To say that Emma had seen a great many cocks in her day might suggest she’d been less than a lady, but in fact her brothers, when growing up together in the Languedoc region of France, were never shy about nudity. They all stripped off naked to swim in the river that ran through their father’s fiefdom and Emma was accustomed to the sight. Her first husband’s manhood, therefore, had been no shock to her on her wedding night.

But what she saw, as she peered through the window of Raedwulf’s workshop, was something else entirely. Her eyes stretched so wide they began to ache. A similar sensation took possession of her private parts, while she considered the size of the Saxon’s equipment and measured the potential. An astonished curse slipped out between her lips before she was even aware of its formation on her tongue.

His buttocks were taut, hips narrow, thighs thick and tense. The muscles in his broad shoulders flexed and stretched as if he might pop out of his skin at any moment. Her new husband’s flanks were rippled like the hard ridges left in sand when the tide went out. Slowly her gaze dripped downward, almost afraid to look at that again. Yet unable to look away.

She inhaled between her teeth and moisture gathered quickly between her legs where she held them clenched tight.

His fist moved speedily up and down, almost in a frenzied motion, but between each rise and fall, she saw his appendage—thick, hard, wine-red and long. So long, in fact, that at first she’d thought he was holding one of his carpentry tools. That Thing—as she chose to call it for want of any better word—stretched almost to his navel and the head was the size of a ripened plum. It could not be his cock he held. It could not…

It was his cock.

Sacre Bleu!

Oh there were his ripe balls below it. No mistaking them.

Whenever her nightshift swayed against her nipples they hardened further. It was a teasing, tantalizing caress and not much compensation for the sucking those eager peaks needed. Her breasts felt heavy, hot. She wanted to rub them over his chest, hold them to his lips. She wanted to slide that Thing between them and watch his seed spill, taste the creamy essence of desire on her tongue as it spewed out of him.

It had been so long for her. Almost three years since her first husband fell ill—since the last time he laid hands on her. All that time between she’d been forced to stifle her needs. Now a low scream built in her throat and as she choked it back, tears sprang up over her lashes.

Abruptly Raedwulf looked over at the window and saw her. His face darkened. He stopped working his shaft, but remained hunched over, one hand still clasped around the thick root. She saw his broad chest heaving for a breath. And then her hungry gaze spied the drop of liquid oozing from the crest of his manhood.

Emma reached for the latch and opened the door. As if in a dream, she stepped inside, her mind spinning, chasing excuses for spying through his window. What could she say to explain herself? She could pretend she hadn’t seen. She should probably contrive a story of being sleepless, taking a walk to cool off, noticing the lantern light…

Instead she licked her lips, looked at the beautiful prick he choked cruelly with his rough fist and said, “Give that to me. You’re wasting it.”

* * * *

She had auburn hair. He’d not expected that color under her wimple, although perhaps the changing season of color in her eyes and those copper-tipped lashes should have been a clue.

While he stared at her, the head of his cock arched against his flat stomach, his sac still throbbing, she slipped off her mantle and stood before him in her nightshift. With the lantern light behind her, he could see the curve of her waist and the side of her hip; the slight smudge of shadow at the apex of her thighs was also visible, as were her breasts—more than he could ever get in his mouth at once, which he remembered his brothers saying was a waste.

He tried to breathe, and when he spoke it came out in a rush of spittle. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

She stepped closer, her eyes on his manhood. “It’s magnificent,” she whispered, apparently not hearing him.

Now he could smell her hair—lavender, sage, and something sharper, tangier.

He swallowed. “Don’t come any nearer.”

She raised her eyelashes and her gaze, lushly green at that moment, mysterious as a primeval forest, raked upward, over his chest, to his lips, then his eyes. Taking his other hand, she placed it over her breast, so that he felt the nipple against his palm. Instinctively he closed his hand over it, fingers spread wide. She blinked, her breath quickening.

“What are you? I didn’t think…” Wulf couldn’t finish. A celibate marriage, it seemed, was not on his bride’s mind after all.

“You are beautiful,” she murmured, her gaze traversing up and down his naked body, admiring it in the same way as he would a finely crafted piece of furniture.

He didn’t think women were this lusty unless they were paid, but now she fondled his sac with both her hands, cupping and stroking where no touch other than his own had ever been.

He swayed slightly. “I haven’t ever…”
The woman dropped to her knees, pulled his hand away and lowered her mouth onto his cock.