The first stroke of his tongue was slow and savoring, the subsequent laps opening her folds and tightening her stomach as she gripped his hair tightly. He kissed the exposed bud of her clit the same way he kissed her lips — with gentle suction and a seeking tongue, pulling a breathy moan from her throat and a tremor down her spine, one that made her toes curl. When she’d unspooled beneath his ministrations, coming against his mouth with a wheeze, her thighs tightening and shaking, he continued to lick her, his greedy tongue lapping up her release before he kissed his way up to her mouth.
"Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted." He’d sent her home that week with two gallons of the local press nestled into her backseat and a slow kiss at her car window, and a tiny bubble of warmth had floated within her all week long, thinking of that afternoon in his bed with every sip.
She’d stood in the dark kitchen the night before, hugging herself at the sight of the cider, bouncing on her toes and smiling so hard her muscles ached from the stretch. He’d been not feeling well, was tired and aggravated and in desperate need of rest, probably wished he was spending his weekend off alone . . . but he’d still thought of her,had, in fact, remembered that she was coming for the weekend. She’d scampered back down the hallway, sliding into bed and threading her fingers into his hair when his head once again found her shoulder, renewed in her determination to take care of him for the duration of the weekend.
"You’re supposed to be sleeping in," she accused him with a yawn, smiling in spite of herself when he bumped her nose again.
"I can’t help it. Internal clock." His voice was a murmur into the pillow as the wide span of his fingers cupped the curve of her bottom, tilting and pulling her flush against him. Her breath fluttered, coming out in a small sigh at the hard press against her, the thin grey cotton doing nothing to disguise the thick shape of him, nestled against the front of her panties.
"Is this part of your internal clock setting?" she giggled, shifting until she was able to trap his erection against her body, grinding herself against him until he groaned.He’s never allowed to wear anything else ever again."I don’t know if you should be doing any physical activity though, you could barely walk last night."
"I don’t usually wake up with the loveliest lass in all the land sleeping on top of me," he countered, holding her against him as he rolled to his back. His fingers felt endless as they dragged up her body, pushing up the thin material of her pink cami until he could cup the globe of her breast in his palm, kneading her skin gently, catching the stiffened peak of her nipple, and tugging until she gasped. "And it’s a good thing she’s capable of being athletic for the both of us."
His thumbs caught under the sides of her panties, forcing her to rise up on her knees to drag them down her hips, an action she mirrored on him with the grey joggers until he was bare beneath her as she straddled his hips. Slowly dragging herself over his straining shaft, coating him in her own increasingly slick arousal, Silva whimpered every time the pink-edged tip of his head bumped into her clit.
It was rare she got to feel the drag of his bare cock against the lips of her sex, for Tate possessed the speed and talent of the most in-demand backyard magician, managing to produce a foil-wrapped condom seemingly out of thin air every time she mistakenly thought was going to enjoy taking him without the thin membrane separating their skin, as though he were producing a coin from behind her long, pointed ear, as her grandfather had done when she was a very small child. It was, she thought, one of his most annoying traits. She didn’t know why the thought of having unprotected sex with him excited her to the degree it did, maybe because it was another thing he withheld, she thought, much like his every inner thought and secret, all of the trivial things she wanted. Silva knew she ought to be grateful he was protecting her from an infection or an unwanted pregnancy, and with the way her imagination supplied her with unwanted suppositions of him with a variety of different species of women, she knew she should be glad . . . but the thought of there being no barrier between the most intimate parts of them thrilled her, the thought of being filled by him, flooded with his heat . . . she hadseenthe evidence in the condoms he filled, tied and discarded instead of dripping from her, and it made her twist in regret. It was easy to insert herself in half a dozen different fantasy scenarios involving animal heat and an utter lack of planning, all of them ending with him coming inside of her, leaving her sopping and sticky, each one more exciting than the next.Historical setting, forced proximity, primal lover, surprise baby!It was ridiculous, especially when she considered how much she actively disliked the touch of any liquid that wasn’t directly from the tap. She’d fallen over herself to run to the restroom and wash her hands after her palm accidentally grazed an unnoticed puddle on the table at her favorite coffee shop, and the time she’d been changing the wastebasket in the office break room and some unknown liquid dripped on her ankle, she’d nearly expired. But, she told herself, she couldn’t help her kinks.
