by Jessica Loft
In all of her life or any past ones, Clara was certain that she’d never experienced an orgasm so strong and powerful. Many long minutes after it racked over her body she was still trembling and gasping at the small plethora of aftershocks. Only when he was ready did Riordan raise his head from between her thighs and drag his handsome body up to Clara’s. He nestled his naked self between her legs, his long cock settled at her navel as his mouth closed hotly over hers.
Clara could feel the wetness between her thighs, and it excited her to no end. She knew Riordan was big, possibly bigger than she’d ever experienced before. But she didn’t care. She wanted him, needed him now.
“Take me,” she breathed, suddenly impatient. “Make me yours.”
Riordan’s black eyes burst with golden fireworks as he looked longingly up at her, but he remained perfectly still.
“Please,” she begged, pushing her hips towards him. She felt the slide of his hips; as if he was about to give her exactly what she wanted. Then suddenly, he was gone, and Clara was wide-awake. She gasped as she opened her eyes and sat up in bed.
It was only a dream, she thought as she looked wildly over the room, hoping beyond hope that it was more than that.
to be continued…..
Now Enjoy The Next Story Below Or Choose One From The Table of Contents
A Tale of Two Clans
CHAPTER 1
Scottish Countryside, 1432
“Mind ye mum, now. Help her wit te warsh and te animals, will ye?” Rob McFarland asked his daughter. The tall, gruff, dark haired man held his only daughter’s face gently in his giant hands. She wasn’t like other girls, his Lizbeth. She was tough, fierce even. Lord how he wished she would have been born a boy, but the maker had other plans.
Lizbeth’s cool green eyes looked directly into her father’s dark brown ones without an ounce of fear. Her red flaming hair wrapped around his arms as another gust of winter wind blew in from the North. She had her mother’s fair features, and her father’s stubborn strength. She would not cry as she said goodbye to her father, even though she knew well and good that his chances of surviving the battle were unlikely.
“Aye, Da, I promise,” she answered levelly. In her mind she wished her voice was deeper, like a man’s. Not the wispy bell that escaped her lips. She was tough, and wanted to sound tough.
“Don’t ye worry about a ting here, Da. I know the animals well and I’ll do plenty of huntin’ te get us through te winter.” She mustered a smile as she tried her best to assure him they would be fine. Even though they both doubted such a promise could be made.
Rob nodded his head once solemnly, atleast he could be confident his daughter would fight good battle at home while he went and fought against their rivals. He leaned down to kiss his daughter on the forehead. When he let go and turned to say goodbye to the love of this life, Merida, she fell into his arms sobbing. His sweet loving wife; bless her soul she had a way that was too gentle for the Scottish planes. But he knew that was why he fell in love with her. Out of all the cold, the rock and bristles of the land, she was soft, radiant, and warm. Never in their twenty years did she not curl close to him in their bed and greet him as a loving wife.
He held her tightly as she sobbed. The rest of the clansman had already gathered in the center of the camp, but he didn’t rush her. He wanted to hold her as long as he could. His wife and his daughter were the only two people in the world that didn’t just see him as a fierce warrior. They saw him as a husband, a father, a human being that needed love. He would always cherish them forever for that.
After several minutes Merida finally let go with a last kiss. She dabbed her tear soaked cheeks with her husband’s tartan, and held it close to her as he turned away from them. Lizbeth reached over and wrapped a tight arm around her mother’s waist for support. She felt her thin body sag into her curvier figure, and was happy that her mother used her for support. After all, she would be hers to take care of now. From out of their own homes, the rest of the clan’s wives and children emerged to see their husbands and warriors off. It was not the Scottish way to sit and cry, but more to stand and give strength.
As the warriors of the clan mounted their horses; strong well-bred highland ponies, the sounder began to play his bagpipes. The song of war filled the gusts of wind as they rode off towards the hills. When they would be back, and how many would return, no one knew. All anyone could hope for was that it would be them that came riding back, and not their enemies.
~
Alan O’Cleary was a mean hearted man. How he had lived into his sixties without being assassinated, no one really knew. With his black heart and iron fist he had ruled over the Loche Clans for nearly forty years. His greed of wealth and power had landed him in the good graces of the King of England, King James, but his people sorely suffered for it. Like cattle to slaughter he sold his heartiest men to the King’s army to fight the Scottish Clans around them. Eventually, he had been promised, the King would have Scotland claimed, and Alan would be the Duke of the planes. Sadly, he was the only one that could not see that the King had no intention of fulfilling that promise.
The pretty young Scotswoman that was now bent over his bed with her bum in the air had finally softened her cries, and the old man finished with her with an ignorant slap to her ass. He knew not her name nor what family she belonged to, but when he saw that pretty black hair framing that creamy milk face, he knew he had to have her. Child or not, every woman in his clan belonged to him.
“Please, milord,” she sobbed, thrusting her dress back down over her nakedness. “Please, let me go home.”
“In time, me dear,” the old man replied, adjusting his kilt. “When I tire of ye.”
