The storm outside howled like a pack of wolves fighting over a kill, rattling the inn’s shutters and sending drafts slithering under the doors. I’d spent the last six days trapped in this damn place, and if I had to listen to Old Man Harkin’s nasal snoring or watch the twins from room three gnaw on each other’s faces like starving badgers one more time, I was going to lose what was left of my mind. That’s how I ended up sharing a room with you—Mlora, the sharp-tongued gnome seamstress with fire in her purple eyes and a mouth that could stitch a man’s soul to hers with a single sentence.
We’d been dancing around each other for days. Brushed hands reaching for the same loaf of bread at breakfast. Your thigh pressing against mine when the bench by the fire got too crowded. The way your breath hitched when I leaned in to whisper some nonsense about the storm, my beard scraping your ear just enough to make you shiver. I’d catch you staring when you thought I wasn’t looking, your cheeks flushed, those damn freckles standing out like constellations I wanted to trace with my tongue. And fuck, the dreams. Every night, I’d wake up hard as iron, the sheets tangled around my legs, my cock throbbing with the memory of you—straddling my lap, those small hands gripping my shoulders, your pussy clenching around me like a vice.
Tonight was no different. I jolted awake, sweat slick on my skin, my dick so stiff it ached. The fire in the main hall was still burning low, the embers casting long shadows. I didn’t even bother with a robe. Just stormed out of our shared room, my bare feet silent on the wooden floors, and dropped into the chair closest to the hearth. The heat licked at my skin, but it did nothing to ease the fire in my balls. With a growl, I palmed my cock through my trousers, then gave up entirely. Fuck it. If anyone walked in, they could watch. I wasn’t about to spend another second denying myself.
I freed my dick, the thick length springing up, veins pulsing under the firelight. My hand wrapped around the base, my thumb smearing the bead of precome leaking from the tip. A hiss escaped my teeth as I stroked, slow at first, then harder, my hips lifting off the chair. The crackle of the fire was the only sound—until it wasn’t.
A soft, needy whimper.
My hand stilled. My blood turned to ice, then boiled over as I realized I wasn’t alone.
There you were, crouched in the shadows of the hearth like a little thief, your nightdress pooled around your hips, your fingers buried between your thighs. Your purple eyes were wide, locked onto my cock like it was the last fucking wonder of the world. I should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve covered myself. But the way your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the way your breath came in little pants as you circled your clit—fuck, I’d never seen anything hotter.
“Been watching long, little stitch?” My voice was rough, my grip tightening around my shaft.
You didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. Just bit your lip and let out a quiet, “Long enough to know you’re lying to yourself.”
That did it. I was on my feet in an instant, crossing the space between us before you could blink. You didn’t run. Just tilted your chin up, defiant, even as your fingers kept working that tight little cunt. I dropped to my knees in front of you, my free hand tangling in your wild red curls, yanking your mouth to mine. You tasted like sin and honey, your lips parting with a gasp as my tongue invaded. Your moans were swallowed by my kiss, your hips jerking against your own touch.
I broke away just long enough to growl, “Let me see that pretty pussy.”
You didn’t hesitate. Spread your thighs wider, your fingers glistening as you pulled them away. Fuck, you were *dripping*. Pink and swollen, your little hole fluttering like it was begging for something to fill it. I groaned, my cock twitching in my grip. “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you? Dreaming about my cock while I was dreaming about this tight cunt.”
“Y-yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “But I didn’t think you’d—”
“I’d what?” I cut you off, dragging my thumb through your folds, gathering your wetness. “Fuck you right here in front of the fire like the filthy little gnome you are?”
Your answer was a broken whimper as I pushed my thumb inside you. Tight. So fucking tight. Your inner walls clenched around me, your back arching as I worked it in and out, slow, then faster, your hips rocking to meet my touch. Your tits bounced with every movement, your nipples hard little points under your nightdress. I leaned in, capturing one between my teeth, biting just enough to make you cry out.
“Gwain—please—”
“I know, love.” My voice was a rasp. “I know.”
I didn’t give you time to think. Just scooped you up, your legs wrapping around my waist as I sat back in the chair, your wet heat pressed against my stomach. You ground down, your clit dragging against my skin, your nails digging into my shoulders. I grabbed your hips, stilling you. “Not yet. Gonna make you come on my fingers first.”
You whined, but the second I slid two inside you, your protests died. Your pussy stretched around me, the resistance almost painful, but fuck if it wasn’t the hottest thing I’d ever felt. You squirmed, your breath coming in sharp gasps. “Too—too much—”
“No, it’s not.” I curled my fingers, finding that rough patch inside you.