Gripping him snugly, she pushed back his foreskin to expose his shiny head, pulling the sheath up and down until a bead of moisture welled from the tip, her small fist moving down the entire length of his shaft before returning to the tip, bringing his foreskin up in a pucker. Her small fingers were never able to fully span his thick girth, but this morning he seemed even more engorged than normal, the tips of her fingers rolling over an unexpected texture.
"Silva, it’s called a morning stiff," he groaned, attempting to prod her hips, "not a ‘you’ve got me fully bricked during pre-dinner drinks and we have until second dessert to do something about it’ all-night event."
She nearly lost her balance atop him as she shook in laughter, slapping at his chest. "Don’t be so impatient, Mr. Bossy, or I’ll fall off!" Feeding the pink of him into her with a breathy sigh, her back arched as his girth stretched her walls. Hefeltdifferent, she noticed immediately. Maybe it was the press of his bare skin, or perhaps it was the position — not one they indulged in particularly often, as he was too much of a bossy control freak — but there was something foreign about the drag of his length that made her head drop back, whimpering when it moved over the spot within her that made her writhe. When she rocked her hips, Silva was unable to hold back a small cry, a lightning bolt of pleasure quivering up her spine. His cockalwaysfelt good, filling her in a way no partner ever had in the past, and she loved his gentle dominance, holding her down and directing her pleasure . . . but it had never felt likethis. She was meant to be taking care ofhim, and she was sure that probably included letting him come first, but there was something about the way he dragged against her that had her leaning forward, all thoughts of his pleasure lost as she rocked in small, quick movements, chasing the sparks that lit at the corners of the room with every pass over that sensitive spot within her.
"You’re going to be the bleedin’ end of me, dove," he laughed unsteadily, realizing what she was doing. Silva cried out when he cupped her ass, angling her in a way that made the press of him feel snugger, the drag of him against her g-spot even more pronounced. "Is this what you want to do?"
It was a ridge, she decided, head lolling. It felt as if she were scraping against a deliciously textured ridge, and with every rock against it, her breath hitched, chasing her peak faster and faster. He’d pushed up to a near-sitting position by then, his thumb brushing over her clit in the same steady rhythm in which her hips rocked against him.
"Are you going to come on my cock, Silva?" She keened, about to do exactly that, and when he began to rub circles against her clit as she rocked, Silva knew she was lost. "You are the most selfish," his teeth grazed her throat, "greedy," a nip at her ear, one of his sharp canines catching on her lobe, making her cry out, "cheekylittle minx I’ve ever known. I want to feel this perfect little cunt squeeze my cock, dove. I want to be dripping with you."
She came with a shudder and a wheeze, shaking in his arms until she thought she just might shake apart, clenching around him until she sagged. Silva couldn’t account for the speed in which he reversed their positions, flipping her to her stomach before she’d managed to even catch her breath. "But your back!"
"I suppose you should have thought about that before," he grunted, pressing into her from behind, the hand he’d pressed to the small of her back keeping her flat to the mattress. "You’ll just have to walk on it after breakfast."
Shewasgreedy and selfish, she admitted as he pistoned into her, hard and deep, moving his hand from her back to grip her hips tightly. Greedy and selfish and impossibly bratty, but she could still feel that delicious friction dragging against her, and was unable to apologize for her reaction. She pushed back against him, crying out every time he hilted, the slap of their skin competing with her panting, the pressure within her tightening. She could tell the moment he came — hips stuttering in their rhythm, surging against her once, twice, a prolonged shudder on the third, a hard exhalation against her neck — but no rush of heat, no pressure to indicate she was being filled by an erupting orc cock, no gush of hot seed leaking from her to run down her thighs. Tate pushed her forward on the mattress, covering her with his weight and snaking a hand between her and the mattress. The roll of his fingers over her clit in tight, quick circles, coupled with the thick press of him still within her was enough to finish her off. Silva gasped as she clenched around him again, pushing her face into the duvet cover as he groaned into her hair.
