Gwen
“I’m leaving the valley. So you can back down, Mr Roberts, because it won’t do you any good.”
I puff out a heavy breath beside the blacksmith, as winded by those words as if he’d punched me in the chest. Rhys Evans frowns at my father in the cobbled town square, his big hand wrapped around mine, and this is a dream, right? Or a nightmare.
It was supposed to be a simple walk into town for milk and eggs. And now Rhys is leaving? What the hell?
How? How can he hold my hand like that, sweet as pie, and all along he’s secretly planning to leave?
How long has he known? Does he pack his bags every night when I go to sleep? I’ve been staying at his forge for days now, damn it, and he never thought to mention this? He tells my father first instead?
And my father must read these horrified thoughts on my face, because he nods with grim satisfaction, the morning breeze flapping at his plaid shirt collar. “I warned you, Gwendoline. I told you this man would tire of your nonsense.”
Rhys’s hand tightens around mine. “I’m not tired of her. You’ve driven me out of the valley, as you well know. I need to find business again.”
Not tired of me? So am I invited to go too? Oh lord, I feel sick. My head’s spinning and my heart’s thumping, and my palm is sweaty in the blacksmith’s hold.
I tug my hand free and he blinks down at me, surprised.
“Well, there’s always a place for you at the farm.
” My father isn’t even gloating, and I suppose that’s a surprise.
He sounds sorry for me, his weathered brow creasing as he watches me hug myself on the cobblestones.
His fair hair is lighter than usual, bleached from all those hours of summer sun. “We can forget the marriage thing.”
My mouth is dry as I lick my lips. Rhys stares at me, waiting to hear my reply, and okay, he can jog on. Apparently our future plans are our own business. Fine.
“No, Dad. I’m making my own way now.” And that’s true whether Rhys takes me with him or not. Whether I find a job in this valley or somewhere else. I’m on this path. I need to see where it leads.
But oh wow, I thought the blacksmith and I had settled something between us. I thought we were building something, something strong and lasting and sure.
This is a rude awakening. And I don’t even register the rest of what my father says as he and Rhys mutter together in low tones.
Whatever they say, they’re far from friends when they part, my father striding away toward the butcher’s striping awning, his shoulders tense and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Gwen,” Rhys scrapes out as soon as we’re alone again. “Gwen.”
There’s a beetle on the cobblestone beside my boot. I watch it, watch those tiny black legs searching for purchase on the smooth stone, feeling that cold, sickly numbness spread through my insides.
Rhys curses somewhere overhead, then takes my elbow and starts steering me across the town square.
He marches me like that along streets and down lanes.
Past the river, still swollen against its banks, and all the way back to his forge, and the whole way the wind snatches at our clothes and the sky is bright white overhead. Too bright.
“We didn’t buy milk and eggs,” I mumble as he unlocks the front door, jaw set and face grim. A big hand presses against my shoulder blades, nudging me inside.
“It doesn’t matter.”
No, I guess not.
He’s leaving? “When?” I croak. “When are you leaving, Rhys Evans? And when were you going to tell me?” I’m so dazed.
The blacksmith curses softly and pulls out a chair at the kitchen table.
He presses me down to sit, then crosses to fill the kettle.
And god, this silence is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
There’s nothing but dead air and a ticking clock and the wind moaning outside, and if he doesn’t fill it soon, I will scream.
“Rhys Evans!”
A mug slams down on the kitchen counter. He whirls to face me, and lord, I’ve never seen the man so animated. His eyes could throw off sparks. Every muscle in his face is tensed, his lip drawn back from his teeth.
For the first time since I met him, Rhys seems like a dangerous man. Strong and wild and full of feeling.
“We talked about it, Gwen. You suggested yourself that I might need to leave.”
“‘Might need to’ and ‘planning to’ are two different things! You know what I think? I think you just didn’t want the awkward conversation.
You didn’t want to tell me no.” I’m gripping the edge of the kitchen table so hard my knuckles are white, the bones pressing against the skin.
“Well I can take it, mister. I’m not a child.
