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His cock noticed her before the rest of him did—the wee bastard standing up in his breeks like a bloodhound on a scent. It always noticed her, even when she wasn’t around and all that lingered was a memory.
She wasn’t a memory now. She was flesh and blood and working that barrel churn with great vigor in the shade of the big house. The laces of her bodice were undone, so that her breasts wobbled to and fro, and the cloth clung to her with the sweat of her work. Every time she turned the handle, the fat of her shook in rippling waves, tempting a man into great indecency.
His eyes scanned the house and surrounding land for any sign of company. It was late on a long summer day, nearly dark, though not quite. All would be home in their own cabins, and no one else was around. In truth, the thought of being caught hardly made him take pause.
Jamie watched his wife a good long while, enjoying the pleasant ache in his balls. Anticipation often made his release all the more pleasant. He thought perhaps it reminded him of when she found him in Edinburgh, of their first night together in twenty years. He was straining something fierce then. He hardly lasted a few dozen strokes—even that a feat, given the anticipation building from first seeing her in the printshop to peeling her clothes off bit by bit in the brothel. She was lucky he didn’t pin her hips to the printshop floor and plow her right there with Geordie preaching over his shoulder.
Thoughts of her absence always made him a little desperate, even if it had been years since she returned. It only made him want to grab her all the tighter and ride her until he no longer cared if he was dead or alive.
She stopped her churning to wipe the sweat from her brow. Bits of moist hair clung to her face, and the rest of it stood on end. He could almost feel it tangled up in his hands while he was still thirty feet away.
It didn’t escape his notice as she went back to work that the barrel was just the right height to bend her over it and lift up her skirts.
With her attention on the task at hand, he was able to come close, entirely unnoticed, her bouncing breasts perfectly visible beneath her wet shift. She squeaked a foolish noise when he reached out and cupped one in his hand. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! You could have told me you were there.”
He bent down to her ear and rumbled softly. “Dinna stop on my account.” He rubbed his cock against her arse to let her know how badly he needed her.
“Oh,” her voice almost a song. “Well then.” She turned the crank slowly, a smile curling up her lips.
He held her breasts lightly with both hands as she picked up speed. They jostled about the harder she worked. He could smell the fresh sweat of her and surmised she’d want a bath when they were done.
He reached into her shift and squeezed her moist flesh, rubbing his cock on her backside. Her wee moans tickled his balls, and his cock could no longer bear the wanting.
He pulled her around and bent her over the churn, her arse lifted at the perfect height. He tossed up her skirts, so they nearly covered her head, then he split her buttocks wide. Her skin was pale, but her quim, a deep shade of pink. It was so goddamn wet, it could have been slathered in butter for all he knew. He supposed he’d have to taste her to find out.
He bent down and licked from quim to arse, her cream sweeter on his tongue than anything that came from a bloody cow. He licked deep to soak his mouth in her flavor.
“Jamie!” She pushed back against his face, eager as ever. Claire had never mastered the subtle art of patience, at least not when it came to making love.
He thought of teasing her, taunting her a wee bit, to teach her a lesson, but he’d already put off his own desire long enough. He stood up and released his cock, stroking it a few times and rubbing the wet tip on her fat bum. He spread her buttocks wide and slid his cock up to the heat of her. Her arsehole flared as he shoved into her quim, inspiring all manner of sinful thoughts.
His cock nearly sighed with relief at finding its way home, the smooth and rough parts of her squeezing him the way he liked. He ground down his pelvis against the soft flesh of her bum. Her thick thighs rubbed against his hard legs, and he thought her skin as soft and creamy as the butter in the churn.
“Jamie!” she called again, bucking her hips, and he knew she wanted it rough.
He pulled out to the tip, then grabbed the ends of the barrel on either side and hammered in, smashing her against the wood. She screamed, and before the sound was done, he pulled out and shoved in again.
“Is that what ye want, lass? Teasing a man wi’ yer breasts, drippin’ wet, wobbling all over the place for anyone to see.”
His hips pounded down hard, and he knew it was rubbing her pelvis against the barrel. She wouldn’t last long the way she was wailing and squirming about.
“That’s it, my Sassenach. I’ll have yer insides churned into butter by the time I’m done wi’ ye.” He curled his body over hers, burying his face in her neck, and he fucked her as hard as he could.
Nothing in life felt better than bedding his wife. Not one bloody thing—the feel of her, the sounds of her, the heat of her quim on his cock. He felt like God’s favored son that he was given a wife who loved being swived whenever he liked, that she took such joy in sucking down his cock or spreading her legs at his whim, that she put up with all manner of lascivious acts and counted herself lucky for it.
He grinned, thinking it the perfect opportunity to put that thought to the test. He slowed his hips and reached for the latch of the butter churn, popping it open.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, scandalized. “Don’t you dare, you bloody man! Do you know how much work has gone into—”
“Quiet, woman. I’ll churn the next batch for ye.” His offer stopped her protests quickly.
He reached in and scooped out a handful of butter, a little creamy and not fully set, but he didn’t mind one bit.
“What in God’s name are you going to do with that?”
“Shhhh.” He smeared the butter in both hands, then reached around to grip her breasts.
“Ohhh!”
They were soft and slippery, creamy and fat. She moaned prettily when he twisted her nipples between his greased fingers, making his cock jump like mad. He moved his hips again slowly, grabbing fistfuls of flesh.
“More!” she yelled. “Harder, damn you!”
He chuckled darkly in her ear as he complied, thrusting his hips and reaching for more butter. He rubbed it between his hands again, and this time reached around to play with the tip of her quim while he fucked her.
Her voice cracked, and her hips moved against his slick fingers. He felt her squeezing his cock, readying herself to fall apart. With his other hand, he reached down and pushed his largest finger against her puckered arsehole, and she shrieked, squeezing her bum tight.
“Relax, lass.” He fingered her quim to get her to settle. Her tension gave way, and he shoved his middle finger in all the way to his knuckles, and she let out a sound like a bleating goat. He would have laughed if he wasn’t so bloody aroused.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, but quickly restarted, unable to control his hips any longer. Claire rode his fingers, pressing his hand hard against the barrel. They were a filthy mess, butter dripping everywhere, making her as slippery as a river trout.
“Jamie!” she screamed, quim quivering like mad, squeezing down on his cock. He fucked her hard through her peak, not pulling his hand away until she was done.
When her cries died down, he turned his mind solely to his own pleasure, her body spent and slack over the barrel. He kept one finger in her arse while the other hand gripped her skirts—everything else too goddamn slick to hold otherwise. Her moans had turned to contented hums while he set a fast pace to find his finish.
He grunted, spurting hot spunk in her womb. He nuzzled her neck, breathing in a wisp of heaven as his balls emptied a piece of his soul where it was meant to be.
They lay curled over the sturdy churn as the sky darkened, her body curved beneath his comfortably. He hadn’t even enough energy to brush away a mosquito feasting on his arm.
Jamie’s stomach growled loudly, protesting its hours of long neglect.
“That butter was meant to help cook your dinner,” Claire mumbled, finding her feet as he pulled his cock free.
“Dinna fash. I’m well fed.” He smacked her bum before releasing her skirts.
She turned and tilted her chin up for a kiss. He took his time with it, enjoying the warmth of her soft mouth, the memory of its twenty-year absence all too clear.
“Oh dear.” She pulled back suddenly and lifted her skirts. She reached a hand down to wipe the dripping spunk from her thighs. “That’s not how I intended to salt the butter,” she licked it clean, “but I suppose it’ll do.”