"The bleedin’ fucking end of me, dove," he repeated, chuckling. When she turned her head, his mouth was waiting, sucking her lower lip in between each of his, his teeth biting down gently before pushing himself off her.
The condom he carefully eased off, expertly knotting the end, was full; bobbing and heavy with his milky-white release. Silva fisted the sheets in frustration, cursing his magician’s ability to produce condoms from thin air, but she’d not had time to dwell on her annoyance. He’d scooped her up and carried her to a hot shower, where she had washed his hair with her rosewater-scented shampoo and rubbed something called "dragon’s breath balm" into the damp skin of his back afterward, squealing when her fingers had begun to tingle from the heat. Despite her proclamation that she would make him breakfast, she’d been served delicate, strawberry-filled crepes, dusted with powdered sugar and garnished with a sprig of mint from the small pot on the kitchen windowsill.
When she’d asked his opinion on a movie to watch that afternoon, he’d had none. When she’d mentioned the hot new horror series that everyone at work had already binge-watched, he’d only given her a non-committal "whatever you’d like, dove." She disliked horror normally. Humans were bad enough on their own and the thought ofundeadhumans terrorizing a town of helpless goblins sounded positively ghastly, but she decided she’d be brave enough to watch cuddled to his side. She’d been fiddling with the unfamiliar remote, searching for the function that would load the streaming service when she discovered several seasons’ worth of a saved and unwatched program calledAttic Wanderers, all thoughts of the undead human series vanishing as she whirled in triumph.
Now it was hours later. She’d emptied the dishwasher and thrown a load of laundry in for him, including the grey joggers, which she’d pressed into his arms straight from the dryer, insisting he ought to change immediately to enjoy the maximum snugliness.
"There’s no way this is real, that has to be a counterfeit. Watch this gowl’s face when they break the news, dove." Tate was stretched across the slate-colored sofa like a giant, contented cat, his head in her lap and his breath warm on her thigh as she plaited half his silky locks into the sort of elaborate braid it took hours to manage on her own hair. Silva had no idea how many episodes of the antique appraisal show they’d binged at that point, but she’d happily spend the rest of her life watching nothing else if they could remain suspended in the comfortable, complacent bubble of the previous twenty-four hours.Maybe there will be a storm or a flood and we’ll be trapped here for weeks. Forced proximity trope!
"If that’s authentic, we’re finding where this jammy hoor lives and we’re stealing it. But it’s not going to be, just wait."
She giggled as the bespectacled presenter examined the ancient-looking knife, finishing the hand-over-hand plait design at last. Tate’s hair was too sleek and silky for the braid to hold on its own, but she had no intention of dislodging him just to retrieve a hairpin.
"Do they tell you where these people are from? I’ll bet we could find him. Roadtrip." Tucking the end of the braid up, she threaded it through one of the plaits to secure it, sitting back to admire her handiwork.There. Elves of both genders had worn their hair in elaborate ceremonial braids on their wedding days, when long hair had still been in fashion for men. Tate had been raised in a conservative household, he’d said, and his long Orcish hair would be easily explained away as a conservative Elvish convention.
"What you have here is a rather excellent example of what mermish craftsmanship looked like at the turn of the century . . . but do you see the etching on the handle? Every master carver would include a signature of some sort, using symbolry distinct to both oceanic region and tribe. These hash marks represent numbers that denote a production series. From the design and the discoloration of the whalebone, we can tell this is a reproduction of—"
The boom from below sounded like a muffled explosion, shaking up the wall and rattling the triangle of polished balls in their rack upon the green felted surface of the pool table on the far side of the room, swallowing up Tate’s triumphant exclamation at the television, and she jolted in alarm at the noise.
"What was that?"
He didn’t answer, but his eyes narrowed into amber slits as his head lifted, his wide mouth pressing into a flat line, her hands falling away from his hair. When another thud rattled the pool table, he struggled to sit up, his shoulders returning to their tight position of the previous evening, despite the hours she’d spent kneading through the collection of knots.
