Cold mud seeped through my woolen trousers as I pushed myself upright, rain drumming steady on my shoulders. The river murmured behind me, slow and brown, carrying the faint rot of fallen leaves and something sharper—old blood, maybe. Miller's Ford. The name settled in my mind like a promise.
I took stock.
My body wasn't the one I'd died in. Broader shoulders, heavier muscle under the rough homespun shirt and cloak someone—Lyssara?—had dressed me in. Hands callused, arms corded. I felt strong, vital, like I could run for miles or pin a woman down and fuck her slow and deep without tiring. My cock shifted as I stood, thick and long even soft, pressing against the fabric. A gift from the goddess, no doubt. Perfect for worshiping the kind of mature, aching bodies I craved.
The Lust stirred faintly inside me—a crimson warmth coiled in my chest, waiting. Not pushing yet. Just there.
The village crouched ahead, thirty-odd thatched roofs huddled along the riverbank like frightened sheep. Smoke rose thin and gray from chimneys, whipped by the wind. No laughter carried on the air. Only the creak of the mill wheel in the distance, patient and endless, grinding away.
I started walking.
Mud sucked at my boots with every step. The path into the village was churned into a mire—hoofprints, bootprints, the wide drag marks of something heavy. A body, maybe. The feud's handiwork. I passed a burned-out barn, blackened beams still smelling of old smoke. A hamstrung cow lay in a ditch nearby, ribs showing, eyes dull. Flies buzzed despite the cold. No one had bothered to put it out of its misery.
Eyes watched me from windows. Wary. Hostile. A woman with a shawl pulled tight over her head peered out, then vanished when I looked her way. Too young, anyway—barely twenty. Not my type.
I needed shelter. Food. Information. And, eventually, a MILF whose body had been neglected too long.
The inn sat in the center of the village, the only building with two stories and a painted sign: The Grinding Stone. The sign creaked in the wind, paint chipped, the wheel depicted on it splattered with mud. Light spilled from the downstairs windows—warm, flickering. The only place that looked alive.
I pushed open the heavy oak door.
Heat hit me first—woodsmoke, ale, stewed meat, sweat. Then the smell of flour and yeast, thick in the air. The common room was half-full despite the weather. Men in rough wool sat in two distinct clusters—one side near the hearth, the other near the door. Blackwaters and Greysons, I guessed. They didn't speak across the divide. Knives lay openly on tables. A couple of dogs growled low from the Greyson side.
Conversation died when I stepped in. Every eye turned to me—stranger in muddy clothes, no colors or badges to declare a side.
I kept my face neutral and walked to the bar.
She was behind it.
Fuck.
Mid-thirties, maybe thirty-eight. Skin pale from indoor work, but flushed at the cheeks from the hearth's heat. Auburn hair tied back in a practical braid, loose strands curling at her temples, damp with steam. Full lips, a small scar on the upper one—old knife fight, maybe. But her body…
Heavy breasts strained against a linen blouse laced tight, the fabric clinging where sweat had gathered in her cleavage. They swayed gently as she wiped a tankard, full and round, the kind that overflowed hands and mouths. Wide hips filled out her wool skirt, ass thick and plush—I could already imagine the way it would jiggle if I took her from behind. Thighs strong beneath the fabric, built from years of hauling kegs and trays. She moved with tired grace, but there was power there. Neglected power.
Her eyes—hazel, sharp—met mine as I approached. A flicker of caution, then curiosity.
"Stranger," she said, voice low and husky, like she'd been shouting orders all day. "You look like the river spat you out."
"Something like that," I replied, leaning on the bar. Close now, I caught her scent—warm bread, ale, and underneath, woman. Faint musk of arousal long buried. "Room for the night? Hot meal?"
She eyed me up and down, lingering a moment on my shoulders, my chest. "Three coppers for the room, two for stew and bread. Ale extra."
I reached into the pouch at my belt—Lyssara had been thoughtful. A handful of silver and copper appeared when I needed it. I slid five coppers across the scarred wood.
"Keep the extra for trouble," I said.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Trouble finds everyone here sooner or later. Name's Mira. This is my place now—husband caught a Greyson axe three winters back."
