Black: 1000 Nights of Desires

4

**Chapter 4: The Weekend Away**

The cabin sits at the end of a gravel track that winds through pine and birch, hidden where the forest meets the lake. No neighbors, no signal, no clock that matters. Markus turns off the engine Friday evening just as the sun bleeds orange across the water. We leave our phones in the glove compartment like relics from another life. The only things we carry inside are the small duffel of clothes we won’t need and the heavy, unspoken promise that hangs between us.

Inside, the place smells of cedar and woodsmoke. A wide stone fireplace dominates one wall; a king bed with flannel sheets waits in the loft. We don’t speak much at first. He drops the bag, turns, and I’m already reaching for him. We kiss standing in the open doorway, slow and deep, tasting the drive and the anticipation. His hands slide under my sweater, warm palms against cold skin. I push him backward until his calves hit the edge of the sofa and he sits, pulling me down to straddle him. Clothes come off in lazy layers—his shirt, my bra, his belt, my jeans—until we’re skin to skin and the fire he started is crackling behind us.

We don’t make it to the bed that first night.

Saturday morning begins before the sun is fully up.

I wake to the slow drag of his tongue between my thighs.

He’s already between my legs, shoulders spreading me open, one arm hooked under my knee to hold me steady. His mouth is lazy, unhurried—long licks that start low and end with a soft suck on my c**t that makes my hips lift off the mattress. I’m still half-asleep, body loose and warm, so the pleasure builds in soft waves instead of a rush. My fingers thread into his hair; I don’t pull, just hold on as he works me with patient, filthy precision. When I come it’s quiet—a long, shuddering sigh that rolls through me like lake water lapping the shore. He kisses the inside of my thigh afterward, then crawls up my body and slides inside me while I’m still pulsing around nothing.

We f**k slow and sleepy, bodies rocking together under the heavy quilt, his mouth on my neck, my nails tracing idle patterns down his back. When he finishes it’s with a low groan buried against my shoulder, and we drift back to sleep tangled and sticky.

Afternoon finds us in the kitchen.

I’m trying to make coffee—barefoot, wearing only his discarded flannel shirt that hits mid-thigh—when he comes up behind me. His hands slide around my waist, then lower, cupping me through the thin cotton of my underwear. I lean back against his chest; he kisses the side of my neck while his fingers slip beneath the fabric.

“Turn around,” he murmurs.

I do.

He lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion. The edge digs into my ass but I don’t care. He drops to his knees again—because apparently that’s his favorite place to be—and eats me like he’s starving, tongue flicking fast and hard until I’m gripping the counter edge and gasping. Then he stands, shoves his sweats down just enough, and thrusts into me with one hard stroke. The coffee pot gurgles forgotten beside us as he f***s me against the cabinets—deep, fast, the wood creaking under my palms. My legs wrap around his waist; his hands bruise my hips. We come within seconds of each other, my cry muffled against his shoulder, his teeth sinking into the curve of my neck hard enough to mark.

Later, on the porch.

The sky has gone heavy with rain clouds but the air is still warm. I’m bent over the railing, skirt hiked to my waist, panties around one ankle. Markus is behind me, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip as he drives into me from behind. The lake stretches out below us, flat and silver; wind lifts my hair and cools the sweat on my skin. Every thrust jolts me forward, breasts swaying, n*****s tight against the rough wood of the rail. He reaches around, fingers finding my c**t, rubbing in tight circles until I’m shaking, cursing, begging him not to stop. The orgasm hits me like lightning—sharp, blinding—and he follows right after, groaning my name as he spills deep inside.

Sunday morning it rains.

We don’t leave the rug in front of the fireplace.

He teaches me things in the flickering light.

How to relax my throat so I can take him deeper—slow, patient, his hand gentle in my hair while I kneel between his thighs and work my mouth over him until tears prick my eyes and he’s swearing under his breath. How to use the flat of my tongue along the underside, how to swirl around the head until his hips jerk and his fingers tighten in my hair. How to look up at him while I do it, how to hum so the vibration makes his whole body tense.

He teaches me how to ask without shame.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice rough, fingers buried inside me while I straddle his face.

I hesitate only a second. “I want to come on your tongue again. Then I want you to flip me over and f**k me so hard I feel it tomorrow.”

His eyes darken. “Good girl.”

I ride his face until I come twice—once fast and sharp, once slower, grinding down until my thighs burn and he’s gripping my ass to hold me in place. Then he flips me onto my hands and knees, palms flat on the rug, and drives into me from behind. The headboard isn’t here to bang, but the coffee table rattles every time he bottoms out. His hand wraps around my throat—not tight, just possessive—and I arch back into him, meeting every thrust, whispering filth that makes him growl and go harder.

We leave marks everywhere.

Bites on my breasts, fingerprints on my thighs, beard burn on my inner thighs and neck. His back is scored with red lines from my nails; there’s a purple bruise blooming on his shoulder where I bit down when he made me come so hard I saw stars.

By Sunday night we’re exhausted—bodies sore, lips swollen, voices hoarse from moaning and laughing and cursing each other’s names. We lie on the rug again, fire dying to embers, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare back.

The rain has stopped.

The lake is quiet.

We don’t talk about Monday, about returning to the city, about the phones waiting in the car. We don’t need to.

We’re addicted now—to the taste of each other, the feel of skin sliding on skin, the way our bodies know exactly how to fight and fit and melt together.

Three days isn’t enough.

But it’s enough to make sure we’ll steal more.

He kisses the top of my head.

I press closer.

The fire pops once, softly.

And we drift toward sleep already reaching for each other in the dark.