Chapter 13: Breeding Whore
The damp wool of Fiona’s dress felt like a shroud against her skin as she pushed open the heavy lodge door once more. Three weeks. Three weeks since Lachlan’s dismissal had echoed in this very space, colder than the stones beneath her feet. The air inside was thick, unchanged – damp earth, woodsmoke from a fresh fire, and an undercurrent of something feral, like the forest itself had seeped in. Rain battered the windows, a relentless drumming that matched the frantic beat of her own heart. She hadn’t planned this confrontation, but the impossible truth blooming inside her demanded it.
Lachlan wasn’t lounging this time. He stood by the hearth, poking at the logs with an iron, his back to her. Broad shoulders strained against the worn flannel shirt. He didn’t turn immediately, letting the silence stretch, taut as a bowstring. The tension crackled louder than the kindling.
“Back so soon?” His voice, rough as gravel, cut through the quiet. He finally turned, the firelight catching the hard planes of his face, his eyes sweeping over her with a familiar, assessing heat that instantly warred with the memory of his last, cutting words. “Miss my cock already, hen?”
Fiona flinched, but held her ground. The humiliation of his dismissal, the raw ache of his indifference, warred with the fierce, terrifying need that always pulled her back. And now, this. She took a shaky breath, the scent of him – woodsmoke, whisky, man – filling her senses. “It’s not that.” Her voice sounded thin. “Lachlan… I’m pregnant.”
The fire iron clattered against the stone hearth. He froze, the lazy predator suddenly alert. His gaze snapped to her face, then dropped deliberately to her stomach, still flat beneath the sensible wool. The firelight flickered in his dark eyes, showing surprise, then something sharper, hotter – a primal spark that made her skin prickle. “Pregnant?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “His?” The word dripped with contempt.
“Yours.” The single syllable hung heavy in the air. “It’s yours. Again.” The admission felt like tearing open a wound. “Just like… the last time.” The memory of the Cowan Hotel, the brutal claiming that started it all, flashed through her mind.
He closed the distance between them in two long strides, stopping inches away. The heat radiating off him was intense, overwhelming. His eyes, locked on hers, were no longer distant. They burned with a fierce, possessive hunger, stripping away her defenses. “Mine,” he growled, the word vibrating through her. A rough hand shot out, tangling in the high collar of her dress. With a brutal, tearing rrrrippp, he yanked it downwards. Buttons flew like shrapnel, scattering across the flagstones. Cool air hit her exposed skin above the black lace lingerie set she’d defiantly worn beneath, hoping, perhaps, to reignite something. “Show me.”
He didn’t wait. His hands were everywhere. Rough calloused palms grabbed the torn edges of her dress and wrenched it down her shoulders, past her corseted torso, peeling it down her trembling arms. It caught at her waist. He shoved it impatiently lower, past her hips, until it pooled around her ankles. She stood before him in the red lace, sheer stockings, the firelight gleaming on her pale skin, the slight, almost imperceptible swell beneath the boning suddenly feeling monumental under his scrutiny.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word thick with lust. His gaze devoured her, lingering on the tight lace cups straining over her breasts, the dark peaks visible beneath, then down the corset’s lines to her belly. “My seed. Taking root again.” He sounded almost awed, then predatory. “Hamish? Does he know?”
“No.” The word was a whisper. “He wouldn’t… he doesn’t touch me like that. Not like you.” The confession spilled out, laced with bitterness and a desperate need for him to understand her choice.
Lachlan’s response was immediate, violent. He grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and spun her around. Her back slammed against the cold, rough stone wall beside the massive fireplace. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Before she could gasp, his body crashed into hers, pinning her hard against the unyielding surface. The chill of the stone seeped through the lace, contrasting violently with the furnace heat of him pressed against her back. His erection, massive and iron-hard, ground against the curve of her arse through his trousers.
One hand clamped on her hip, grinding her pelvis back against him. The other tangled savagely in her hair, yanking her head back, exposing the pale column of her throat. His breath scorched her ear. “You fucking want this?” His voice was a harsh rasp, devoid of tenderness, full of raw demand. “You want my bastard growing in your belly while you play his dutiful wife?”
Tears stung Fiona’s eyes, half from the pain in her scalp, half from the terrifying, undeniable truth crashing over her. The rough stone scraped her shoulder blades. His grip was punishing. This wasn’t love. It was possession. Brutal, exhilarating possession. And her body, starved for sensation, for feeling, ignited. A choked sob escaped her, mingling with a moan. “Yes!” she gasped, arching her back, pressing her arse harder against his throbbing cock. “God, yes! Fuck me, Lachlan! Do it! Like you mean it!”
He didn’t need telling twice. A guttural growl tore from his throat. His free hand shoved ruthlessly between her body and the wall, tearing at the flimsy silk barrier of her knickers. They shredded under his fingers. Cool air hit her exposed sex, followed instantly by the searing heat of his palm slapping hard against her bare arse cheek. SMACK! The sharp sting made her cry out, her pussy clenching reflexively, flooding with wetness she could feel slicking her inner thighs.
