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“The hell did you just say?” Your lover stopped walking before turning back to face you with his arms folded.
“You heard me just fine, John.” You incidentally mirrored his pose. “I know you’ve been busy lately, but that isn’t an excuse. You’ve been seriously neglecting our relationship.”
He scoffed derisively “Oh, our relationship? So that’s what this is? Because I was under the impression that you were just fucking me until the next dumbass came along.”
“And just what have I done to give you that impression?”
“I’m not stupid. I see you eyeing up Arthur when you think I ain’t looking. Same with Dutch, and Javier, and I’m fairly sure you were doing the same with Mary-Beth. Just what are you trying to do leading me around like some dog on a leash?”
You moved from where you were standing on the grassy verge before the steep cliff of Horseshoe Overlook to approach John, who stayed firmly planted despite his eyes raking your body. You knew from past experience what arguing with him got you: either the silent treatment or the fucking of a lifetime. It had been weeks since he had last given you the latter, so you chose to risk receiving the former in the vain hope he would relent and give you something. Anything.
“I’m not leading you on, John. I’m yours, plain and simple. You have me. The least you could do is be grateful for what-.”
“Grateful? Grateful?!” John was now face to face with you, taking four quick strides to invade your personal space, inhabit your breathing room, bathe in your furious glow. You loved him so fucking much, but now was not the time for such dalliances. “I’ll show you grateful, lady. You’ll be so full of fuckin’ grateful you wouldn’t even think of looking at anyone else!”
That was when he kissed you for the first time in two weeks. It was less of a kiss, more like he was attacking your lips with his own, to swallow your retort before it could burst from that mouth he had become hopelessly addicted to. But you nevertheless melted into it, grabbing hold of his stupid jacket as you wrapped your arms around his stupid neck and let his stupid tongue into your mouth. It was forceful, it was clumsy, but it was John. And you needed John. Badly.
The camp was still quiet despite the midday sun: clearly everyone was still busy with the morning missions and excursions. It made the transit between the edge of camp and John’s tent all the easier, even as John gripped your arm so tight your wrist would bloom with a bruise. That was the least of your problems now.
The moment John closed the canvas over, you were pinned to his cot. The dim light of the sad little oil lamp in the corner illuminated his face, cast shadows over his furrowed brow and only enhance the slightly mad looking shimmer of his dark eyes. You wanted to laugh, but instead you pulled him down to smash your lips against his. Noses pressed against each other, teeth clicked and drool began to pool in the corner of your mouth but you couldn’t give a shit.
“Take off your skirts, woman. Now.”
That husky gruff command rumbled in his chest. You followed it, knowing if you didn’t do it quick enough he wold probably end up ripping them. If he did, you would force him to take you all the way to Saint Denis to replace them. So off came your overskirt, underskirt, and the various ridiculous undergarments that despite being all the rage fashion-wise were incredibly unsuitable for the life of an outlaw. Ah well, trends come and go. The pleasures of the flesh were eternal.
Once your cunt was bare before him, John wasted no time. He grabbed your legs and lifted them over his shoulders as he lowered his head between your thighs without a word.
John Marston was never one for softness. He knew just how sensitive you were, just how touch starved you had been before him, how easy it was to have you shaking. So it was only fair to exploit such a thing. That would be the grateful thing to do.
So exploit he did.
Your head pressed further and further against the rough fabric of the dishevelled pillow and let out a long breathy whine as John’s rough and hot tongue made a mockery of your pussy, giving it quick and long strokes with his tongue as if he were painting on a canvas. Every so often, a swipe at your clit or a nip of your inner thigh when your gasps got too loud. Not that he gave a shit. He wanted everyone to know just who you were moaning for, just how badly you wanted this, wanted him. Would save him plenty of awkward conversations.
It was when John’s tongue began to lap at your opening that you nearly cried out. He moved his tongue against your fluttering walls as if he were trying to drink from you, that supposed nectar of the gods that you had read about in Mary-Beth’s sordid romance novels. Perhaps he brought out that ambrosia within you. Heaven knows it felt like it.
“John…” You managed to moan out.
If he heard you, he didn’t make it apparent. His stubble brushed against your perineum as his chin moved up and down, his tongue stirring something primal within you as it always seemed to do.
He wasn’t a man versed in words, but that mouth could be put to far better uses.
You felt the warmth of his mouth leave your cunt for a moment, making you mewl helplessly. For the first time since he started, he made eye contact with you. Those murky eyes were blown out with lust, his cheeks red and his lips glistening.