“B-but me family”-
“Ye family will be proud that te leader of ye clans picked ye out of all te other lasses,” Alan shot back. He ran a hand over his stringy, thinning black hair, and started to walk towards the door. Just as he was about to lay his hand on the knob, it flung open, revealing his eldest son’s mask of pure fury.
Everything that Alan O’Cleary was, Beaste was not. Though his name translated literally as ‘the beast,’ his fierceness was completely different from that of his fathers.
“What te fuck ye doin’, Da?” Beaste asked, his dark blue eyes full of hatred and anger. “Te other three girls ye stole weren’t enough, ye had te take another?”
“Mind ye own business, boy!” Alan shot back, his mouth set in a gross sneer. “It be my right.”
Beaste opened up his mouth to speak, but shut it, and let out a long breath. Taking a different course of action, he strode past his father, making a beeline for the young woman. She yelped when she first saw him approach, but he quickly eased her fears with a gentle voice and soft words. He whispered in her to run from the castle as quickly as possible and to not look back. She did so immediately and couldn’t help but scream in fear as she rushed past the evil man that just stole her innocence.
Alan’s eyes shot daggers at his son, upset that his conquest was now gone and probably already outside the castle gates. “Damn it boy, I liked that one! Ye nothin’ but soft, like ye mother,” he snarled, wiping his running nose with the back of his sleeve. Even with the fires blazing high in the keep’s large stone rooms, it still wasn’t enough to drive away the sickness that had settled into the old man’s lungs.
“Yer the devil’s son of a whore, ye nasty old goat,” Beaste shot back. Revulsion coursed through him as he looked at the remains of what was once his father. At a time, he was a large, burly man who was always able to fight his own battles, and he did so gladly. But riches and cockiness over time had gotten into his head, and the darker his heart grew, the weaker his body became. Just by looking at him Beaste had no idea how the man was standing. He had shrunk to a young boy’s size, with a humped back and gnarled, chafed fingers. His thick black hair was all gone, with only a few strands left that stuck to his greasy scalp. He coughed and hacked constantly, as if a chill had settled into h
is lungs and refused to leave from there. With any luck, it would be the death of him.
“What te fuck did ye want, boy?” Alan asked, wobbling towards the large fireplace. “Aside from takin’ me new lass away, that is.”
Beaste took in a long breath and gripped, the hilt of his dagger strongly in his left hand. It was a coping mechanism for him, like a deadly security blanket. He knew the answer to his pleas already, but he was hoping beyond hope that he would be wrong.
“Da, I’ve come te ask ye- nay, te beg ye, te not fight the McFarland’s clan. Rob has been an ally with us for years. Any time we were off to war for the king his clan was te reason our people survived te harsh winters. These wars have drained our resources, killed our people. It’s time te stop, Da.”
The old man wanted so badly to sit. His legs were trembling with fatigue and his chest felt ablaze from holding in the dire need to cough. Yet he knew he could show his son know weakness.
“Ye have a handsome face and a kind heart, lad,” he said at last. “Of ye five brothers, ye be the only one. Ye belong in a fairy tale as some prince.” He spared a rough smile, surprising Beaste all the more. It disappeared quickly however, when a cough escaped his chapped lips.
“But ye not. Ye here, with me and these clans. With a life like this, there is no room for kindness. Or honor. We will ride against the McFarland clan, boy, or you will die with them. There is no in between. They may have helped us a one time or another, but if the King says to cut ‘em down, then by God we cut ‘em down!”
His fist slammed down on the wood of the near table, making a weak thump of a noise. Anger sparked up Alan’s arm in both pain and embarrassment at such a weak display of strength. He roared for Beaste to leave the room, and could only stand there helplessly on his shaking legs as his son approached.
Beaste came close to his father until he could smell the decay of his breath in his nostrils. He leaned down, looking him in the eye. “Did ye ever stop te wonder why out of te six of ye children only one survived? Heh? I may not be like you, old man, but I know that my heart has kept me alive when yours, sprouted in my brothers, killed them for their cruelty.” He paused, his voice dropping to deadly whisper.
“By and by, I will protect this clan from any that wish to attack it. But know this. I yearn for te day the Devil comes and drags ye te hell. Because once this clan is mine, there will be no more wars. No more bloodshed, and best of all. No more you.”
Abruptly Beaste leaned back up, turned on his heel, and left the room, leaving his father standing there in his silent fury and embarrassment. It irked him to no end to be talked to in such a fashion, of that Beaste was sure. Outside the doors of the chamber his small gang of warriors waited for him. Like he, they were all tired of the wars and wanted them to end.
“And?” Angus asked, his tone hopeful. He was the closest of Beaste’s friends. Larger than most around the middle he was, but Beaste was sure it was only to hold up the greatness of his heart. He had a long, ginger mane and matching beard. One, he claimed, that drove the lass’s at the brothel’s crazy. That along with his ice blue eyes of course.
Beaste clapped his friend’s shoulder and put on the bravest smile he could. His expression alone was enough to tell his friends that he had not been granted what they all hoped; peace.
