Natina watched him, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders, the muscles honed by swordplay and hardship. In his leisure time, Jaenor liked to train with a bow and sword. It had become his habit, and his father used to take him on hunts in the forest, and he used the bow more frequently.
She took a step closer, her presence filling the space between them. "You’ve grown into a man, Jaenor," she said, her voice soft but charged.
"Strong. Fierce. I’ve seen it, even when you were just a boy. And now..." Her eyes roamed over him, unapologetic. "I’ve been waiting for an...opportunity. To take you for myself."
"Now I want you."
She is a cougar. Jaenor smirked. He wasn’t expecting her to be upfront about her desire like this. And certainly wasn’t expecting her to offer herself to him, matching his desire for her.
"What about Taeryn? You are my friend’s mother," Jaenor said, as he wanted to be sure that she wanted this.
"And I’m a woman," she countered, closing the distance. Her hand rested on his chest, her touch warm through his wool shirt.
"A woman who knows what she wants. And I want you, Jaenor ol’Rakkinor. Here. Tonight."
Her boldness undid him.
He set the mug down, his hands finding her waist, the curves of her body soft yet firm beneath his fingers.
"Natina," he murmured, a question and a surrender.
She answered with a kiss, her lips fierce and demanding, tasting of milk and desire.
Jaenor’s restraint shattered, his arms pulling her close, her full figure pressing against his. Her bosom heaved against his chest, her thighs brushing his, and the room spun with the heat of their connection. Natina’s hands roamed his back, her fingers digging into the muscle, a low hum of approval in her throat.
They moved together, a dance of need that carried them through the house.
In the main room, Natina pushed him against the oak table, her kisses deep and unrelenting, her body a tide that swept him away. The firelight painted her skin in gold, her curves a map he traced with reverent hands. She was earth and fire, her strength matching his, her desire a mirror to his own.
They stumbled into the kitchen, where the scent of herbs and fresh bread mingled with their shared heat. Natina’s laughter was low and throaty as she tugged him down onto a woven mat, her thighs straddling his, her movements bold and unyielding. Jaenor’s hands gripped her hips, the fullness of her body a marvel that set his blood aflame. Their rhythm was fierce, a storm that shook the quiet house, each touch a spark that burned brighter.
The night unfolded in a cascade of passion, their connection spilling into every corner of the home. They paused by the hearth, Natina’s fingers unbuttoning his shirt, her lips trailing fire across his chest. Jaenor lifted her, her weight a grounding force, and carried her to a cushioned bench in the sitting room, where they sank together, her curves yielding yet commanding. Her hands explored him, her touch both tender and fierce, and Jaenor matched her, his strength tempered by a need to please, to be consumed by her fire.
They ended in the main room, collapsing onto a thick rug before the dying embers of the fire. A quilt, pulled from a chest, tangled around them, the wool soft against their skin. Natina’s body pressed against his, her full bosom and thighs a haven, her breath hot against his neck. Their connection was a tempest, fierce and unyielding, each moment a defiance of the world beyond.
Natina’s fingers traced the lines of his jaw, her smile soft but triumphant. "You’re a storm, Jaenor," she murmured, her voice husky. "And I’m glad I weathered it."
Jaenor chuckled, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. "You’re more than I can handle, Natina."
Then he got up and said, "I need to go; if not, my mother would turn the village upside down."
Natina chuckled, "Oh, be on your way then. I will be waiting for that tomorrow morning." She pointed to his dangling member.
Jaenor nodded, dressed up, and left the house, making his way to his home.