Chapitre 4: Chapter Four: Morning Whispers and Blood on the Streets
Thomas woke to the dim morning light creeping through the small, grimy window, the thin blanket tangled around his legs and the woman's body warm beneath him. He was still inside her, buried deep, the heat of her tight, slick flesh enveloping him as he stirred. Her soft breaths fluttered against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed, still lost in a daze of sleep and surrender. He moved slowly, his hips rolling gently, savoring the warmth of her as he started to thrust, each movement slow and deliberate, her body responding with soft, stifled moans.
He kept the rhythm steady, enjoying the languid drag of his cock inside her, and whispered close to her ear, his voice rough and low. "Tell me about you," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, his hips never ceasing their slow, grinding motion. "I want to know who you are."
She hesitated, her hands gripping his back, her fingers tracing faint lines over his skin as she began to speak, her voice strained and soft, almost lost between gasps. "I was born near the Mud Gate," she began, her words punctuated by sharp breaths each time he filled her, his cock moving in a deep, rhythmic slide. "My mother died when I was little… never knew my father. Worked the streets since I was old enough to look like I could."
Thomas moved deeper, his pace picking up, each thrust measured but firm. She moaned, her back arching slightly, her eyes squeezed shut as she continued. "It's been years… selling what I got… never had a choice, just… trying to make it through the day." She gasped as Thomas pushed into her with a bit more force, her story wavering as the pleasure mixed with pain and memory.
"And now?" Thomas asked, his voice ragged with arousal, his thrusts becoming a touch more insistent, pushing her closer to the edge. "You're with me now. Is this better?" He watched her face, every twitch and shiver, the truth of her past mingling with the raw need of the present.
"It's better," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies. "At least… I know where I sleep… who I'm with." She bit her lip, her breath hitching, her body tightening around him as he continued to move, the bed creaking softly beneath their weight. He kept her on the brink, never rushing, drawing out every moment until her moans turned into something needful, a plea for release that she could never quite put into words.
Thomas thrust hard one last time, groaning as he spilled into her, his body shuddering with the finality of it. He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling as they lay there, tangled and spent. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice gentler now, the morning light casting a soft glow over their entwined bodies.
She blinked, her eyes meeting his, a hint of something vulnerable breaking through the dullness. "Lyra," she said, the word soft but clear. "My name's Lyra."
Thomas nodded, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips before pulling away and getting dressed. He left her there, still splayed on the bed, her chest rising and falling with quiet, tired breaths as he headed out to face another day in the cookhouse.
At work, Thomas set to his tasks with a practiced efficiency, sorting through the meats with a discerning eye, his past life's instincts sharper now. He knew which cuts were best, which would pass for something palatable, and which should be left to the bottom of the pot. He chopped, sliced, and separated, each movement quick and precise, each pot of broth bubbling with more purpose than before. The kitchen filled with the rich, savory scent of stews that were more than just edible; they were good enough to draw a crowd.
The barmaid, with her wide hips and spilling cleavage, bustled in and out, her chubby hands busy serving the patrons that poured in throughout the day. She beamed each time she passed Thomas, delighted with how fast he worked, the kitchen running smoother than it ever had. But there was a problem brewing beneath the surface; more people were coming than ever before, drawn by the promise of something better than the slop they were used to.
The pantry was emptied before the sun even dipped below the rooftops, the last of the broth ladled out to eager, hungry hands. Thomas wiped his brow, his muscles aching, his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. He leaned against the counter, exhausted, longing for the solace of his woman's touch when the barmaid approached him, wringing her hands nervously.
"It's too late," she said, her voice tinged with worry. "I can't walk back alone. The streets… they're not safe this time of night."
Thomas nodded, too tired to argue. He grabbed his knife, the blade still sharp and ready, and followed her out into the darkening streets of Flea Bottom. They walked in silence, the alleyways twisted and shadowed, every corner hiding unseen dangers. Thomas stayed close, his eyes scanning the dim shapes that moved in the periphery, his senses alert despite his fatigue.
