The orchard air was thick with the scent of ripe apples and their own desperate heat. Lyssa’s mouth was a battlefield of tongues, a frantic, wet wrestling where teeth clashed and lips bruised. Kian’s hands, having slipped under her gown and undergarments were kneading the soft flesh of her buttocks with a proprietary intensity, each squeeze sending a jolt of pure need straight to her core. Her own hand was a blur, stroking his cock with a rough, urgent rhythm, her thumb smearing the slickness that seeped from his tip.
They kissed like they were trying to consume each other’s souls, a desperate, ferocious act of defiance against the world waiting to crush them.
Then Lyssa broke the kiss, panting, her lips swollen and glistening. She stared into his dark, wild eyes.
“Take me,” she commanded, her voice ragged. “I want you to ruin me so I can’t even remember anything.”
Kian’s response was not a nod, not a smile. It was pure action.
In one swift, powerful motion, he scooped her up off the damp grass, her legs dangling, her arms clinging to his shoulders. He didn’t carry her like a bride, he hauled her, his strides purposeful and quick, deeper into the orchard’s heart. He chose a tree with a trunk broad and smooth, bark weathered by years. He stopped before it.
Still holding her against his chest, he pivoted. He bent her forward over the trunk. He guided her hands forward until her palms flattened against the bark, her arms straight, providing her support. She was bent at the waist, leaning over the tree, her back arched, her buttocks pushed out toward him, her gown a tangled mess of fabric around her hips.
“Kian,” she breathed, the position exposing her completely to him, making her feel vulnerable and utterly ready.
He didn’t speak. He worked. His hands went to the back of her gown, gathering the heavy wool up and her thin undergarments. He yanked the undergarments down to her knees in a single, ruthless pull. The cool air kissed her bare skin, her thighs, her buttocks, the flushed, wet cleft between them. He didn’t bother undressing himself further, his trousers were already open, his cock free and raging.
He stepped close. One hand clamped on her hip, holding her steady. The other guided himself.
He didn’t tease. He didn’t ease in.
He shoved.
The thick, blunt head of his cock breached her, a sudden, shocking invasion that stole her breath. She cried out, a sharp gasp that echoed among the trees. He didn’t pause. He drove forward, burying himself to the root in one relentless, deep thrust. Her inner walls, already slick from their frenzy, stretched and burned beautifully around him, a perfect, searing fit.
Then he began to fuck her.
It was a piston-like rhythm, hard and deep and fast. Each withdrawal was almost complete, a cruel tease of emptiness, followed by a slam that filled her utterly. The tree trunk shuddered with each impact. Her palms scrabbled against the bark for purchase. Her vision began to blur at the edges, stars dancing in the periphery. The sensations were too vast, too intense, the iron grip on her hip, the devastating fullness that punched into her core with every drive.
“More,” she whimpered, her voice shaking. “Deeper.”
He obeyed. He adjusted his angle, leaning over her back, his chest pressing against her shoulders. This new position let him go even deeper, a terrifying, wonderful penetration that felt like he was touching places inside her that should never be reached. Her legs trembled violently, threatening to buckle. Her support was her arms, and they were shaking too. She was a puppet of pleasure, strung up on the tree, being played by his relentless, beastly rhythm.
She lost herself in the pounding cadence, in the wet, slapping sounds of their joining, in the primal grunts that came from his throat. Her world narrowed to the tree, his hands, and the glorious, punishing thickness that split her open.
In the master’s chambers, the silence was thick with tension and unspoken amusement. Lord Barlon’s gaze moved from the petrified servant girl, clutching the stolen silk, to his wife’s calmly composed face.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Well. It seems you have a secret admirer, my love.”
Lady Anya giggled softly, a melodic, knowing sound. She didn’t look at the girl. She kept her eyes on Barlon, a playful spark in them. “Don’t be jealous. She’s just a curious little mouse.” Still holding Barlon’s hand, she stepped forward, her other hand reaching out and taking the servant girl’s trembling arm. The girl flinched but didn’t resist, her eyes wide with terror and a flicker of something else… hope.
