The next fortnight passed in a haze of ordinary miracles. The caravan rolled out at dawn, wagons creaking under bolts of silk and jars of eastern honey. Mira had left with a secretive smile, pressing a silver coin into Aiden's palm "for the bathhouse upkeep." He kept it in his pocket like a talisman, warm against his thigh whenever he remembered the slick clutch of her body.
Lady Thorne finally departed too, her carriage wheels kicking up dust on the king's road. In the sudden quiet, the inn felt larger, its corners echoing with the ghosts of laughter and spilled ale. Harlan took the chance to whitewash the stables; Elara hummed over her preserves; Aiden scrubbed the bathhouse until the copper gleamed, half hoping, half dreading another midnight visitor.
She arrived on a soft autumn afternoon, alone, in a plain wool cloak the color of fresh cream.
Widow Brenna, the baker from the neighboring village of Thornwick. Everyone in Hearthglen knew her loaves—crusty, fragrant, studded with rosemary and sea salt. She supplied the inn twice a week, but today her cart was empty save for a single cloth-wrapped bundle.
"Harlan about?" she asked at the kitchen door, voice low and honey-rough.
Elara wiped her hands. "Out back with the cooper. Come in, Brenna—tea?"
Brenna hesitated, then stepped inside. Forty summers had rounded her gently: cheeks flushed from oven heat, arms strong from kneading, and a bosom so generous it strained the laces of her bodice. Her hips were wide, made for bearing children and hauling flour sacks in equal measure. Aiden, polishing tankards at the sideboard, felt his mouth go dry.
Brenna's late husband had died two winters past—fever, quick and cruel. Since then she baked alone, her cottage fragrant with yeast and grief. Rumor said she turned suitors away with the same polite smile she used to refuse burnt crusts.
Elara poured tea. "What brings you mid-week?"
Brenna set the bundle on the table. "A gift. Black-seed loaf with honey and figs. For the boy's nameday—wasn't it last month?"
Aiden flushed. "Three weeks ago, ma'am. You didn't have to—"
"Nonsense." Brenna's gray eyes flicked to him, lingered. "A growing lad needs feeding."
Harlan stomped in then, smelling of sawdust and ale. "Brenna! Cart break down?"
"Axle's fine," she said. "I… thought to stay the night. Roads are muddy, and I've a new rye starter needs watching. Mind if I borrow your big oven come morning?"
Elara beamed. "Of course. Aiden, show Widow Brenna to the corner room—the one with the window over the herb garden."
The corner room was small but sunlit, with a wide featherbed and a hearth of river stone. Aiden carried her satchel—light, smelling faintly of cardamom. Brenna followed, skirts brushing his calves on the narrow stairs.
At the door she paused. "You've grown tall, Aiden Voss. Last I saw you, you were all knees and elbows."
He laughed, awkward. "Bread and your honey loaves, ma'am."
"Brenna," she corrected softly. "No ma'am in private."
That evening the inn filled with locals come for stew and music. A fiddler from the woods played reels; children danced between tables. Brenna sat near the hearth, nursing cider, cheeks pink from warmth. Aiden served her twice, three times, each time finding her gaze steady on him.
Near midnight the common room emptied. Aiden banked the fires, wiped the last tables. He was locking the front door when soft footsteps sounded behind him.
Brenna stood in her night-robe, hair loose down her back like dark wheat. "Couldn't sleep," she murmured. "The rye needs punching down every few hours. Mind if I slip to the kitchens?"
He led her through moonlit corridors. The big brick oven still held heat; embers glowed like sleepy dragons. Brenna lifted the cloth from her starter bowl—bubbles rose lazily, smelling of earth and promise.
She plunged her hands in, knuckles dimpling the dough. Flour dusted her forearms, clung to the swell of her breasts where the robe gaped. Aiden watched, transfixed, as she worked—strong, rhythmic folds, the dough yielding under her palms like living flesh.
"Want to feel?" she asked without looking up.
He stepped close. Her shoulder brushed his chest; warmth radiated through thin linen. She guided his hands into the bowl. The starter was silky, almost oily, clinging to his fingers.
"Like this," she said, covering his hands with hers. Slow circles, pressure and release. Her breasts pressed soft against his upper arm with each motion. Aiden's breath hitched; beneath the apron he'd thrown on, his cock stiffened.
Minutes stretched, dough rising between them. Brenna's breathing deepened. When she finally lifted her hands, strings of gluten stretched and snapped. She turned to him, flour smudging one cheek.
"You've gentle hands," she said. "Most men mash it to death."
He swallowed. "I like… taking my time."
Her eyes dropped to his mouth. Then, deliberate, she untied her robe. It parted, revealing heavy breasts barely contained by a linen shift, nipples dark shadows beneath. Her belly was soft, hips flaring wide; between her thighs the shift clung, damp already.
"I've not lain with a man since my Tom," she whispered. "But tonight the oven's warm, and I'm… aching."
Aiden's restraint snapped like over-proofed dough. He cupped her face, kissed her slow and deep, tasting cider and honey. She moaned into his mouth, hands fumbling with his apron strings.
They sank to the wide hearth rug, bricks still radiating heat. Aiden peeled the shift from her shoulders; her breasts spilled free—heavy, veined, nipples thick and begging. He buried his face between them, inhaling yeast and woman-warmth, suckling one peak until she gasped. His hands kneaded her ass, fingers sinking into plush flesh.
Brenna tugged his shirt over his head, traced the lean muscles of his back. "Gods, you're beautiful," she breathed. Her hand found his cock, straining against breeches; she freed him, stroking slow, thumb swirling the bead of wetness at the tip.
Aiden groaned, pushing her gently onto her back. He kissed down her belly, nuzzling the soft mound beneath her navel. When he reached her pussy, the scent hit him—musky, sweet, ripe. Her lips were plump, glistening; a slow trickle of arousal wet the inside of one thigh. He licked it clean, savoring salt and need.
Brenna's hips lifted. "Aiden…"
He parted her with gentle fingers, marveling at the slick heat. She was drenched, folds swollen and pink, clit peeking like a pearl. He lapped slowly, long strokes from entrance to crest, circling until her thighs trembled. When he slid two fingers inside, her walls fluttered, gushing around him.
"Please," she whimpered. "Inside me—now."
He rose over her, cock nudging her entrance. She guided him, eyes locked on his. Inch by inch he sank into liquid silk, her pussy stretching, gripping, dripping down his balls. Brenna's head fell back, a low keen escaping her throat.
They moved like the dough—slow, deliberate folds building to something greater. Aiden thrust deep, grinding against her clit; her breasts bounced with each stroke, nipples brushing his chest. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
The rhythm quickened only when she begged, voice breaking. "Harder—gods, yes—"
He gave her what she needed, hips snapping, the slap of flesh echoing in the quiet kitchen. Brenna's pussy clenched, a fresh flood coating him as she came—long, rolling waves, back arching off the rug. Aiden followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling in thick pulses, her walls milking every drop.
They lay tangled, flour-dusted and sated, the rye starter forgotten on the counter. Brenna traced lazy circles on his chest.
"Your mother will have my hide if the loaf fails," she murmured, lips curving.
Aiden kissed her temple. "We'll punch it down together at dawn."
Outside, the first pale light touched the herb garden. Inside, the oven cooled, but the warmth between them lingered like the scent of fresh bread—simple, nourishing, and just beginning to rise.