And I thought you respected me, thought you liked me enough to be honest with me at least.”
“I am honest with you.” The blacksmith sounds broken.
He’s slumped against the counter, already looking as exhausted by all this as I feel.
“But it’s like you told your father. You’re choosing your own life now, and I don’t want to get in the way of that or pressure you one way or another.
But Gwen,” Rhys pushes upright, “you always have a place at my side if you want it. Always. I thought you knew that.”
Oh.
The clock ticks nearby, the sound echoing off the flagstones. We’re close enough to hear the rush of the river further down the bank.
“I’m…”
…I’m an idiot. A paranoid, easily hurt idiot. I’m so used to being rejected that apparently I’ll leap ahead and do the job myself, then blame Rhys for nonsense conjured up in my head.
My chin wobbles. My throat is so tight. “I’m sorry.”
And Rhys is already coming for me. Barreling toward me across the kitchen, but I’m not afraid. I’m gasping with relief, arms reaching up for him as he plucks me from my chair and sets me on the table.
He presses his hips between my legs. Surrounds me with his strong arms, crushes my body against his chest, and buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“Cariad,” Rhys says, muffled by my hair. “Fuck.”
“I know.” My nose is running against his shirt. Ew. “Oh god, I’m sorry.”
“You nearly killed an old man. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
My laugh is watery. “You’re not old.”
We cling together for long moments, the adrenaline seeping from our limbs. I can feel his heartbeat thudding beneath his shirt, slow and sure and steady.
“So where are we going?” I say at last, gripping two handfuls of flannel shirt. “Somewhere pretty?”
Rhys nods, his beard tickling my neck. “I don’t know yet, but somewhere pretty. Somewhere with a beach or an old wood. And somewhere far, far away from this poisonous valley.” He smooths my hair back, pressing a hot, whiskery kiss to my throat. “You can choose, cariad. Where you go, I go.”
“Where you go, I go,” I repeat, the words a balm to my sore, battered heart. As family mottoes go, it’s not bad.
And we will be a family. Maybe we are one already, and I didn’t even notice. Was too busy guarding my heart, and doing a piss poor job of it.
“Rhys?”
He’s mouthing at my jaw, slow and lazy. “Hm?”
I squeeze his hips with my thighs. “Does this mean you’re ready to bend me over this table?”
His laugh starts somewhere low in his belly. His giant shoulders shake, and it’s like clinging to a mountainside in an earthquake. I hold on for dear life, biting my lip at every thrilling vibration.
“Gwen,” he rasps at last, big hands gripping my thighs. Kneading and rubbing through my skirt. “I’ve been ready to do that for months.”
Despite his words, the blacksmith takes his time.
He kisses me silly for what feels like hours, fingers sliding through my frizzy hair, sucking my tongue and nipping at my bottom lip.
And when I’m breathless and wriggling, shifting my weight against the scrubbed wooden table, he palms my breasts.
Weighs and kneads and rubs at them. Pinches my nipples through my top until I mewl.
And we’ve done this a few times now. Kissed and touched. Licked and tasted.
But it’s not enough, not for today. Today, I need to feel every inch of him.
I need the blacksmith pressing into me, pushing me down, claiming me for his own.
Maybe we should do this in a bed and face to face, sweet and traditional, but the thing is, I don’t feel sweet in this moment. I feel needy and raw.
My palms shove against his chest, and Rhys steps back. I hop down, basking in the searing hunger on his face, then spin around and brace my hands on the table.
My ass wiggles an invitation.
The blacksmith groans, long and low.
“Are you sure?” he grates out, already flipping up my skirt. There’s the telltale clink of a belt, and I melt all the way forward, resting my forehead on the cool wood.
“Oh, I’m sure.”
When he tugs my panties down my legs, I bite my lip hard. And when his thumb strokes along my seam, spreading my eager wetness, I could weep with relief.
“Forget the foreplay,” I order, cheek smushed into the table. “Just—just fuck me. Okay? Really go to town on me.”
His snort makes me grin. “That’s big talk for a girl on her first time.”
“I can handle it.”
