The Weeping Vale smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke. Cassian rode alone, cloak snapping, the royal crest hidden beneath mud. His father's command: *collect the tithe from Lady Duvrey's lands*. A punishment disguised as duty—Seraphine's late husband had plotted treason.
He found her in the tithe barn, bent over a ledger. Dust motes danced in the slanted light. Her gown—once crimson, now faded—clung to the sweat between her shoulder blades. When she turned, her breasts shifted like water in a skin; the neckline gaped, revealing the top of one areola, brown and wide.
"Your Highness," she said, voice husky from disuse. She did not curtsey.
Cassian's cock stirred. *Christ, she's ripe.*
"Lady Seraphine." He dismounted, boots thudding. "The king wants his grain."
"And I want my husband's head back on his shoulders," she snapped. "We'll both be disappointed."
He stepped closer. The barn smelled of her—lavender soap and something muskier. Between her thighs, a dark patch bloomed on her skirt. She noticed his gaze and flushed crimson.
"It's the heat," she lied.
"It's not," he said softly. "Spread your legs."
She should have slapped him. Instead, her knees parted an inch. The wet spot grew. Cassian's mouth went dry.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Show me how a traitor's widow weeps."
Her fingers trembled as they gathered skirts. No undergarments—too poor now. Her cunt was a revelation: plump outer lips, inner folds glistening, clit swollen like a pearl. A bead of slick rolled down her thigh.
Cassian groaned. His cock strained against his breeches, a wet spot of his own forming. He didn't free it yet. *Slow.*
"Tell me," he said, "when's the last time a man made you drip like this?"
"Never," she whispered. "They took. You… you *look*."
He knelt. The barn floor was filthy; he didn't care. His thumbs parted her, revealing the pink heart of her. She was *soaked*—strings of arousal stretching between folds. He blew gently. She jolted, a sob escaping.
"Prince—"
"Cassian." He licked a stripe up her slit, slow as communion. She tasted of salt and grief. Her thighs clamped his head; her hips rolled, chasing his tongue.
He ate her like a starving man—long, flat licks, then flicking her clit until her legs shook. When she came, it was with a broken cry, cunt pulsing, squirting a hot gush over his chin. He drank it.
After, she sagged against the ledger table, breasts heaving. He stood, cock throbbing but still caged.
"This tithe," he said, wiping his mouth, "is paid in full. But I'll return. And next time, I'll fill you until you *beg*."