Widow. Perfect.
"I'm Kael," I said—the name came naturally, like it had been waiting. "Just passing through."
She nodded, turning to ladle stew into a wooden bowl. Her blouse gaped slightly as she bent, giving me a glimpse of deep cleavage, pale skin flushed warm, the upper curves of her breasts glistening with a sheen of sweat. My cock thickened in my trousers.
I sat at the bar, not joining either side. The stew was rich—venison, root vegetables, thick gravy. Bread still warm from the oven. I ate slowly, watching her work.
Mira moved between tables with practiced efficiency, refilling mugs, clearing plates. Every time she bent over, her ass rounded out against the skirt, fabric pulling tight. Once, she reached high to hook a lantern, blouse riding up to reveal a strip of pale lower back, dimples above the swell of her hips. My mouth went dry.
I felt the Lust stir again—coiled warmth spreading through my veins. Not pushing hard. Just a gentle nudge. I let a thread of it unfurl, soft as breath, directed at her.
Nothing dramatic. Just enough to heighten what was already there.
She paused mid-step as she passed near me, a faint flush rising on her neck. Her nipples—thick and dark, I could tell even through the fabric—hardened visibly, pressing against the linen. She adjusted her stance, thighs brushing together unconsciously.
Good.
She returned to the bar, wiping her hands on a cloth. "You eat like a man who's been starving," she said, voice softer now.
"Long road," I replied. Our eyes met. Held.
Up close, I saw the faint lines at the corners—laughter lines, worry lines. She'd lived. Loved. Lost. Her lips parted slightly as she breathed, and I imagined how they'd feel wrapped around my cock, soft and wet and eager.
"You hear the mill at night?" she asked quietly, leaning closer. Her breasts rested on the bar, compressing slightly, cleavage deepening. "Never stops. Some say it's grinding bones now, not just grain."
"Feud's that bad?"
She glanced toward the two groups. The Blackwaters were muttering, the Greysons throwing dice. "Worse. Poison in wells. Children sick. My own boy—" She stopped, jaw tightening. "He'll live. But it never ends."
I reached out slowly, letting my fingers brush hers as I pushed the empty bowl aside. Just a graze of skin.
The Lust pulsed gently.
She inhaled sharply, eyes widening a fraction. Heat bloomed across her chest, visible above her blouse. Her thighs pressed together again—I saw the subtle shift of her hips.
"Sounds like the village could use something else to think about," I said, voice low. "Something warmer than hate."
Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, lingering on the bulge I wasn't bothering to hide. She swallowed.
"Rooms are upstairs," she said, voice huskier. "Second door on the left. Clean sheets. Hot water if you want a bath."
"I might," I said. "Long day."
She turned away to fetch a key, but I saw the way her hand trembled slightly. The way she adjusted her blouse, as if her nipples ached.
I stood, stretching deliberately. My shirt pulled tight across my chest. Her eyes followed.
Upstairs, the room was small but clean—straw mattress, wool blanket, a single candle. A basin of water steamed gently—someone had brought it up already. Mira's doing.
I stripped slowly.
My new body was sculpted—lean muscle, broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs defined. My cock sprang free, thick and veined, already half-hard from watching her. I gripped it, stroking once, twice, imagining her heavy breasts in my hands, her thick ass grinding back against me as I buried myself deep in that neglected pink pussy.
Downstairs, I heard her moving—clearing tables, banking the fire. Her footsteps paused outside my door once, hesitant. Then moved on.
Not tonight.
Slow burn.
But soon.
I lay back on the bed, cock in hand, stroking lazily. The Lust hummed contentedly, feeding on the anticipation.
Mira. Widow. Thirty-eight winters. Body ripe and aching.
She'd be the first.
I'd tease her for days—brushes of fingers, lingering looks, whispers that stoked the fire. Use the power sparingly, let her own neglected desire build until she was dripping, desperate, begging me to fill her.
Five times. Six.
Then I'd move on, leaving her glowing.
The mill wheel creaked in the distance, steady and patient.
So was I.