The cathedral was silent.
Not the kind of silence born from holiness—but the charged, trembling quiet of something forbidden about to happen.
Lady Clarissa DuRion sat alone in her private prayer chamber, a room usually reserved for confession and meditation. Tonight, it pulsed with something far more dangerous: long-suppressed desire.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't pray.
Because she knew exactly who it was.
---
Zephyr stepped in, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. The candlelight danced across his bare chest—half-covered by a loose black shirt that clung to his body like a lover.
He said nothing.
He only looked at her.
And Clarissa—proper, restrained, cold-blooded Clarissa—stood to face him.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered, already breathless.
"I should be inside you," Zephyr answered, voice rough velvet. "And you've wanted that since the day we met."
Her lips parted.
But no words came.
Because he was right.
He reached out slowly, brushing her cheek with calloused fingers. She closed her eyes. Her skin, unused to affection, bloomed under the simple touch.
"Ten years," she whispered. "Ten years of silence…"
"Then let me give you something to remember."
He leaned in.
Kissed her.
Her knees nearly gave.
Zephyr deepened the kiss, hands sliding down her sides. He felt the curve of her waist, the shape of her hips beneath the heavy ceremonial robes. Every layer he peeled back felt like unwrapping a woman no one had dared to touch.
She gasped when the robe slipped off her shoulders, baring her corset and silken undergarments. The candles flickered violently as though reacting to the heat.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, his mouth at her neck.
Her reply was barely a whisper: "Then take me."
He lowered her onto the prayer bench, her legs parting around him. She trembled as his lips traced her collarbone, then her chest, down—slow, reverent, like worship.
She moaned softly as he touched her — exploring every inch of her slowly, tenderly, confidently.
Her back arched when he finally pressed his mouth to the most intimate part of her, and she cried out softly, fingers digging into the cushion.
Ten years of silence shattered in a breathless moan.
From that moment on:
He took her completely — her mind, her body, her vow.
He made her feel—not just pleasure, but worship.
She called his name, not in shame, but in need.
When he entered her, she welcomed it with everything she had.
He didn't stop until she collapsed in his arms—claimed, marked, and ruined for anyone else.
Clarissa lay beneath him, her chest rising and falling, her hair messy across the velvet cushion. Her eyes were glassy, lips swollen from kisses, body still trembling.
"I broke every rule," she said softly.
"You didn't break," Zephyr whispered. "You came back to life."
And for once, Clarissa smiled.
The rain lashed the dirt roads in heavy sheets as Zephyr stepped through the crooked doorway of the Gored Boar Tavern — a tavern built of timber, stone, and broken promises.
The inside was just as unrefined. Drunken mercenaries brawled in one corner, a bard slept with his face buried in a bowl of stew, and the air stank of sweat, ale, and lust.
And yet, all of it blurred away the moment he saw her.
Outside the church (Bar)
Graska.
She stood behind the bar like a storm in the shape of a woman — thick, powerful, and far too aware of the way every man in the room stared at her and then quickly looked away. She wore leather that clung like sin and confidence that struck like a warhammer.
Dark green skin. Crimson eyes. Tusks small enough not to scare — but sharp enough to warn.
Her hips flared like a goddess of war. And her bust? Barely contained by the stitched leather corset laced halfway up her chest.
She saw Zephyr and smirked.
"Well, well. The wandering tongue returns."
Zephyr moved through the tavern like he owned the floor.
"I heard the ale was strong. But the tavern mistress was stronger."
Graska laughed — a sound that sent shivers down spines and heat between thighs.
She poured him a mug, slid it across the bar. He caught it one-handed and downed the bitter, dark brew in three gulps.
She raised a brow. "Drinking like you've got something to prove."
"Maybe I do," he said, wiping his mouth. "Or maybe I'm thirsty for something that isn't ale."
She leaned forward, elbows on the bar. Her cleavage rose like a mountain of temptation.
"Then stop talking and follow me, priest-f*cker."
The upstairs loft smelled of old wood, leather oil, and sweat. A large fur-pelt bed dominated the room, and the flickering lanterns cast shadows that danced like devils.
Graska slammed the door shut with her foot and turned to him with a hunger that didn't ask — it took.
"You know the rules," she said, pulling off her gloves. "You last five minutes? I toss you out the window."
"Then it's a good thing I don't plan to finish in five."
"Cocky little mortal," she growled. "Let's see if your hips work as well as your mouth."
She pushes him onto the bed, her weight pinning him with ease.
Her kisses are rough, full of teeth. She tears open his shirt, straddling him with powerful thighs.
She undresses with no shame, letting her heavy chest bounce free, her skin warm and muscled.
Zephyr grabs her waist, flips her — surprising her. For a moment, she grins wide.
"Alright," she growls, wrapping her legs around his back. "You want the reins? Ride me like I'm your first and last."
They move together like fire meeting oil. Loud. Messy. Real.
Her moans are thunder. His name leaves her lips like a chant.
When they finish, it's not gentle — it's explosive.
Both drenched in sweat, bodies trembling.
Graska lit a cigar and tossed him a cloth to clean up. She sat at the edge of the bed, one leg bent, her body still gleaming with heat.
Zephyr was sprawled beside her, eyes closed.
"Didn't think you'd keep up," she admitted, exhaling smoke.
"I'm just getting started," he replied.
She looked down at him, her smirk curling. "Come back tomorrow. My sisters want a turn."
---
System Notification
> You've conquered: Graska, Orc MILF Tavern Mistress
EXP Gained: +1600
Trait Unlocked: [Orcish Endurance] — Duration of sessions increased
New Quest: Bed the Three Sisters of the Boar
Graska's Affection: 74% — Now possessive
Passive Skill: [Word Spreads Fast] — Your name is whispered in taverns across the land