Page 14 of The Blacksmith in My Tavern: Tales of Bleakness

She swallows, not missing a fucking drop.

As she promised.

My legs threaten to give out under me. I slap my hand against the nearby wall. My other hand is still in her hair as her lips slowly pop off.

She brushes her thumb over her puffy lower lip and sucks it into her mouth. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to do that.”

A growl of pure masculine satisfaction escapes me. I lean down and plant my mouth over hers, kissing her, trying to pour everything I feel that I cannot put into words into the kiss. Control is utterly lost. I hoist her into my arms and stagger for the long bench lining one wall. I sit. She is on my lap, facing me with her legs spread around me.

Her tits are at the perfect height. I yank the bodice of her dress down on the right and feast.

Chapter Five

Betsy

His hands are on me—finally.

He yanks down the bodice of my gown. Closing his hot mouth over my nipple and a good portion of my breast, he sucks vigorously, pulling me closer as he does.

His cock is still out, sticky and hard between us.

His taste is still in my mouth.

With one big hand on my ass and the other in my hair, he holds me to his liking as he suckles greedily on my flesh. The sweet, tugging sensation drives dizzy pleasure straight to my core. I have dreamed of this man so often. He has starred in every fantasy I’ve ever had—a big, capable blacksmith with acres of shoulders and muscles everywhere.

But it is not only about that. Heath is so much more than a hot man I lust for. He is a good father, kind, and generous of his time.Steady. He is like a rock standing against life’s troubles in this bleak city, while I am a tempestuous storm crashing through life, for it is precious and has shown me its fragility.

I live voraciously, for I live in fear that these moments of joy might be snatched away.

We are opposites, Heath and I, and yet to be in his arms is to find a place where I fit.

I loved him even before he helped to save me that night. Stormed the infamous cells where I had been taken. A part of the rebellion, he is no stranger to violence in the name of the cause. Such a man would protect me always.

Such a man would keep me safe.

With such a man, I could let go and know he would be there to catch me.

“Betsy, Betsy, Betsy,” he mumbles against my throat.

His nose draws across my skin to the other side, where he yanks the bodice down and begins to torment me anew. He pinches and rolls my nipple between his fingers then closes his lips over it and sucks too sharply. It hurts a little—a sweet, achy sensation that ignites flames in my core. My hands burrow in his hair, pulling him closer. I arch up into his touch, wanting more, craving him and only him.

His lips pop off, and his dark eyes clash with mine. “These tits are a test,” he says. He cups them in both big hands and squeezes them together, grasps both my nipples and pinches them cruelly.

His lips seek and find mine as we share another lusty kiss.

Heath

I am out of my mind for her. A man possessed with one need alone. Her scent fills my senses. Her soft skin under my rough palms. My fingers are shaking as I grasp her dress and thrust upher skirts… or try to. My lips are still locked on hers; the dress is trapped between us, but she seems to get the idea of what I want and lifts her hips, fumbling to help me drag the skirt out of the way, making her tits jiggle against me in the most arresting way. All the while, we are kissing, our tongues tangling like we are trying to consume one another.

Finally, the skirt comes free in a rush. My lips slide off hers. My chest is heaving like the bellows in my well-stoked forge. I lower my gaze past her quivering tits to where her skirts have gathered up, keeping her most intimate place from my sight.

I push them aside roughly, exposing the thin material of her panties.

“Fuck, lass,” I mutter. “You have drenched your panties through.”

There is an unmistakable dark patch. I slide my fingertips over it gently. I can feel her fat clit poking through the thin material. She jolts when I scrape my nail across it and arches up against me.

“Is this for me, Betsy? Or is this for any man who touches you?” My fingers make a fist over the wet material.

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