“What do we do now?” Angus asked, shaking his great head.
“Same as we always do,” Beast sighed, cracking his knuckles. “Prepare for battle, and try not te get killed. Above all, pray to te Lord above that he delivers this from this evil sooner than later.”
The three men all made a cross on their chests, and headed towards the armory.
CHAPTER 2
Rob lifted his great arm to his face in an effort to wipe the blood away. In doing so, he only smeared more into his beard. He cringed at the smell of the drying crimson and gave up. With luck, there would be hot water by the fires and he could take a bath. The first battle had gone well, he thought as he looked over the debris of it all. Broken men and horses by the dozens were lying scattered before him, but very few were from his group of clans. Still, it hurt his heart more than anything to see the foolish Scots dressed in the English crest for the damned mad King James. He hated the idea of running his blade through their bellies, but in those moments where it was their life or his, he chose his own.
“How’s it lookin’, Rob?” A tall, thin man with braided black hair and deep brown eyes approached the great clan leader, looking only half his size. Tray was Rob’s oldest friend, and thanks to the wars, one of the last. He clapped his hand on Rob’s shoulder and balanced a foot on one of the dead English soldier’s heads as he looked on to the grimly scenery.
“Fifteen dead on our side from what I can count. Nearly forty on te other side. Rest retreated when tey saw we were beatin’ their arses.” If he had to guess, there was nearly eighty soldiers that had attacked them, twice as many men as he had.
“We were lucky,” he continued. “These fuckers couldn’t hold a sword for shit.”
Tray chuckled, and nodded his head. “Come on then. Let’s head back to camp, wash this stink off, and have a drink. I’m freezin’ me arse off out here! I need a fire and some ale.”
Rob agreed. He took one last look of the gory battlefield before he reached down and picked up his great battle axe. Another down, he thought, heading towards the horses. One less battle he would have to fight before he was able to go home.
CHAPTER 3
Lizbeth shivered as she continued to dig her numb fingers through the nearly frozen earth in search of the potato cellar. Her father had built a door long ago, but with the wars, other clans had started coming for their crops and livestock, taking whatever they could. He had devised a clever trick to stave them off. Through inside their own home’s dirt floor, he had dug a hole nearly eight feet deep and five feet in circumference. He’d then jammed wooden boards into the sides of the earth to create shelves. It was there that they would store their winter vegetables and dried meats to last them through the winter. After it was full he had slid a board over the hole and covered it with thick dirt again so that no one would know it was there.
Unfortunately, the last shovel they had broken just the week before, and Lizbeth was still carving out the handle for a new one. Being the head of the family, she found, was much harder than she ever could have imagined. After what felt like forever, Lizbeth’s fingers scraped against the wood of the cellar door, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Did you get to it?” Merida asked from her bed. She coughed and shivered again, and burrowed deeper into the covers.
“Aye, mum, I got it,” Lizbeth answered back, sparing a moment to turn and smile at her mother. She was sick again, poor thing. The sickness always came with the winter for her poor mother. Her delicate nature could not handle the harshness of it. Lizbeth knew from the past that it would be nearly two months before her mother felt better, and as the head of their family now, it was her duty to take care of her.
A moment later she found the rim of the board and pushed it aside, laughing softly in relief as she stared down at the nearly full cellar. Potatoes, carrots, onions, and other root vegetables lay neatly stacked on the shelves along with dried herbs, meats, and some jugs of water. At the very bottom laid a few of her father’s weapons and a sharpening stone. Though she had her own bow and dagger, it eased her heart to see such things.
With a basket on her hip, she climbed down the small ladder and gathered the ingredients she needed for her soup. Behind the herbs she found a small crock the size of a small rabbit. Curious, she opened it up and gasped when she saw the salt. It was a commodity long gone thanks to the English, but somehow her father had snagged some.
“Where ye goin’?” Merida asked, her eyes full of fear. Lizbeth placed the basket of produce beside her mother’s bed and walked towards the corner of the great room where her bow and arrows rested.
“Ye stay here and cut the vegetables, would ye mum? I’m goin’ te see if
I can’t get us a deer for supper.”
It was true, they could use some fresh meat to go with the salt she found. So she could give her mum an uplifting supper. Livestock was still in good health, but Lizbeth knew to only use them in emergencies.
But in all honesty, Lizbeth realized, she really just needed a moment alone. Though they lived on the outskirts of their clan, she was constantly around her mother or the younger children of the village that needed looking after. She was trying to be as strong as she could, but she needed a break. Leaning down, she kissed her mother’s forehead and promised she’d be back before dark. After throwing a final log on the fire she quickly wrapped her cape around her shoulders and left, needing now more than ever a moment alone.
~
Beaste stumbled through the trees, his side still bleeding from the battle two days prior. His tongue was as dry as a bone and his vision was blurry from the pain, but he was still alive. With his health he could find home no matter where he was, but in his sorry state he had lost the ability to tell where he was going or what he was heading towards. All of the trees looked the same, and for all he knew he could be walking in circle passing the same ones over and over again.