Barlon watched, his expression shifting from intrigue to a familiar, hungry anticipation. He knew this game. He knew her. His cock, already stirring from the earlier tension, began to thicken noticeably against the fabric of his trousers.
Anya let go of Barlon’s arm, now holding only the girl. She led the unresisting girl, who moved like a sleepwalker, toward the wide bed.
“Lie down,” Anya instructed, her voice cool, commanding.
The girl obeyed, scrambling onto the mattress, lying back, her rough shift bunching around her waist.
Anya turned to Barlon, a queen presenting a spectacle. “Watch the show, husband. I shall entertain you.”
Barlon’s grin was wolfish. He leaned against the bedpost, his hand already idly stroking the prominent bulge in his trousers. “I’m watching.”
Lady Anya began her performance. She approached the bed, her movements deliberate. She didn’t rip the girl’s clothes. She unmade her. With elegant, precise fingers, she untied the simple laces of the girl’s shift, peeling the rough linen away from her soft body. The girl’s small, pert breasts were revealed, her flat stomach, her trembling thighs. Anya folded the shift neatly and placed it aside, as if tidying up.
Then, she began on herself. She unlaced her own fine gown, letting it pool at her feet. She stepped out of it, standing in her thin chemise. She removed that too, with a slow, sinuous shrug of her shoulders. Now both women were naked on the bed, the girl soft and pale and trembling, Anya elegant and poised and utterly in control.
Anya didn’t touch the girl with passion. She touched her with dominance. She placed a hand on the girl’s belly, flat and cool. “Spread your legs.”
The girl obeyed, her thighs falling open.
Anya’s fingers trailed down, not to tease, but to inspect. She parted the girl’s folds, examining her, her touch clinical. Then she leaned down, her mouth replacing her fingers. But this wasn’t the worship Kian gave Lyssa. This was a technical act. Anya’s tongue probed, licked, explored with a detached efficiency that was somehow more intimate, more humiliating, than any passionate kiss. The girl gasped, her hips lifting off the bed, her hands flying to her own breasts, squeezing them in confused arousal.
Anya worked her with a master’s skill, bringing the girl to a quick, shuddering peak with her mouth alone. The girl cried out, her back arching.
Then Anya changed tactics. She moved up the girl’s body, straddling her face. “Now,” she said, her voice cool, “clean me.”
The girl, dazed and eager, obeyed. She lifted her head, her tongue seeking Anya’s core, servicing her with a desperate, worshipful intensity.
Barlon watched, his hand now openly stroking his hard length through his trousers. The sight of his wife, so coolly commanding, being serviced by this trembling, eager creature, was the most potent aphrodisiac. His breath grew ragged.
The girl brought Anya to a quiet, controlled climax, her own body shuddering again in sympathetic release.
It was too much for Barlon. The beast could not be a spectator any longer.
With a growl, he rushed to the bed. His clothing was a flurry of motion…jerkin torn open, trousers shoved down…coming off in an instant. His body was a landscape of muscle and power, and his cock, fully erect, was a thick, veined monster of flesh that made the girl gasp and stare, her eyes wide with awe and fear.
Anya simply giggled, moving off the girl’s face, lying back on the pillows. She opened her arms to her husband. “Come then, beast.”
Back in the orchard, Lyssa’s arms finally gave out. She slumped away from the tree, and Kian caught her, pulling her back into the grass. They rolled together, a tangle of limbs and half-undressed clothing, until she was atop him, straddling his hips.
His cock, still slick and hard, was inside her still. She didn’t let it slip out. She braced her hands on his chest, her hair a wild cascade around her flushed face.
My turn.
And she rode .
This was not the controlled, sensual riding of before. This was a ferocious, insanely passionate piston-motion. She drove herself down onto him with all her weight, then lifted almost completely off, only to slam down again. Each impact sent a shockwave through her body. Her thighs burned with the effort. Her core was a molten, aching paradise of repeated fullness. She was taking him, claiming him, using his body to obliterate her own mind.
She rode him like she was trying to break them both against the earth, her breaths coming in ragged, sobbing screams of pleasure, her vision a haze of green leaves and his dark, adoring eyes.