They were halfway to her home when a figure emerged from the shadows—a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a desperate gleam. He lunged at them, a rusty blade glinting in his hand, and Thomas reacted without thinking. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it sharply behind his back, the knife clattering to the ground as he forced the attacker's arm up, holding him in place.
The man struggled, snarling, but Thomas tightened his grip, pulling his own knife free and pressing it to the man's throat. Without hesitation, he sliced deep, the blade cutting through flesh and sinew. Blood sprayed, warm and slick, splattering onto the cobblestones as the man gurgled, collapsing into a twitching heap at their feet. Thomas wiped his blade clean on the man's tattered cloak, not sparing the corpse another glance.
The barmaid, pale and shaken, hurried the rest of the way, clutching her shawl tightly around her ample figure. She fumbled with the door, pushing it open, and rushed inside, her daughters running to her with wide, tear-streaked eyes. She hugged them fiercely, whispering soft reassurances as she kissed their foreheads, tucking them back into their shared, threadbare bed.
Thomas stood in the doorway, watching the small reunion unfold. The barmaid glanced back at him, her expression softening, and gestured for him to sit. He took a seat beside her, the rough wooden bench creaking under their combined weight. She sighed, staring at her hands, the weariness of years etched into every line on her face.
"Those girls," she began, her voice trembling. "They ain't got no fathers worth mentionin'. Different men, different times… neither one cared once they were done. Forced themselves on me, left me with these two." She looked at her daughters, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I try, gods know I try, to give them somethin' better, but this place… it takes everything."
Thomas listened, his heart heavy with the familiar ache of this world's brutal reality. He reached out, laying a hand on her shoulder, offering silent comfort. She leaned into him, just a little, her head resting against his. He could see the swell of her cleavage from where he sat, the tops of her breasts pushing up from the neckline of her dress, and despite the somber moment, he felt the familiar stirring in his pants, the insistent throb of arousal that refused to be tamed. He shifted slightly, trying to will it away, but the sight of her soft curves and the closeness of her body made it impossible.
They sat in silence for a while, the tension of unspoken needs hanging between them. When it became clear that she wasn't seeking anything more tonight, Thomas stood, squeezing her shoulder once more before taking his leave. He made his way back home, the weight of the day and the taste of fresh blood still lingering in his mind.
When he opened the door, Lyra was there, naked as he had commanded, her body bathed in the soft glow of a single candle. She smiled faintly, stepping aside to let him in, and he pulled her close, his hands running down her sides, feeling every inch of her warm, familiar skin. He kissed her deeply, slow and gentle, savoring the taste of her mouth as he walked her back to the bed.
Thomas laid her down, his movements slower, more tender than before. He traced the curve of her waist, the softness of her breasts, his touch lingering as he felt the faint, rhythmic rise and fall of her breath. He entered her carefully, sinking in with a deep, deliberate thrust, his hips moving with a slow, steady rhythm, each slide of his cock a silent promise. Lyra moaned softly, her hands gripping his arms as he rocked into her, their bodies moving in perfect, languid harmony.
He was gentler this time, taking his time, his thrusts unhurried, savoring the closeness of her as if he could erase the harshness of the world outside. Each movement was a careful exploration, his hips pressing against hers in a slow, sensual grind, her quiet gasps the only sound in the room. He whispered her name, over and over, as if grounding himself in her, finding solace in the simple, raw intimacy they shared.
Lyra held him close, her legs wrapped
around his waist, pulling him deeper with every gentle thrust. Thomas moved within her until he felt her tighten around him, her body quivering with the delicate edge of release. He followed her, his own climax washing over him in warm, slow waves, the pleasure muted but satisfying, like a quiet tide pulling him under.
They lay together afterward, tangled in each other's arms, the world outside momentarily forgotten. Thomas closed his eyes, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his chest, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something akin to peace.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
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