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"Your husband isn't here to protect your honor, Clara," you murmur against her ear, your breath hot against her skin. Your hands move down to her waist, your strong fingers digging into the coarse fabric of her kirtle. "He abandoned it the moment he stepped into the stews. If he does not care to guard what is his, why should I respect it?"

With practiced, predatory grace, your fingers find the laces of her bodice. You pull the cords loose with a single, fluid motion, the rough linen parting to reveal the sun-browned skin of her chest and the heavy, unconstrained curve of her breasts. She gasps, her hands dropping from your chest to clumsily cover herself, but you pin her wrists behind her back with one hand. With the other, you strip the remaining fabric down her arms, exposing her completely to the cool night air of the cottage.

She shivers, her eyes tightly shut as she reluctantly lets herself get used to the reality of the situation. Her body tenses, fighting the instinct to submit, yet she does not scream or cry out for the watch. She knows the power of the 'Spare Prince,' and more than that, the sting of her husband's betrayal operates like a dark permission in her mind. You guide her backward until the back of her knees hit the edge of the sturdy wooden table in the center of the room. You lift her easily, seating her on the edge, and push her thighs wide apart.

As your hand slides between her legs, your fingers find the tight, swollen folds of her sex. She is already slick, her body betraying the stoic, protesting expression she tries so hard to maintain. She is wet for you, completely prepared for the intrusion despite her words.

"No," she gasps, her eyes snapping open, her face flushing a deep, guilty crimson as she feels your fingers testing her moisture. She tries to pull away, squeezing her thighs together, but you wedge your body between them. "I am not... it is just the heat from the hearth. I am not ready for this."

"You are a liar, Clara," you growl, your voice thick with rising lust. You release her wrists, using both hands to grip her hips securely, tilting her pelvis up toward you. "Your body knows exactly what it wants, even if your tongue refuses to admit it."

You don't waste any more time with words. You free your rigid length from your breeches and guide yourself to her opening. With a single, forceful thrust, you enter her, burying yourself deep within her tight, burning heat.

A sharp, jagged groan tears from your throat as her tight walls encase you. Clara's head tosses back, a breathy, strangled cry escaping her lips as her fingers instinctively claw into the muscle of your shoulders. As you begin to move, pulling back and driving in again, the friction of your bodies creates a wet, lewd sound that echoes loudly in the quiet room. The wetness she denied lubes your rhythm, making every stroke a loud, slippery testament to her arousal.

"Listen to that," you whisper hoarsely, your face buried in the crook of her neck as you drive your hips against hers in a fevered tempo. "Tell me again how you are not ready for me."

She moans, a sound of **** pleasure that she tries to stifle against your chest. Her hips, despite her mind's resistance, begin to rise and fall in time with your thrusts. The earthy, raw passion of the blacksmith's wife comes alive under your touch; she is hungry, starved for the vitality that her exhausted husband could never provide after a day at the forge. Her legs wind around your waist, pulling you deeper, her internal muscles pulsing around you in a ****, tightening welcome.

The pace becomes frantic, the heat between your bodies matching the intensity of the summer night. Every thrust drives her closer to the edge, her moans losing their **** and becoming ****, short gasps of surrender. You feel the sudden, intense contraction of her walls as her climax hits her, a violent tremor that ripples through her entire body.