The Ranger's Conquest

It was late, the moon high: probably around midnight. She was at her desk, reading by the candle’s flickering light, one of the books Aldanon showed her. She couldn’t sleep. Restless energy riddled all through her muscles, her fingers twitched as she flipped each page. Gods knew she needed sleep, considering all the activity that had been crammed into the last month: searching the Illefarn ruins, seeing her home destroyed, frantically supervising the reconstruction of Crossroad Keep. There was so much to do in so little time, and with all the stress and travel, Sybel would have thought she’d be collapsing into bed nightly and falling asleep within minutes. It was not the case.

She was dressed for bed, however, clad in a thin white nightgown, with soft cotton underwear barely visible beneath the gown, which was slightly loose, slipping down a bit at her shoulders. The light played on her features, illuminating her olive skin almost to the point of a glow. She gazed at her reflection in the window above her desk ponderously, chewing her lower lip, then looked back down to her book. If it was good for nothing else it might bore her to sleep.

He was there before she heard anything, before she even knew her door had opened. He slipped in like a shadow and came up behind her, clapping his hand over her mouth before she could pronounce the first syllable of his name. Her hands flew up to his arm, but before she could begin to fight, he spoke.

“You won’t say a word, Knight-Captain, or I swear I will cut your neck,” he said in her ear, so very quiet, flashing his hunting knife in her peripheral vision. His tone was low, terrifyingly serious. She knew he would do it, too, so she nodded feebly, cursing herself for leaving her knife under her pillow. Fat lot of good it does me there, she thought scornfully as he pulled his hand away. The door was closed already, and the walls were thick. The only rooms in this wing were the storage areas and the library, which would be empty at this time of night. No one would hear a disturbance…

Her world spun as he grabbed the chair and turned it around, nearly making her fall off in the process. Her hands had nowhere else to go to keep her balance, and so they grasped the front of his tunic, and she swayed forward as her vision came back into focus. All at once she smelt the earth, pine needles, and smoke, and heard his deep-throated chuckle as she hastily straightened, letting go of him, her mind flying through ways to get to her knife, ways to stop whatever was happening, what she knew was happening but would not accept.

“Bishop,” she said, uncharacteristic timidity quieting her voice, “what…” she paused, folding her arms protectively over her chest and staring down at her lap. “What are you going to do…?”

She could not accept it because the very thought was sending her heart racing. She could not accept it because she felt heat blooming between her thighs, felt her breast rise too high and fall too erratically.

He did not say a word. First he slipped his knife into the sheath on his bandolier, then he leaned forward, sliding one rough, calloused hand underneath her arm, beneath her armpit, and the other under her stubborn fingers, cupping her left breast. She shut her eyes and turned her head away, but against all instinct, loosened her arms a little, even as she acknowledged how eager she really was to feel his touch, and how eager he was for her. Her face warmed as his crotch, and the bulge rising from it, pressed against her knees.

Necessarily, she murmured for him to stop, and he responded by leaning closer, until she felt his breath on her ear. It sent shivers down her spine. “Stop what, m’lady…?” His strong grasp under her arm pulled her towards him as his other hand began fondling her breast, rolling it in his palm.

“Touching me…” she whimpered, wrenching her eyes shut tight. She could not look at this, too afraid of what effect it might have on her, too afraid the passion that overcame her seeing battle might overcome her here as well. Her arms fell apart and rested by her legs, her fingers twitching again, but for a different reason this time.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you,” he said cruelly. His hand shifted until his fingers were pinching her now-erect nipple through the thin white fabric, and she released a tiny moan. This little encouragement made him pinch harder, made him press it down with his thumb and make circular motions.

“Touching me,” she repeated, quieter if anything, and not in any way a request for him to stop. The edges of his mouth turned up in a thin, predatory smile as he forced his leg between hers, slipping his arm around the small of her back and pulling her willing body upwards, onto her feet, so his lips could meet her exposed, graceful neck. He kissed it oh-so-gently and then nipped, causing little red marks and small noises, whether of pain or satisfaction he could not tell. Her hands again clutched at his tunic for support, and whether her conscious mind would admit it or not, she longed to pull it off, to feel his bare, muscled chest against her skin, to kiss it… Is this rape? she wondered ironically.

