Cold water slapped his cheek as the river tried to claim him again. He coughed, spitting mud, and rolled onto his back. The sky above was iron-gray, heavy with the threat of snow. His body ached—every bone felt freshly forged—but beneath the pain thrummed something new. A low, constant heat in his blood, like distant thunder.
Lust.
He sat up slowly. The riverbank was a mess of reeds and trampled grass. His robes—simple linen, coarse wool cloak—were soaked through, clinging to skin that felt strangely vital. No wounds from the truck. No scars. Just the Sin, coiled inside him like a sleeping serpent.
The air carried woodsmoke, wet earth, and something sharper: old blood baked into the soil. Ahead, through bare alder trees, he saw the village. Miller's Ford. Thirty-odd houses hunched along a slow brown river, roofs thatched and sagging. Dominating everything was the black-stone mill, its overshot wheel turning with patient, relentless creaks. Flour dust hung in the air like pale mist, catching what little light pierced the clouds.
He stood. His legs were steady. Stronger than before.
As he walked the muddy track into the village, the heat in his veins sharpened into awareness. A faint pulse, like a second heartbeat. Not his own.
A woman's.
Mature. Lonely. Hungry.
It came from the cluster of buildings nearest the mill.
The village felt ready to snap. Men moved with weapons close—billhooks, old swords, a farmer sharpening an axe outside his door. Eyes tracked him: suspicious, weary. No one spoke. A mangy dog growled, then thought better of it and slunk away. He kept his head down, hands visible, and angled toward the pulse.
It led him to a low bakery built against the mill's shadow. Warmth leaked from the half-open door, along with the scent of fresh rye bread and something sweeter—woman.
He paused on the threshold.
Inside, bent over a wide oak table, was the source.
She was thirty-eight, maybe forty. Flour streaked her forearms up to the elbows, dusting the rolled sleeves of her linen dress. The dress had once been blue; now it was faded and clung damply to her body from the oven's heat. Her breasts were heavy, straining the laced bodice, shifting with each forceful knead of dough. Wide hips flared beneath a worn apron tied tight around a narrow waist earned by years of hard work. Her ass—gods, her ass—was full and round, flexing as she rocked forward to press her weight into the dough. Thick thighs pressed together beneath the skirt, and he could already imagine the soft heat between them.
Her auburn hair was tied back in a practical knot, loose strands plastered to her neck with sweat. A few silver threads caught the firelight. Her face was handsome rather than delicate—strong cheekbones, full lips, faint lines at the corners of eyes that had seen too much grief. A widow's face. Beautiful because it had lived.
She hadn't noticed him yet. Her breathing was deep, rhythmic, matching the push and pull of her hands in the soft dough. Each exhale carried the faintest tremor.
He felt it clearly now: the pulse of her arousal. Low, banked, but undeniably there. A steady warmth between her legs that hadn't been properly tended in years. Her body remembered pleasure, craved it, even as her mind buried the need beneath daily survival.
His cock stirred, thickening against his thigh. He swallowed.
The Sin whispered: *Take. Amplify. Make her drip.*
He resisted. Not yet. Restraint, the Goddess had warned. Worship first.
A floorboard creaked under his boot.
She straightened quickly, one flour-dusted hand going to the knife at her belt. Her eyes—hazel, sharp—fixed on him. For a heartbeat, suspicion warred with something else. Her gaze flicked over his face, his broad shoulders, down to the unmistakable bulge he made no effort to hide.
Then she caught herself, cheeks flushing beneath the flour smudges.
"Stranger," she said, voice low and husky from years of shouting over the mill's roar. "You're dripping on my floor."
He stepped inside, letting the door swing half-shut behind him. The bakery's heat wrapped around him like a lover's arms. Yeast, woodsmoke, warm bread—and beneath it all, the faint, intoxicating musk of an aroused woman.
"Forgive me," he said. His voice came out deeper than expected, rough with want. "The river tried to keep me. I'm… new to these parts."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't draw the knife. Instead, she wiped her hands on her apron, the motion pulling the fabric tight across her breasts. Her nipples—dark shadows beneath damp linen—had hardened in the brief draft from the door.
"New is dangerous here," she said. "Blackwaters and Greysons both claim every stranger as spy or sellsword. You pick a side yet?"
"I pick bread," he answered, letting his gaze linger openly on her curves. "And warmth. Yours smells better than any I've known."
A startled laugh escaped her—short, surprised, as if she'd forgotten the sound. The pulse of her arousal flickered brighter. He felt it like warm honey in his veins.
She turned back to the dough, but her movements were less sure now. "Flattery won't fill your belly. But I've a heel from yesterday if you've coin."
"No coin," he admitted. "But I've strong hands. I could help with… whatever needs doing."
Her shoulders stiffened. She glanced sideways at him, lips parting slightly. The Sin hummed, tempting him to nudge—just a whisper of power to make her thighs clench, to soak the hidden folds he ached to taste.
He held back. Slow. Worship.
She studied him a long moment. Then, quietly: "There's wood to split out back. Axe is by the door. Do a good job and you'll eat hot bread tonight. And maybe…" She paused, throat working. "Maybe stay the night. Storm's coming."
The offer hung between them, heavy with unspoken things. Her cheeks were pink now, not just from the oven.
He smiled, slow and reverent. "I'd like that very much."
As he stepped past her toward the back door, he let his arm brush hers—just enough contact to feel the heat of her skin. She inhaled sharply. The pulse of her need surged, a sudden rush of wetness between her legs that he sensed like a physical caress.
Outside, he gripped the axe and swung. Each impact drove splinters flying, but his mind was inside with her—imagining those flour-dusted breasts freed from the bodice, her thick thighs spread wide on that same oak table, her dripping pink cunt opening for him as he knelt to worship.
Five rounds, he promised himself. Six if she begged.
And then, when she was trembling and sated, he'd move on—leaving her glowing, spreading the gospel one grateful MILF at a time.
But first, he had to survive the night.
Because somewhere across the village, a dog began to howl, and angry voices rose on the wind. The feud was stirring.
And he was right in the middle of it.