Ginger
Grak sweetly sets me down on the edge of the tub as he turns the hot water on in the shower in my en suite bathroom.
I’m not sure why he’s treating me like I’m helpless, but I’m not going to fight it.
I’m too tired. Too filthy. Too overwhelmed and happy to question anything.
Steam fills the room as he drops his kilt. And there it is again. My goodness, the girth of it.
I blush as I stand up and begin to strip off my long underwear and bra, having already discarded my extra layers as soon as I came downstairs to my apartment.
I don’t question how both of us can possibly fit inside this shower. I just know he’s here with me, and that’s all that matters.
The scent of his sweat is already giving my surroundings a homey, familiar feeling.
“You don’t have to … I mean, if this is too cramped…”
“Shush, wife. This is where you are, and therefore I am here too. I need my eyes on you.”
The hot water runs over me, and Grak stands behind me, circling his big arm around my waist. His other arm hugs me close across my upper chest.
I look back at him, at his massive shoulder. His chiseled jaw. The prominent forehead.
This creature I married is a work of art.
A sigh escapes me as he moves and caresses those thick fingers through my hair, thoroughly wetting it.
I grab the shampoo and show him how to use it.
“Wait,” he says.
For the first time, I watch as Grak undoes the warrior bun and lets his long, sleek, jet-black hair fall. And fall. And fall. I gasp as it extends downward, almost all the way to his backside.
It’s glorious, and I want to wrap it around my whole body.
“This is going to take a lot of shampoo,” I say.
I show him how to work it through his scalp, which he has to duck down under the spray to get wet.
We laugh and explore each other, washing each other’s hair, rinsing everything out, behaving like teenagers getting away with something.
We move on to the soap, gently scrubbing away the dirt and sweat from a long day of work. Though, as square footage goes, I’ve got a lot more ground to cover with washing this orc.
I work the loofah over his mighty trap muscles, over the vast plain of his chest, behind his ears.
He takes it and sweeps it over my throat, then leans in to press his lips there.
“You smell good.”
“I’ll smell even better if we ever finish washing up without getting distracted,” I tease.
Grak rumbles and dips his head lower. Rough fingers sweep over my nipples, and I jump slightly.
“These…I like these,” he says, filling both hands with my breasts, using his thumbs to toy with my nipples.
Sensing my arousal, he lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth. The sucking is a whole experience with Grak’s tusks scraping me there.
By the time he switches to the opposite nipple, I’m wide awake and buzzing with arousal.