He paused for a moment, his head beside hers, and she listened to his slow and unmeasured breaths like they were music, then he pulled away, a little reluctantly, and let go of her. “Undress,” he ordered shortly. She saw the handle of his knife protruding from the sheath and the glint of steel, saw the hard look in his eyes. She obediently reached behind her, unlacing the bodice section of her gown, slowly, for her fingers were trembling, all the while watching him as he watched her. He stood not a foot from her, and she could practically feel the warmth of his body.

When the laces were finally loose she pulled the two sides apart and her gown fell from her shoulders, stopping at her hips, but she needed only wriggle a little for it to fall the rest of the way. She moved on to sliding her panties down as well, feeling exposed and self-conscious. When she stood straight again his hard look had been replaced by one of extreme hunger, a fanatic lust, which, as his eyes wandered freely over her now-naked body, terrified her even more than the knife. She took an involuntary step backwards.

“Are you afraid?” he asked breathily, his gaze again meeting hers. She didn’t answer, would never admit to it. It wasn’t conventional fear, nothing anybody would be ashamed of, but she refused to tell him all the same. She swallowed the lump in her throat as he closed the small distance between them again, taking out the knife. “Now,” he said, “undress me.”

She bit back an undress yourself, smartass, in a flare of her usual self as she reached up to his bandolier and pulled the end from under a loop, pulling it up, away from the metal pin, and sliding it through. The strap fell from him with a quiet clink on the stone floor, a precedent for his belt and tunic.

First, however, she intended to have a little fun. Regaining a bit of bravery, confident he wouldn’t cut her for doing what he had asked, she pulled his shirt up, untucking it from his trousers, bit by bit, and then slid her hands underneath the fabric, outlining the curve of his stomach with gentle fingers. Very slowly, riding up the shirt as she went, she drew her hands up, eventually pulling it over his head, enjoying the way his hair was tousled afterwards. He had closed his eyes.

Finally she acknowledged that she wanted this. For the people whose feelings she wanted to protect, like Casavir’s, she would never tell, and after this night she would not speak of it again. She knew he was a murderer, she knew he had no conscience and might kill her without a second thought as soon as throw her to the bed, as he was doing now. None of this mattered, not in the face of the overwhelming desire she’d known would take over, and finally had.

Sybel bent and kissed his neck, then a soft trail down to his pectorals, and, kneeling now, pressed her lips to his taut abdominal muscles. She began untying the loop around his breeches, agonizingly slowly, a smile on her face all the while as she purposefully allowed little touches to his lower stomach, so slight they seemed accidental, so light and teasing they chased away every coherent thought Bishop might have had at that moment.

“Hurry up,” he grumbled. Self-constraint was a matter of extremes at this point. He could either stand unmoving or let go and take her, violently, that very moment. If he had any will at all he would choose the former. No; he would not allow having her to become like having a wench at a tavern or a girl in a brothel. She was worth more than that to him, more than a forced fuck to let the stress out. Far more.

“Someone’s a bit impatient,” Sybel cooed, taking her chances, keeping a wary eye on his knife, on which his grip tightened. She loosed the strings and gently tugged. The breeches slipped around his hips, revealing ever more of the trail of curly, reddish-brown hair in a widening line from his navel to his groin, and another tug allowed his dick to spring up, finally free of the oppressive clothes, only now allowing her to realize how turned on he really was.

Bishop felt no need for fellatio, as little as it was necessary, and he didn’t like her just looking at him like that. Now she’d done what he’d asked he stepped backwards out of his trousers, which were now in a muddled heap on the floor, and grabbed her by the arm, roughly pulling her into standing position.

“Ow, Bishop, that-“ she began to complain.

“Quiet,” he growled, silencing her immediately, digging his fingers into her arm, leaving marks that would probably become bruises. He guided her with more force than she’d have liked to the bed, half throwing her on to the velvety green covers. “Lay down,” he said, “and spread your legs.”

