Uther's enthusiastic, she'll give him that much. He's fond of holding her down by the arms, which would make her laugh if he weren't so queerly winsome; she could break his bollocks with one careless clench of her thighs, but he's growing on her somehow, like mould on an overripe pear, and she's feeling too fond for her own good.

[Fantastic, beautifully earthy language, but do check the warnings in the header before reading.]