She stood over him and looked him in the eye and said, "You don’t look like you are bothered by her behavior. Doesn’t that anger you, her talking with another man that closely?"
Jaenor’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. "She’s free to do as she pleases."
"She is," Valara agreed, her voice gentle but firm.
"But you’re not. Not really. You’re tied to sothing bigger, aren’t you?" She paused, then added, softer, "I’ve always seen it in you, Jaenor. That fire. That strength."
"You don’t behave like a child. Always felt like I was staring at any adult man."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with aning.
Jaenor’s heart pounded, the room suddenly too warm, too small.
"I just don’t want to force what people don’t want to do. So if she doesn’t like , she can do as she wishes, but she should have said sothing about it."
Valara was close now, close enough that he could sll the faint lavender in her hair and feel the heat of her presence. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on his chest, over the wool of his coat.
"Forget about my daughter tonight. I want all your focus on ."
"I want you to stay tonight," she said, her voice a whisper, raw and unapologetic. "Not as the lover of my daughter, not so farm boy. Just... you."
The words struck him like a spark to tinder.
He should say no and should walk away.
She was Rena’s mother, a woman of power and responsibility, and he was a child to her.
But her touch, her gaze, held him fast.
"I..." He swallowed, then nodded.
"Alright."
Lessfuckinggooo!!! Jaenor scread inside his mind. Acting all timid in front of her worked out all fine. He knew what he was doing. From the mont she laid her eyes on him, he could tell that it was her intention to sleep with him.
Valara’s smile was slow, radiant, like the dawn breaking over the Mountains of Mist.
She took his hand, her fingers warm and sure, and led him through a narrow hallway to a bedroom at the back of the house.
The room was simple but inviting, lit by a single candle that cast dancing shadows on the walls.
A bed stood in the centre, its fra carved with vines, piled high with sheep wool blankets so soft they seed to beckon.
Valara closed the door behind them, the click of the latch loud in the quiet.
She turned to him, her eyes searching his, and for a mont, neither spoke.
Then she stepped forward, her hands framing his face, and kissed him.
The kiss was fire, fierce and consuming, yet laced with a tenderness that caught him off guard. Jaenor’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and the world narrowed to the heat of her lips, the press of her body against his.
Valara’s fingers tangled in his hair, her breath hitching as the kiss deepened. There was no hesitation in her, only a hunger that matched his own, a need to forget the world beyond this room.
She pulled back, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark with desire. "You’re more than I expected," she murmured, her voice husky. Her hands slid down his chest, deftly unbuttoning his coat, and Jaenor felt a thrill at her boldness. He was no stranger to battle, to danger, but this—her touch, her certainty—was a different kind of challenge.
They moved to the bed, the sheep wool yielding beneath them, soft as a cloud.
Valara’s shawl fell away, her dress following, and Jaenor’s breath caught at the sight of her—strong, graceful, a woman who carried the weight of her village yet burned with a passion that rivalled his own.
She was the kind of woman forged in sweat and silence—not cut like marble, but built like an oak. Her muscles weren’t sculpted for show, but strength lived in every thick curve of her arms and every thunderous step of her thighs. Each movent made her body flex like coiled rope, sturdy and sure.
Dark hair, untad as wildfire, swung low as she undressed, a slow and deliberate shedding of cloth and burden. When she stood bare, it wasn’t fragility that was revealed—it was dominance. Her skin bore the sun’s kiss, tanned and uneven in places, proof of days lived in labour and heat.
Between her legs, she carried a thick bush like a badge of womanhood untrimd by vanity. Her breasts, full and heavy, moved with a life of their own, and her face—sharp-cheeked, with eyes that could wither or ignite—was carved with experience, not innocence.
She was not a maiden to rescue.
She was a vixen of the old blood—wild, knowing, and utterly untad.
To lie with her was no idle pleasure.
It was a challenge, and not one all n survived.
He shed his own clothes, the air cool against his skin, and when their bodies t again, it was a collision of need and fire.
Her eyes were fixed on his succulent red lips. She imagined them pressing against her vulva and caressing her sensitive forest of surrounding hair, granting her all the pleasure that she might desire with selfless patience and practiced technique. Her eyes quickly dropped to his serpent of sin.
And her eyes turned as big as apples. Because without getting hard, it was pretty long already, and she wondered how long it would be when she put his at stick in her mouth.
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