He moved upward to lift his hand to your cheek, caressing it gently as if he hadn’t been drinking from your folds just seconds before. You moved into the palm of his hand, kissing his wrist as you nuzzled closer into it. A dissatisfied grunt came from your lover before he grabbed your chin suddenly, his thumb lifting it upwards so that you could no longer see his face and his index and middle fingers pressing against your lips.
“Open.”
You did as you were told, and took his fingers into your mouth. The taste of salt, earth and tobacco danced on your tongue. He must have gone foraging with Arthur earlier.
You thought of foraging with John, as a couple’s outting. Would he even know where to look? No, as you knew from experience the man was too arrogant and up his own ass to distinguish a raspberry from a rosebush. Ah well, he could still make love to you in amongst the tall grasses and herbs, where the travellers passing by would be none the wiser. But for now you could only think of the love that was being made here. Or whatever this was. The little amount of time you had looked into John’s eyes, love had been only a fraction of what shone within them.
He grunted as he removed them from you before moving back down between your thighs. He resumed without delay, his mouth latching onto your swollen clit and his two fingers covered in your saliva curling upwards to fill the space his tongue had previously occupied.
The frenzied nature was replaced with something deliberate. John knew exactly what parts of you needed attention, which parts would have you screaming his name. He found them with ease, that deep place within your cunt that was his and his alone. Every time he thrusted his fingers into you, they reached deeper and deeper until all that filled your mind was that feeling of being full of him. As if he were moulding your entire body to fit his mouth and his fingers. As if claiming you so that nobody else could ever compare to him.
You were teetering on the edge now. One last push.
“John…”
“Yes?”
“Make me cum. Please. I need it so fucking bad.”
A laugh vibrated across your clit, making you moan out in earnest.
“You need it? Alright then. Anything for my lady.”
He said it.
He said you were his. For the first time, he had truly claimed you for himself.
That revelation fell away as without warning John pushed a third finger inside you and sucked on your clit without mercy. That was enough to bring your release crashing over you. You loudly gasped his name as your head tilted back, your back arching and your thighs closing around John’s head. He didn’t seem to mind, using his free arm to wrap around one of your thighs and pull it over his shoulder so he could suck even harder and reach even deeper. Your legs began to shake as unabashed whimpers and moans left you breathless, your vision spinning ever so slightly before you could clamp your eyes shut.
And yet John continued to lap at your cunt: if anything he was moving with even more hunger than he had previously. You felt the vibration of his own moans as liquid from your sensitive pussy began to spill from you. He was drunk off your orgasm, and he made sure you knew as much.
Your breathing was shallow, and your body began to tense up. You could feel the sweat forming across your forehead and your lower back which no longer touched the cot with how your body arched involuntarily. John’s fingers were curled so far within you, you could feel the knuckles rubbing against the innermost parts that even his cock couldn’t reach, and how your walls convulsed against them uncontrollably with only increasing intensity. Even with your eyes shut, bright light indistinguishable from the night stars began to flash in your vision.
Your moans became yelps and shuddering gasps, and even if you wanted to beg him to stop there was no way you could, not with your lips quivering as they were and your tongue lolling from your mouth like a dog. Like John’s bitch. Exactly how he wanted you.
You tried to move your hands from where they had been gripping the canvas you were lying on to hold onto John’s head, but even they began to tense and grip even harder onto the cot. You were losing control of your body. You felt helpless, completely at the mercy of the man whom you had thought an hour ago couldn’t stand you.
You let out what could only be considered a frenzied howl as orgasm took hold of you once again. Your body spasmed and writhed as John relented, his fingers retreating from your warmth as he kissed every inch of your cunt as it pulsed under his lips. He pulled away from you, cupping your face with one hand and lifting the other to his mouth to taste the last of your ambrosia.
He smiled down at you sweetly, admiring the sweat and the euphoria and the exhaustion that covered your face. Your chest rose and fell erratically and you could feel your heart beating through it, every muscle in your body tensing and fluttering under the aftershock. He allowed your orgasm to run its natural course, instead of prolonging it like he had just done. You were absolutely stunning to him. He knew he did you wrong. But would he admit that to you? Fuck no.
“Don’t you ever tell me to be grateful again.”
You furrowed your brow. “I won’t.”
“Well… good.” He nodded, suddenly shy despite the unholy things he had just been doing to you. “You… you need anything?”
“Some water would be good, thank you.”
“Okay. I’ll get you some. And, uh… there’s some boiled sweets in my bag.” He mumbled as he shuffled out of the tent. “For you. If you want them. Okay?”
“You’re a fool, John Marston.”
“You’re welcome.” He huffed before giving you a lopsided grin as you pulled the pelt from the end of the bed to cover your nude legs, stretching your sore muscles. He pulled up the canvas as he left and let it fall behind him.
You decided not to tell him that his erection was obvious from a mile.