slip past my lips, and sit back on my heels in the water.
I should feel embarrassed; I’m a mess, covered in cum and drool. Instead, I feel powerful. Electric. So turned on I could scream.
I drag my palms up over my breasts, rubbing him into my skin, slicking my nipples with it, tugging them until my breath catches and my thighs press together under the water.
Aldric stares down at me like I’m the holy grail. His chest heaves. The crystal heart blazes so bright that the whole bathroom glows blue. And his cock… It hasn’t softened. At all. It stands against his stomach, hard and slick and ready, like the last five minutes were an appetizer.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” I swear I feel the vibration of his growl in my clit.
He bends, plunges his arms into the bath, and hauls me out of it in one motion. I’m dripping, petals stuck to my skin, water gliding off me and soaking his skin, splattering across the stone floor.
“Aldric! I’m wet, I’m getting water every—”
“I have waited centuries.” He’s already carrying me through the doorway, his stride devouring the distance to the bed, his one dark eye and one burning shard both fixed on me hungrily. “The bedding will survive. I make no such promises about you.”
He drops me onto the mattress, wet and gasping, and follows me down.
The mattress dips under his weight, and then he’s over me, a wall of scarred muscle and blue light.
“Look at me.” His hand cradles my jaw. “I want your eyes when I take you apart.”
“Bold words from a man who lasted four minutes in my mouth.”
“Insolent.” His mouth crashes into mine, swallowing my laugh, and his hand slides down my body—over my cum-slicked breast, across my stomach—and cups me between my thighs. “Let us see how long you last.”
One thick finger drags through my folds, and my hips buck off the bed.
“Soaked.” He sounds drunk. “The bath does not make a woman slick like this, Clara. This is for me.”
“Don’t let it go to your—oh god.”
His finger sinks into me. Just one, and I already feel stretched, because his hands are enormous, warlord hands, hands built for broadswords, and now one of them is curling inside me and finding a spot that makes me boneless.
“There she is,” he murmurs against my throat. “There is my little intruder.”
A second finger joins the first, and I whine, actually whine, clawing at his shoulders while he works me open with a patience that feels a bit cruel. His thumb circles my clit. His teeth graze my collarbone. His fingers scissor and stretch and stroke that spot again, again, again—
“Aldric—”
“I know.” His voice is a low, satisfied rumble. “Give it to me.”
I shatter. My whole body seizes, clenching around his fingers in waves so hard he hisses through his teeth like I’ve burned him.
“By the saints.” His forehead drops to mine, and his fingers stay buried in me, riding out every pulse.
“Do you feel that? How you grip me? I cannot wait to feel that on my cock.” He kisses me, filthy and slow.
“And I will. Several times. As many times as this beautiful body can produce before you lose consciousness.”
“That’s not—” I’m still shaking. “That’s not a real goal.”
“It is now.”
He withdraws his fingers, settles between my thighs, and notches the broad head of his cock against me. The first barbell is cool at my entrance, and my breath goes thin.
“Aldric.” I bite my lip. “Real talk. That’s not going to fit.”
“Most of it will.” He says it like a promise and a threat at the same time. “Breathe for me.”
He pushes in.
There’s no word for the stretch. My mouth opens on a soundless moan as he sinks into me inch by relentless inch, splitting me open around his girth, the piercings dragging along my inner walls one cold rung at a time.
My nails sink into his forearms. He watches my face the entire time, jaw clenched, the shard in his eye socket flaring.
He stops. There’s still a fist’s worth of him outside me, glistening, pressed against my mound. He doesn’t seem remotely bothered.
“Look at you.” He sounds like he’s hardly able to hold himself back.
“Stuffed full and still hungry. I can feel your heartbeat around my cock, Clara. Warm. Alive. It’s been so—” Aldric breaks off, breathing hard, and presses his lips to my temple with a tenderness that doesn’t match anything else happening to my body. “Tell me when.”
I flex around him experimentally, and we both groan.
“When,” I gasp. “When, now, when—”
He pulls back and drives home.
The piercings rake over my walls on every stroke, a ladder of sensation my nervous system was never designed to survive, and the part of him that doesn’t fit grinds against my clit each time he pushes in as far as he can. It’s a rigged game. It’s an unwinnable, rigged, magnificent game.
“Centuries,” he growls into my neck, thrusting deep and slow, savoring. “Centuries of stone and silence, and now this. This tight, perfect, dripping—” He punctuates each word with a roll of his hips. “You were made to take me. Say it.”
“I was—ah—I was made to—oh my god—”
“Close enough.”
He kisses me like he’s starving. He kisses my throat, my jaw, drags his mouth down to my breasts and sucks a nipple between his lips, warm tongue and the cool metal of his piercing working me while his cock keeps up that devastating rhythm, and I come apart for the second time with my voice cracking on his name.
He fucks me through it. Doesn’t slow, doesn’t pause, just growls his approval against my skin and keeps going while I flutter and clench and sob.
“One,” he counts.
“That was two if you count the fingers—”
“Fingers are practice.”
The third orgasm builds before the second one fully ends, my body cheating, stacking them, and by now I’m so wet that every thrust makes a squelching sound that would embarrass me if I had a single brain cell left to spend on shame.
The room is full of obscene sounds. Wet flesh, the creak of an ancient bed frame, his ragged breathing, my incoherent noises.
“Listen to that,” he pants, delighted, feral. “Listen to how your body sings for me.”
“Shut—up—” The third orgasm hits me mid-insult.
“Two.”
“Three, you medieval—Aldric—”
He shifts the angle, hooks my knee over the crook of his elbow, and I stop being able to form words at all.
The new angle puts his piercings directly on target with every stroke, and my vision starts to sparkle at the edges.
I’m dizzy. Wrung out. My thighs won’t stop trembling, my skin is fever-hot, and he shows no signs—none, zero—of ever stopping.
Ever. He looks like he could do this until the sun explodes. He might be planning to.
So I decide to fight dirty. When I tip over the edge for the fourth time, I clench around him with everything I have left, trying to drag him over with me.
He swears. He bites his lip. And then he keeps fucking me.
“Clever girl,” Aldric rasps, laughing darkly. “You will not get rid of me so easily. I told you, little intruder, as many as your body can produce.”
“You’re—a machine—an undead—sex machine—”
“Flattery.” He drives deeper. “Come again.”
I do. I don’t have a choice. Four bleeds into five, and five leaves me boneless, floating somewhere above my own body, tethered only by the point where we’re joined and the sound of his voice pouring filth and worship into my ear in equal measure—perfect, alive, mine, mine, mine—
Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. I’m actually going to pass out, he’s fucking me unconscious, and my last coherent thought is that I have no regrets whatsoever.
That’s when his rhythm finally breaks.
His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, his growls becoming even wilder, and he slams deep and roars, and heat floods me, pulse after pulse, impossibly much, filling me past full.
He keeps moving through it, riding it out, and I feel his cum forced out around him with every stroke, squelching down over my thighs, onto the ruined sheets, obscene and hot.
“Clara.” His voice, from very far away, sounds wrecked and reverent. “Clara, you magnificent—”
The warm dark pulls me under, and I let it take me.