A heavy hand strokes up my spine. “I bet you can.”
Despite my very clear orders, Rhys still takes a moment to rub at my clit. He drives me up onto my tiptoes with his slow, smooth circles, each maddening swoop of his calloused thumb making my breath catch, and only once I’m whining do I feel his cock prod my entrance.
He’s big. Thick and broad. I remember, because I gripped him in my hands; I weighed him on my tongue.
“Come on, don’t be shy.” I urge. “I can take it.”
“I’m not shy.” Rhys presses the head inside me, amusement rich in his tone. “I’m being careful with you.”
“Well don’t.”
I’m being a brat and we both know it, already scrabbling for purchase on the table after a couple of inches despite my big words, but the blacksmith is not dismayed by my behavior.
He laughs, rumbly and delighted, and starts to fuck me with shallow strokes.
Not forcing me open but easing the way, and I’m pinned, and this is perfect. Perfect.
“Spank me,” I wheeze.
A heavy palm cracks against my bare ass. Oh, lord, I can barely think as hot sparks rain through my private parts.
“Pull my hair,” I order next.
Rhys huffs a laugh. “Gwen. We’ll get to it all. Be good.”
Be good. I bite my lip, pushing my hips back against his thrusts, and his cock sinks deeper inside me. Stretches me open and steals my breath, and Rhys grips my hips then starts up a rhythm.
Creak.
Rattle.
Creak.
This is a solid table, but it’s taking a battering in our honor. Practically skidding across the flagstones. And Rhys’s cock must be making me dizzy, because I all I can think is we should give it a Viking burial. Burn it ceremonially on the river before we leave.
Thick fingers delve into my hair, gripping a fistful, and I’m back in the moment. Oh shit, this feels good. Every punch of his cock inside me sets all my nerve endings alight.
“Oh.” My teeth clack together with his hard thrusts. “Oh.”
He gathers my wrists with his spare hand. Pins them at the base of my spine, and lord, I can’t breathe. I can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything except take his fucking and thank my lucky stars for it.
“You doing okay, cariad?”
At least he sounds winded too, gritting the words between clenched teeth. That’s a relief.
“So good,” I tell him. “So, so good.”
There’s a grunt of agreement, and I freaking love this man’s grunts. Then he’s fucking me harder, pounding me into the table just like I begged, and my legs are twitching and my cheeks are hot and I’m sweaty and sticky and flying.
“Rhys!”
Another spank, another hot cascade of sparks against my ass, and that’s what sends me over. What has me shuddering and crying out, face pressed into the table, thighs shaking as my pussy clamps down on the blacksmith like I’ll never let him go.
And behind me, Rhys curses loudly, gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, and then he’s swelling inside me. Growing impossibly bigger before he floods me with spurts of wet heat.
I catch my breath after several minutes. Every part of me aches, and something sticky is trickling down my thigh. “Rhys?”
He pulls out slowly, rubbing my back when I hiss. It burns, even as his cock is softening. “Easy, cariad. It’ll be sore for a little while. Let me take care of you.”
As if I’d ever say no to that. And with Rhys, ‘taking care’ apparently means a warm, damp cloth dabbed between my legs, then a hot, soapy bath and a mug of peppermint tea.
And he’s with me the whole time, stroking my cheek and fiddling with my hair, and it’s so much. More overwhelming than the sex, even.
I scratch his bearded chin where he kneels at the bathside, suds dripping off my elbow onto the mat. “You could come in, you know.”
Rhys wrinkles his nose at the scented water. “There’d be a tidal wave.”
Yeah, now that I look at him again, he’d never fit. He’s too big, too brawny, all hard muscle and heavy bone. All man.
All my man.
“You’re looking very smug.”
I grin, grabbing a sponge off the edge. “I’m feeling it, too. This has been a good day.”
“Yes,” Rhys agrees quietly. “It has.”
And peeking at my blacksmith out of the corner of my eye, I know there are many more good days ahead. Days of teasing and blackberry picking and getting fucked over a flat surface until I’m cross-eyed.
Lucky me.