Dawn crept through the rattling window in pale gray streaks, painting Mira's naked skin in soft light. She lay curled against him, head on his chest, one thick thigh draped over his. Her heavy breasts pressed warm and soft against his side, nipples still faintly swollen from the night's worship. The air was thick with the scent of sex—sweat, cum, her rich musk lingering on the sheets and his skin.
He stroked her auburn hair lazily, fingers tracing down the curve of her spine to rest on the plush swell of her ass. She stirred with a contented sigh, hazel eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked younger—lines softened, lips curved in a sleepy smile.
"Morning," she murmured, voice husky from screaming his name into the quilts. Her hand slid down his stomach, finding his cock already half-hard. "Or is it still night? Feels like I dreamed you."
He chuckled low, rolling her onto her back. She spread willingly, thighs parting to reveal her pussy—puffy, pink, still glistening with their mixed fluids leaking slowly from her well-used hole.
"Not a dream," he said, settling between her legs. He kissed her deeply, tasting sleep and satisfaction on her tongue. His cock nudged her entrance, sliding through slick folds. "Round seven?"
She moaned into his mouth, hips lifting. "Greedy man… but yes. Fill me again."
He pushed in slowly, savoring the hot, velvety grip. She was looser now, molded to him after the night's marathon, but still clenched greedily. He rocked deep, unhurried—long strokes that ground against her clit with each thrust.
Her breasts bounced gently, and he buried his face between them, inhaling the warm, flour-dusted scent that clung to her skin even now. He sucked one nipple hard, then the other, leaving fresh marks. She arched, nails digging into his back.
"Love these tits," he growled. "So full. So perfect for my mouth."
She whimpered, cunt fluttering around him. He felt her building slowly—lazy waves of pleasure after the night's intensity. He slipped a hand between them, thumb circling her swollen clit.
"Come for me, Mira. Milk my cock like a good girl."
The praise tipped her over. She came with a soft cry, walls pulsing, fresh wetness coating his balls. He followed moments later, pumping another load deep, groaning about breeding her properly, marking her as his—even if only for now.
They stayed joined, breathing hard. Cum trickled out around his softening cock as he pulled free. She looked beautifully wrecked—lips swollen, thighs trembling, pussy gaping slightly and dripping thick white.
"Never thought I'd feel like this again," she whispered, tracing his jaw. "Like a woman, not just a widow scraping by."
He kissed her forehead. "You deserve it every day."
A distant shout shattered the quiet—harsh, urgent. Then another. Boots on snow. The clang of metal.
Mira tensed. "That's the mill horn. Trouble."
They dressed quickly—him in his borrowed clothes, her in a fresh shift and apron. Downstairs, the bakery felt colder, embers dead in the oven. Through the frosted window, he saw figures moving: Blackwaters gathering near the mill, armed with billhooks and slings. Across the river, smoke rose from a Greyson barn—freshly torched.
"The Greysons hit back for last night's threats," Mira said, voice tight. "They'll blame me for sheltering a stranger. Both sides will."
He pulled her close. "Stay inside. Bar the door after me."
"No." She gripped his arm. "You don't owe me this."
"I do," he said simply. The Sin stirred, warm in his veins. He could feel faint pulses now—other women in the village, fear sharpening their buried desires. But Mira's was strongest, laced with fresh arousal from the morning fuck and the danger.
Outside, snow had stopped, leaving a crisp white blanket broken by footprints. He stepped into the lane as a knot of Greysons—six men, led by the scarred one from yesterday—marched toward the bakery, torches in hand.
"There's the bastard!" Scar-lip snarled. "Helping Blackwater whores hoard flour. Burn it down!"
They charged.
He didn't run. The Sin uncoiled—just a measured draw, more than last night but controlled. He focused it outward, not on one woman but diffused: a wave of raw lust crashing over the men.
It hit them like a gut punch. Eyes glazed. Breaths quickened. Cocks hardened painfully against rough trousers as buried fantasies surged—wives, daughters of rivals, stolen brides. One dropped his torch, clutching himself. Another staggered, muttering about a widow's tits he'd spied years ago.
Confusion spread. "What sorcery—?"
He moved then—fast, enhanced by the goddess's gift. A fist to Scar-lip's jaw dropped him cold. An elbow to another's throat. He disarmed two more, using their own clubs to crack knees and wrists. Non-lethal. He wasn't here to add bodies to the tally.
The last two fled, howling about devils and curses.
Blackwaters watched from the mill, wary but impressed. Old Marta herself—stooped, missing fingers—nodded once from the doorway.
He returned to the bakery, breathing hard. A faint redness tinged his vision—the Sin digging deeper. He pushed it down. Restraint.
Mira waited inside, eyes wide. "You… fought six and won. Bare-handed."
"Luck," he lied modestly.
She didn't buy it. Instead, she pulled him down for a fierce kiss, hands fumbling at his belt. "Upstairs. Now. I need you again."
He obliged, bending her over the table this time—apron hiked, ass presented. He slammed into her from behind, hair wrapped around his fist, pounding hard while she moaned about his strength, his cock, how safe he made her feel.
Round eight: Quick, brutal, possessive. She squirted twice, soaking the floorboards.
Round nine: Slow on the rugs by the rekindled fire, face-to-face, her legs locked around him as he whispered filth about her dripping cunt owning him.
After, curled by the embers, she traced the faint black veins now visible at his temples—gone in moments, but there.
"You're no ordinary traveler," she said softly.
"No," he admitted. "But I'm here to make things better. One woman at a time."
She smiled sadly, understanding more than he said. "Stay a few days? Help end this madness? Then… go if you must."
He nodded. A few days. More worship. Then onward—the hedge witch in the woods pulsed faintly now, mature and potent.
But first, the feud.
Smoke still rose across the river. Retribution would come.
And he'd be ready.