Spring returned to Eldoria like a lover long missed—gentle rains, apple blossoms drifting like snow, the inn's courtyard alive with the scent of damp earth and new bread. Brenna's visits had settled into a rhythm: three mornings a week, her cart rattling in before dawn, her body warm and willing in the kitchens until the loaves cooled. Rowan came less often, but when she did, the stillroom door stayed locked for hours, and the air afterward carried the sharp tang of crushed mint and spent passion.
Aiden turned twenty-one quietly—no grand feast, just a honey cake from Brenna and a new apron from his mother. The inn thrived. Word of its comforts had reached the capital; nobles now sent runners ahead to book rooms. One such runner arrived on a gray gelding, mud-spattered and breathless.
"Lady Seraphine of House Valtierre," he announced. "She'll arrive tomorrow. Requests the east suite, private bath, and… discretion."
Elara raised a brow. "Discretion we have in abundance. Tell her ladyship welcome."
Lady Seraphine arrived at dusk in a plain carriage—no crest, no retinue, only a single maid who looked more bodyguard than servant. The lady herself stepped down cloaked in midnight blue, hood shadowing her face. Aiden took her satchel—surprisingly light—and led her inside.
She lowered the hood in the east suite, and Aiden's breath caught.
Forty-three, perhaps forty-five. Hair the color of polished chestnut, coiled elegantly. Skin like fresh cream, a faint flush on high cheekbones. But it was her body that stole reason: tall, statuesque, with breasts so full they strained the silk of her traveling gown, waist cinched tight before flaring into hips and an ass that filled the doorway when she turned. Her eyes—storm-gray—met his with cool assessment.
"You're the innkeeper's son," she said, voice low, cultured. "Aiden, yes?"
He bowed. "At your service, my lady."
"Seraphine will do." She dismissed the maid with a flick of gloved fingers. "Draw my bath. Hot. With the lavender oil I smell in the halls."
The east suite's bath was a marvel—marble tub fed by copper pipes, steam curling like incense. Aiden filled it, adding oil until the water shimmered purple. Seraphine watched from the chaise, removing gloves one finger at a time.
When he turned to leave, she spoke. "Stay. Wash my back."
It was not a request.
He obeyed, heart hammering. She stood, letting the gown pool at her feet. Beneath: a corset of black lace, breasts spilling over the top, nipples barely concealed. Her ass was a masterpiece—round, high, divided by a whisper of silk. She stepped into the tub, sighing as heat enveloped her.
Aiden knelt behind, cloth in hand. He washed her shoulders, the elegant line of her spine. When he reached her breasts, she leaned back, letting them float free—heavy, perfect, water beading on pale skin. He cupped them gently, thumbs circling nipples that hardened instantly.
Seraphine's hand found his wrist, guiding lower. Between her thighs, she was bare—smooth, swollen lips already slick despite the water. His fingers slid through her folds; she was drenched, pussy clenching as he stroked her clit in slow circles.
"More," she murmured.
He stood, stripping quickly. His cock jutted proud, flushed and aching. Seraphine turned in the tub, kneeling, water sloshing. She took him in her mouth—slow, deliberate, tongue swirling the head until his knees buckled. Then she rose, bending over the tub's edge, ass presented like an offering.
Aiden gripped her hips, sliding into her from behind. She was tight, hot, walls rippling as he filled her inch by inch. Water splashed with each thrust; her breasts swayed, nipples grazing the marble. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing in time with his strokes.
Seraphine pushed back, meeting him thrust for thrust. "Deeper—gods, yes—"
He gave her everything, hips snapping, the slap of flesh echoing in the steamy room. She came with a sharp cry, pussy spasming, juices flooding down his balls. Aiden followed, spilling deep inside her with a groan.
They stayed joined, panting. Seraphine straightened, turning to kiss him—slow, thorough, tasting herself on his tongue.
"This suite is mine for a fortnight," she said against his lips. "Every night, you'll come. No questions."
He nodded, dazed.
The days blurred. Seraphine kept to her rooms, emerging only for meals, always cloaked. Rumors swirled: a widowed noble, a political exile, a spurned lover of the prince. Aiden cared not. Each night he slipped into her suite, finding her in silk or nothing at all.
They fucked on the bed, against the window with moonlight silvering her skin, once in the bath again until the water cooled. She rode him slow, breasts bouncing, pussy dripping down his shaft; he took her from behind, hands full of her ass, watching it ripple with each thrust. She came loudly, unashamed, walls milking him until he spilled again and again.
On the seventh night, she traced the marks her nails had left on his back. "I leave at dawn," she whispered. "My husband's death was… convenient. The court grows suspicious."
Aiden kissed her breast, tasting salt. "Will you return?"
Seraphine smiled, sad and sated. "If the roads allow. Until then…" She guided his hand between her thighs, already wet again. "One more storm."
They made love until the candles guttered, slow and reverent, her pussy clenching around him as she came with his name on her lips. At dawn, the carriage rolled away, leaving only the scent of lavender and sex in the east suite.
Aiden stood in the courtyard, watching dust settle. Spring had fully bloomed; the inn's roses were heavy with dew. Somewhere in the kitchens, Brenna's bread rose. In the stillroom, Rowan's herbs waited.
And in his pocket, a single black pearl—Seraphine's parting gift, warm against his thigh.
Life at the Whispering Hearth rolled on, peaceful and prosperous, one ripe, dripping secret at a time.