The Tavern for Pervert Adventurers (18+)
Chapter 23: Fire and Ice - 3

Chapter 23: Fire and Ice - 3

Mira bathed long past midnight, the bathhouse a steamy sanctuary, its stone walls slick with condensation.

The water scalded, too hot for most, but her fireblood welcomed it, her bronze skin flushed under the lantern’s golden glow.

Her full breasts rose above the steam, nipples taut, not from the heat but from the ache of memory—Kio’s words,

You weren’t ready, cutting deeper than any flame.

Tonight, the water didn’t soothe.

It stirred, agitating the fire coiled in her core.

She leaned back against the tub’s edge, her red hair clinging damply to her shoulders, her curves softened by the haze, her amber eyes fixed on the ceiling’s shadows.

The tavern beyond was silent, its hearth cold, the air thick with lavender, lime oil, and the metallic tang of mineral salts.

Her pride had burned for him, paraded in heat and defiance, daring him to break her.

But he’d only watched—until last night, until her whispered please.

The air shifted, a subtle slowing, a settling without sound.

Kio stepped into the room, unannounced, his presence a quiet tide.

His shirt hung open, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms taut with strength.

His face was still, moonlit through the high window, his dark eyes locking onto hers.

Mira didn’t speak, her breath catching, her thighs parting slightly beneath the water.

Kio didn’t ask.

He knelt beside the tub, his movements steady, and drew the silk-wrapped ice vial from his pocket, its chill seeping through the fabric.

Her thighs parted wider, an unspoken surrender, her body trembling with anticipation.

Kio unwrapped the vial, its glass cold and glistening, and pressed its frozen tip to the hollow of her throat.

Mira inhaled sharply, the chill biting her flushed skin, a spark of relief amidst her fire.

He moved downward, slow and unhurried, trailing the vial between her breasts, the cold kissing her curves.

He pressed it to her nipple, hard and aching, and she whimpered, not from pain but from release, the sound melting into the steam.

"You burn too hot," Kio murmured, his voice low, a quiet command.

The vial glided down her stomach, cooling her twitching muscles, her breath shuddering. "You can’t think when you’re like this."

Mira nodded, barely, her amber eyes wide, her chest heaving.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear.

"Breathe," he said, the command absolute, not kind but not cruel.

She obeyed, her breath slowing, her body yielding.

The vial traced her inner thigh, its chill teasing closer to the ache between her legs, but it didn’t touch her deep—not yet.

Instead, Kio circled it near her clit, the cold hovering, tormenting.

"Recite," he said softly. "Your basic fire chant. Slowly."

Mira blinked, her lips parting, confusion flickering. "What?"

He pressed the vial’s edge to her entrance, just grazing her folds.

She gasped, her hips twitching.

"Again," he said, his tone firm, unyielding.

She stammered the first words of her pyromancer’s chant—a rhythmic mantra for controlling flame—mispronouncing the third.

The vial withdrew, its chill vanishing.

"Start over," Kio said, his eyes locked on hers.

She recited again, her voice steadier, the words clean and precise.

Kio pressed the vial firmly to her clit, the cold searing through her heat.

Mira nearly screamed, her body arching, but Kio shushed her with a single finger against her lips, his touch light but commanding.

"Again," he said.

By the third repetition, she was panting, her thighs trembling, her clit throbbing under the vial’s relentless chill.

By the fourth, she came—without permission, silent but fierce, her eyes wide, her chest heaving, her mouth open in a wordless plea.

Kio rose, his movements unhurried, rewrapping the vial in silk, its chill fading into the steam.

"You’re learning," he said, his voice soft, a faint smile in his eyes.

He walked out, leaving without a goodnight, without a glance back.

On the floor, beside Mira’s discarded robe, lay a folded note, its paper etched with the first half of a fire pattern—a non-magical sketch of her pyromantic chant, incomplete, waiting for her to finish it.

Mira sat in the tub, her body humming, her fire banked but alive, the note’s challenge burning brighter than the water’s heat.

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