Page 19 of The Wolf in My Tavern

“Gods, lass! I can’t…” He grunts. Hot, salty cum explodes in my mouth, and my lips pop off in shock.

I continue to pump my hand as more jets shoot out over his belly and the straw until he twitches and stills my hands, heaving ragged breath. I lick my lips, wishing I’d been better prepared so I might have taken more.

I peep up to find him wearing a lazy, satisfied grin.

I grin, too, and then I stuff my soaked fingers into my mouth and groan.

“Goddess weep, you are a test,” he mutters, and taking my arms, he tumbles me to my back, thrusts my skirts up, and plants his mouth on my pussy with a low growl.

“Oh, yes!” I fall back helplessly as he kisses me there like he did my lips, making the wonderful urgency rise inside me again, making all the little nerves there tingle and the hot feeling pulse. Then he closes his lips over the magic place, as he called it, and sucks, and I am tumbling all over again, trying to rip his hair from his scalp as I ride his face in pleasure.

When I have done twitching and grunting, and all I can do is bask in the hazy aftermath, he surges up and collapses next to me, snuggling me close with my cheek against his heaving chest. His pants are still around his hips, his spent cock out, and I’m all sticky with my skirts tangled around my legs and my bodice down.

I have never felt happier in my life.

“Can we do that again?” I ask, feeling snoozy and content, although wondering belatedly why no one has come to look for me when we have a tavern full of patrons, and it is a Friday night.

“Aye, lass, for sure,” he says. “Might need to give me a moment. My balls are utterly drained, and I’m as weak as a newborn kitten.”

I giggle.

He chuckles.

“Ada, lass! My pa is asking if you are all right,” Betsy calls.

I bolt up, trying to right my skirts and bodice. Callum tries to help me, cursing as we get in each other’s way.

“Take your time,” Betsy says. I can hear the smile in her voice before she gives up all pretenses and giggles. “I’ll tell Pa you are dealing with women’s issues.”

“Thanks, Betsy,” Callum calls, trying to straighten his shirt and grunting when it still looks rumpled.

Betsy’s footsteps fade away.

We stop and stare at one another. I feel the air quicken between us, and it’s as though a thread connects us, pulling us together.

He leans down, cups my checks, and kisses me sweetly. “You okay, Ada?”

I nod. “Yes, I think so.” I grin back up at him like a love-struck fool.

“Go on, then, lass. I’ll follow in shortly, so it’s not too obvious.” He gestures down with a grimace. “Also, my cock will not go down while you are near, and I cannot go into the tavern in this condition.”

I laugh again, my heart nearly bursting in my chest with happiness.

I am still smiling when I enter the tavern. And that’s when I see him—Master Gray—and my traitorous belly takes a tumble all over again.

Chapter Eight

Callum

Snow is falling heavily beyond the open workshop doors. Yet the blazing forge and the heavy work as I pound the metal into shape keeps me warm. As a young lad, I loved to help in the workshop, and would be given simple tasks that built a sense of value and satisfaction. Now that I am older, I appreciate the order. Everything has its place: the various tools neatly hanging on the back wall, the coke for the forge, the raw materials for crafting, the piles of completed weapons for our current commission, and the long workbenches with various tools for the more detailed work.

Then there are the twin anvils, one for my father and one for me.

I can still remember my pride when I got my first anvil and hammer. Following in my father’s footsteps and learning his craft was all I ever wanted. It’s fair to say I love my work—the good kind of ache it instills in your muscles, the satisfaction of watching lumps of metal take form.

We have a visitor today: one who is making me uneasy, even though I have seen him before in the tavern.

My father talks to the man with dark blond hair, who is wearing a heavy winter cloak. I try to listen surreptitiously between the pounding of the metal, but at the risk of drawing attention to my nosiness, I can only catch the odd word.

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