She obeyed, as little as she liked to. Sybel pushed herself into a more comfortable position and laid down on the bed, rolling her head so she could look at him as she lifted her legs, rubbing her thighs together, then gradually spread them apart. She flushed, wishing she hadn’t, but this was the first time a man had seen her in almost four years. “Stop- please… don’t just look,” she muttered pitiably.

Bishop tilted his head with a forced smirk. “Are you asking for something, Knight-Captain?” he said, walking up to the bed. He set the knife beside her leg on the sheet, then slapped a hand to each of her thighs and leaned forward between them.

He paused for a moment, then, looking at her below him, wondering at how this moment could have ever come to pass, wondering at his luck catching her off guard. She was so beautiful laying there, her dark brown hair spreading in a curtain behind her head, her chocolate-colored eyes wide, caught in his, her firm breasts and athletic figure, all there under him, so easy to claim…

“No,” she murmured, and he found himself entranced by the way her lips moved. “No, it’s just… embarrassing.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” he replied, tearing away from her gaze, returning it to what warmth lay between her legs. Kneeling, he saw that she was already quite wet. It pleased him to know she was just as turned on as he was. His tongue flicked out to the pink lips of her cunt, then as he bent his head towards it, he went deeper, reveling in the taste of her, moving his grip to her waist so he could pull her in closer.

Sybel clutched at the sheets, balling them in her hands and humming pleasure against her lips, as much as she tried to keep quiet, and hearing her, Bishop only became more enthusiastic, once licking and teasing her clitoris and burrowing his tongue as deep into her as it would go. Her back arched slightly as she let out a quiet moan, her head spinning in ecstasy. As far as this kind of foreplay went, it was more pleasing to her than to him, and she wondered, however happily, why he would prefer that first, rather than just taking her.

He was good at it, too; it was easily apparent to her just how much experience he’d had with such things. Bishop soon had her gripping the sheets like they could save her life, her eyes wrenched shut and groaning. It was too much to take on its own.

“Bishop,” she said between a moan and a gasp. “Bishop, please…”

He paused only for a moment to say “please what, m’lady?” before delving in again, and she had to bite her lip to suppress more noises.

“Please, take me,” she said, after several moments making sure she could talk without interruption. “I… I can’t stand this…”

He stopped, much to her relief, planted a gentle kiss on the V where her legs met, and stood, looming over her with a small, predatory smile. “Say it again.”

She breathed a sigh of exasperation, slipping her arms around his waist and pulling him towards her. “Dammit, ranger,” she said, quietly, looking him straight in the eye, “I said take me.” The tips of her fingers pressed into his back, her nails leaving half-moon marks there. “Now.”

His left hand went from her waist and took the knife again, and he pressed the cold blade against the base of her thigh. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands here,” he muttered, his smile widening, and because of it she wasn’t afraid. She could tell, just by the way his eyes glinted, that he’d liked it.

Bishop crushed his lips against hers without warning, turning the flat side of the blade and sliding it down her thigh. He kissed her with such fervor, as her grasp on his waist tightened, that in moments he broke it for air, and her lips already felt raw, but she lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his, hungrily, begging silently for more.

Finally, as she felt the sharp side like a shard of ice on the side of her pussy, he set the knife hand down beside her shoulder, flicking the blade to the side. He broke their impassioned kiss again to guide his dick to her lips, and when his head began to part them, she shuddered in anticipation.

There at the door to ecstasy he hesitated, just for a moment… but then pushed his hips forward and plunged into her, heard happily her half-scream of delight, and set his other hand down opposite the other, caging her below him. Her slim arms still circled his waist, so he bent and pressed his body to hers, nestling into her neck, biting and kissing it like before. Her breasts were pressed flat against his chest; her entire body was trembling, and he loved it.

Bishop pulled out halfway then pushed himself in again and, feeling the walls of her cunt tight around him, groaned himself. It had been so long since the last brothel… and she was so soft, so… delicate. A fragile, beautiful thing that he wanted to break.

