Winter's first breath kissed Eldoria, frosting the inn's windows and turning the herb garden silver. Travelers grew fewer, but those who came lingered longer, drawn by the promise of warmth and Elara's mulled wine. Aiden's days settled into a comfortable cadence: dawn chores, midday baking with Brenna (who now arrived thrice weekly, her cart laden with more than flour), and evenings where the hearth crackled and stories flowed.
Brenna had become a quiet fixture. She slept in the corner room when the roads turned treacherous, rising before dawn to tend her starters in the big oven. Aiden joined her often, their "punching down" sessions stretching until the dough—and they—were thoroughly worked. She left at midday with a basket of loaves and a secret smile, her pussy still tingling from the slow, deliberate way he filled her against the flour-dusted counter.
One frost-laced morning, a new guest arrived on foot, cloaked in forest green, a woven basket slung over one shoulder. Mistress Rowan, the herbalist from the Whispering Woods' edge. Forty-five, perhaps fifty—time had been kind rather than gentle. Her hair was iron-streaked auburn, braided loosely; laugh lines framed eyes the color of moss after rain. She moved with the deliberate grace of someone who knew every root and leaf by name.
Elara greeted her at the door. "Rowan! Gods, it's been years. Come in, warm those bones."
Rowan's smile was small but genuine. "Your letter reached me, Elara. The cough remedy worked wonders on old Marta, but I've new blends to share. And…" Her gaze flicked to the garden. "Your winter savory thrives. Mind if I harvest a little? In trade for a night's lodging?"
Harlan boomed from the cellar stairs. "Take whatever you need, woman. Aiden'll show you the plot."
Aiden stepped forward, wiping flour from his hands. Rowan's scent reached him first—pine resin, dried lavender, something earthier beneath. Her cloak parted as she set down her basket, revealing a body built for long walks and heavy gathering: breasts full and high despite her years, waist nipped by a leather belt, hips and ass generous beneath layered skirts. When she bent to adjust her boot, the fabric pulled tight across her backside, outlining plush curves that made Aiden's mouth water.
He led her through the garden, breath fogging in the chill. Rowan knelt by the savory, fingers deft among the frost-kissed leaves. "You've a gentle hand with soil," she murmured. "Most lads trample the beds."
"My mother's rules," he said, crouching beside her. "Break a stem, lose dessert for a week."
She laughed, low and warm. "Wise woman."
They worked in companionable silence, filling her basket. When she straightened, a leaf clung to her lower lip. Aiden reached without thinking, brushing it away. Her lips parted; her tongue touched his thumb, just a flicker, but heat shot straight to his groin.
Rowan's eyes darkened. "Careful, boy. Some plants bite."
That evening she joined the family table, producing small jars from her basket: cough syrup thick as honey, a salve that eased Harlan's old knee ache, a tincture Elara declared "better than any court physician's brew." In return, Aiden served her venison stew and black-seed bread still warm from Brenna's morning bake.
Later, as the inn quieted, Rowan sought him in the stillroom—a narrow chamber off the kitchens where herbs hung in fragrant bundles. Moonlight slanted through the high window, silvering the dried lavender and rosemary.
"I need a mortar," she said, voice hushed. "Something… private to demonstrate."
Aiden fetched the heavy stone bowl. Rowan ground dried petals—rose, chamomile, something spicier. The air thickened with scent. She dipped a finger, tasted, then held it to his lips. "Tell me what you feel."
He sucked gently. Heat bloomed across his tongue, then lower, a slow unfurling in his belly. His cock stirred, thickening against his thigh.
Rowan watched his face. "Desire root," she explained. "Amplifies what's already there. No coercion—just truth."
She set the mortar aside. "I've walked alone these many years. The woods are kind, but cold. Tonight…" She stepped closer, palms settling on his chest. "Tonight I'd know warmth."
Aiden's hands found her waist, thumbs tracing the swell beneath her bodice. He kissed her slow, tasting herbs and winter air. Rowan sighed into his mouth, fingers threading his hair.
They moved to the wide workbench, bundles of lavender cushioning her back as he lifted her atop it. Her skirts pooled high; beneath, she wore nothing but soft wool stockings. Her pussy was a revelation—neat auburn curls, lips already slick and parted, glistening in the moonlight. A slow bead of arousal traced her inner thigh.
"Gods, Rowan…"
She guided his hand. "Touch. Learn."
He did. His fingers slid through her folds, finding her drenched, clit swollen and begging. She was tighter than Mira, hotter than Brenna, her walls fluttering as he circled and stroked. Rowan's head fell back, breasts heaving against her bodice. Aiden freed them with trembling fingers—heavy, pale, nipples dark rose and pebble-hard. He suckled one, then the other, until she whimpered.
When he dropped to his knees, her thighs parted wider. He licked her clean, savoring the tart-sweet flood, tongue delving deep as she rocked against his face. Rowan's hands fisted in his hair; her pussy clenched, gushing over his chin as she came with a soft, broken cry.
She pulled him up, frantic now, fumbling with his breeches. His cock sprang free, flushed and aching. Rowan wrapped her legs around his waist, guiding him in.
He sank slowly, inch by thick inch, into molten silk. She was exquisite—tight, wet, gripping him like she'd never let go. They moved in the stillroom's hush, the only sounds her breathy moans and the wet slide of flesh. Aiden thrust deep, grinding against her clit; Rowan's breasts bounced with each stroke, nipples brushing his chest.
"More," she gasped. "Fill me—"
He gave her everything, hips rolling in that slow, deliberate rhythm she'd taught him with mortar and pestle. When she came again, it was with his name on her lips, walls rippling, juices flooding down his balls. Aiden followed, burying himself to the hilt and spilling in long, pulsing waves.
They stayed joined, foreheads touching, breath mingling with crushed lavender.
Rowan traced his jaw. "The woods will call me back at dawn. But tonight…" She smiled, soft and sated. "Tonight was a fine harvest."
Aiden kissed her once more, tasting both of them on her lips. Outside, snow began to fall, silent and pure. Inside, the stillroom smelled of sex and crushed herbs—a new blend, potent and lingering.