No one disturbed them here; the villagers knew better, giving the "widow" her space.
He kicked the door bar into place, sealing them in.
Rosaine's kisses turned ravenous, tongue invading his mouth, hands yanking at his tunic.
"No words now. I need you in me. Your cock, Jaenor. Fill your mother's belly like before. We don't stop till noon."
His blood roared, the pervert lord surging alongside the son and lover. He devoured her mouth, tasting her desperation, and tore at her kirtle. The wool ripped easily under his strength, laces snapping, fabric parting to bare her glorious form.
No undergarments, Rosaine despised them. Her body gleamed in the firelight: heavy breasts swaying free, nipples thick and erect like ripe berries, freckles dusting her cleavage. A taut belly from years of labor, flaring to wide hips scarred faintly, and thighs thick as tree trunks, parted to reveal her core, a dense thicket of golden curls, wild and untamed, her lips puffy and slick, dripping already.