To a soft moan of “Oh, Bishop,” he began a steady rhythm of thrust in, out, in, making quiet slapping noises of bare skin on skin, and she felt him, every inch of him, so big inside of her she could only wonder how he fit in at all, and it seemed with every movement a new wave of pleasure washed over her. He reached every spot, every single point as far in which was particularly sensitive, treating her to every kind of feeling that had been so long repressed.

Six years ago, there had been a trader’s caravan in West Harbor that stopped for two weeks to rest. One of the traders had brought his son, to learn the job. He was a year older than Sybel and she’d taken to him instantly. After a week of unceremonious flirtation, kissing and feeling behind the storehouse, they tried something new, and neither was a virgin anymore. There had been other men; she was not inexperienced. None of them had been anything approaching this.

Somewhere along the line Bishop pulled out of her in order to sit on the bed and, whimpering to have it back, she got up as quickly as she could, straddled his lap, and guided his dick back into her herself. She wrapped her legs around him and her arms encircled his neck, her fingers brushing through the short hairs at the top of his neck, and the motions began again. One of his hands found the curve of her ass and helped her up and down, and the other pressed against her back, his fingertips digging in between her shoulder blades. Every so often she punctuated a particularly deep thrust with a “yes, gods yes,” or “ooh, Bishop,” to his grunted demand of “say my name, say it,”.

Sybel moved with him, like it was a dance; their bodies in time came together again and again, each fueled by the other’s moans, burning with lust, glowing with sweat in the candlelight. Minutes went without being counted. Sybel readjusted her legs and pushed him onto his back, falling on to him, lacking control enough of her body to remain upright. Her hands sought purchase on his shoulders, her face buried into his neck, kissing and biting when she needn’t breathe. She gasped each time she came down, every single bit of him plunging into her as deep as he could possibly go, stretching her far beyond anything she thought she could feel. The passage of time slowed as the night and the room and everything else melted around her, second to her body’s command.

Finally her back bowed and her toes spread, her insides tightening around him. She moaned in rapture, feeling something building within her, something which she had not felt for too long, and knew he felt it too; his member grew larger within her, throbbing, his breaths shortening. His kisses became frantic along her neck, seeking her mouth, finding it and biting her lower lip and entwining his tongue with hers, his fingers tracing white streaks on her back. She clung to him ever more fiercely, desperately, the fire in her loins growing and growing… and all at once she felt release. With a violent shudder and her screaming his name, his incontinent groan, they each climaxed, and at last her grip on him relaxed.

Breathing heavy and deep, gasping for air they’d lost in the act, he slid his hands to her waist, and by that lifted her, with surprising gentility, off of him, and following cue, she let herself down on the bed beside him, rolling onto her back. Sybel eased her legs closed and laid them down, finally, catching her breath for several long moments before she could open her eyes again. She looked over to Bishop, who had closed his eyes. In the afterglow of lovemaking, his skin shone, his hair was a messy red-brown halo, and with his chest bare and his arms haphazardly lain behind him, he had never looked more beautiful to her.

After merely looking for a while, listening as his breaths gradually slowed and became more normal, she struggled to turn onto her stomach, and she reached up to his face, brushing her fingers against his eyelids, which flickered open at the touch. She gazed into his golden, wolfish eyes and saw, for the very first time, satisfaction. In the ranger’s eyes she saw happiness.

His knife was beside him, and hers still underneath the pillow, but both were long forgotten. He had no fear she would scream now, or run, and if she did he could catch her quickly enough. But no; she stared at him, stared into his eyes with a little smile, which she probably didn’t even realize she had.

As though she’d caught him with his trousers down (which she had…) the expression went away as he averted his eyes, and then closed them again. He grasped her wrist with one of his hands, about to put it away, but she bent forward and kissed him on the line of his jaw, on a whim, on a quiet whisper in her mind.

“Knight-Captain…” he began, his voice breaking near the end, as he tried to hold all the scorn in the title he usually held, failing. He shut up, his brows knitting in frustration. Sybel leaned back as he abruptly sat up on the bed, and she watched him stand, bending to pick up his breeches from the floor.