“Filthy fucking whore,” he snarled, his voice thick with lust. He didn’t fumble. He shoved his trousers and shorts down just enough, freeing his cock. The thick, veined length sprang free, the swollen, leaking head bumping against her soaking wet entrance. He positioned himself, the broad tip pressing insistently. He used his grip on her hip to angle her, then slammed forward. Hard.
“FUCK!” Fiona screamed, her head cracking back against the stone. There was no easing in. He speared her open in one brutal, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, clutching heat. The stretch was intense, almost painful – a glorious, burning invasion. He filled her completely, stretching her walls, pressing against her deepest spots.
He held there for a heartbeat, buried deep, pulsing inside her, letting her feel the sheer, unyielding girth of him. Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, the drag exquisite agony, before slamming home again with piston force. Thud. Her body jolted against the wall. Thud. Her breasts crushed against the stone. Thud. The wet slap of skin on skin, flesh driving deep into slick, yielding flesh, drowned out the rain and the fire.
“You like that?” he demanded, his voice ragged, his breath hot on her neck. He pistoned into her, each deep, powerful thrust driving her harder against the unyielding wall. His hand tightened in her hair, pulling mercilessly. His other hand clamped on her hip, fingers digging in, guiding her body to take every punishing inch. “You like being pinned? Like feeling my cock stretching that tight little cunt? Knowing I’m planting another fucking baby in you?”
The roughness, the sheer animal force, the crude, degrading words – they shattered her inhibitions. Raw, unadulterated ecstasy tore through her. “YES!” she shrieked, her voice raw, tears streaming freely now, mixing with sweat. She pushed back against him, meeting his savage thrusts, craving the bruising impact, the deep, burning penetration. “Harder! Fuck me harder! I LOVE it! I always want it like this! Rough! Like you OWN me!” Her confession spilled out, fueled by the maelstrom of sensation. “I want your babies! Always! Fuck me, Lachlan! Breed me! Fill me! Give me another one!”
Her words ignited him. He roared, a sound of pure, feral triumph. His thrusts became frenzied, jackhammering into her with brutal efficiency. His balls slapped against her wet folds. The stone scraped her skin. Her cries became wordless screams of pleasure-pain, her body convulsing around his invading cock, her inner muscles fluttering, tightening, trying to milk him. She was close, teetering on the edge, the brutal friction against her clit, the deep, relentless pounding igniting a wildfire.
“Gonna fill you up!” he grunted, his rhythm becoming erratic, powerful. “Gonna pump my fucking seed so deep inside you! Mark you! Make you swell with my bastard AGAIN!” He drove into her with one final, earth-shattering thrust, burying himself impossibly deep. His body locked against hers, rigid. She felt the hot, thick flood erupt inside her, pulsing jets filling her already stuffed channel, the heat intense, possessive.
Her own climax ripped through her in counterpoint, a violent, blinding detonation that tore a ragged scream from her throat and left her trembling violently, pinned between the cold stone and Lachlan’s shuddering heat. Wave after wave of sensation crashed over her, leaving her limp, gasping, feeling utterly claimed, utterly wrecked.
His weight slumped against her for a moment, his breath hot and ragged on her neck, his cock still buried deep, twitching as the last spurts emptied into her. The scent of sex, sweat, and stone dust filled the air, thick and primal. Slowly, he pulled out, the withdrawal leaving her feeling hollow, gaping, his release already leaking down her trembling inner thighs. He stepped back, pulling his trousers up, the movement casual, almost dismissive.
Fiona leaned against the wall, trembling, her ruined lingerie sticky, her skin marked by stone and his fingers. She turned, pressing her back to the cold surface, needing its support. Lachlan was already reaching for the whisky bottle on the mantel. He poured a large measure into a glass, his movements steady, his breathing already calming. He took a long swallow, then looked at her, his eyes scanning her disheveled state, the mess between her legs. That familiar, chilling indifference was already settling back over his features, the raw animal lust banked as quickly as it had flared.
He gestured towards her torn dress on the floor with the rim of his glass. “Better get that on.” His voice was flat, devoid of the possessive heat of moments before. “Track’s getting muddy. Wouldn’t want you stuck here.” He took another sip, his gaze drifting back to the fire. “Or maybe you would.”
Fiona pushed off the wall, her legs like water, the sticky evidence of his possession cooling unpleasantly. She bent, her movements stiff, and gathered the torn wool. The crude practicality of his words landed like another blow. She was a vessel used and discarded. Again. The firelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across his impassive face, the ancient stones, and the damp patch glistening on the floor where he’d taken her. The rain beat its relentless rhythm on the roof, the only sound in the crushing silence that followed his dismissal. The lodge felt less like a refuge and more like a cage, its damp stones holding the echo of her desperate, unanswered plea.