Sybel cursed at herself silently as she felt disappointment color her mood. How could she expect anything else? How could she even think he would stay with her for even a moment? Disappointment was joined by anger. Why would she want him to?

The worthless cur had used her! He had just barged in, by all intents and purposes raped her, and got about dressing to leave like nothing had happened?! If she would just…

Bishop leaned in front of her and picked up his dagger, silencing her thought train, leaving still the simmering anger. As he leaned back he caught her eye. She had no idea what he saw there, but it stirred him to speak.

“You were always an excellent fighter,” he grunted under his breath, before pulling away and straightening. He spoke just slightly louder as he continued, though still using a gruff voice, as though begrudged to be saying what he was. “Agile, powerful, beautiful.” The latter he said as nonchalant as possible. It could never be passed off as a compliment, could it? “I thought you would be the same, in bed, and I was right.”

Sybel’s anger dissipated immediately. Coming from anyone else she’d be offended, enraged, but by the hells, Bishop was complimenting her in his own stupid way, and gods be damned if she’d interrupt him.

“You were more than that, though,” he went on, his voice again lowering, though this time with lust, like entrusting some dark, carnal secret. He smiled arrogantly, just like his old self, though more at himself than her. “You were… wild. If that’s any hint of it,” he added as he turned around to pick up his tunic. Sure enough, his back bore red streaks and nail marks, and would probably have finger-shaped bruises by the morrow. At this Sybel had to chuckle, pushing herself into sitting position.

“My own addition to your collection of scars,” she said coyly. He went on to step into his breeches, smiling at her comment. She noted a few sore spots on her own back… she’d have to make sure no one noticed if they turned purple.

What an absurd thing to think about. This is all really absurd. Honestly; I just slept with Bishop, gods’ sakes… And I want him to stay.

Sybel rose from the bed and gathered her nightgown from the floor, and at the action, Bishop stopped to watch her. She lifted the gown above her head and slipped it over her, shifting until it all fell into place. Then she ran her fingers through her tangled hair, stopped when she figured it would be of no use, and turned to face Bishop. It was all just preparation and stalling, really. Sex was easy. Talking to him was harder.

He was watching her closely, but not in an aggressive way, and he still made no move for his weapon. She took this as a good sign.
“Bishop,” she began hesitantly. Her hands clasped together behind her back as she attempted to channel away the awkwardness she was sure she was the only one feeling. “I’d… like you to stay with me tonight.” And even after what they had just done, she felt her cheeks flush, and she kept her eyes away from his. All the same she could feel his stare on her face. This is ridiculous, she fumed at herself.

“Is that an order?” he asked slowly, carefully. His eyes narrowed and she finally raised hers to meet them. “M’lady?”

I don’t love him. I don’t even like him. He’d make a damn good lover, but I’ve got no feelings for him at all. I just want to feel like this is normal, just for a little bit.

Aren’t you a good little liar?

“No.” Sybel shook her head. “No, it’s not an order. Just a request, from an equal, that you can refuse.”

Bishop snorted with laughter. “An equal? Hardly.”

She calmed herself before she could get offended. He could, and probably did mean, other than what she first assumed. “Well, all the same.”

He stared her down for a while, which was extremely disconcerting. His eyes alone could discomfort Lord Nasher himself. Thankfully, though, he broke the awkward gaze and pulled his tunic over his head. She didn’t speak again as he picked up his bandolier, then his knife, sheathing it. Then he, to her dismay, walked past her. She didn’t turn around to watch him leave. She didn’t want to.

He stopped, however, before touching the door, and turned, brushing his hand ever-so-slightly against the curve of her side, making her shiver. His voice came next to her ear, low and quiet, like before: “You know that’s not my way.”

Then the touch was gone and she heard the door creak open, but not his footsteps. She’d never hear him coming or going. She knew that by now.

“Goodnight, Knight-Captain,” he said over his shoulder, then pulled the door shut behind him, and off he went to gods-know-where.

“Good night,” Sybel repeated. Then she sighed, suddenly feeling too keenly the fatigue in her limbs. She walked over to her desk, blew out the candles one-by-one, and sank into her bed, wondering at how cold and empty it felt.