His laughter was a vibration against her, punctuating with a long wide stroke of his tongue, and then he was off. She briefly entertained the thought of stopping him, because she liked to come with him inside of her; like the way her muscles tightened and clenched around him, knew he enjoyed it too, but decided to let him stick to his plan. He was too far gone, and once he climbed on top of her, she wanted him to be able to focus on his own pleasure. His mouth was wide, and his lips were able to pucker around her aching pearl and suck while keeping up the movement of his tongue around it. She'd not started off their arrival at the cabin as horny as he was, but that didn't keep her from quickly falling apart under his ministrations. When she came against his tongue, Lurielle briefly worried that she might crack his skull like a watermelon between her thighs, she squeezed him so hard, her back lifting from the bed.
"That's it, darlin'. Gimme all that honey." When he rose up on his knees, she could tell he wasn't exaggerating about possibly making a mess in his pants. His cock was rock solid, thick veins popped from root to tip. His sac looked especially swollen, enhanced by the paddling she'd given it, and she knew he'd likely not last long at all. Climbing over her, he wasted no time settling between her open thighs, sinking into her heat on the first slow thrust, groaning as he did so, not stopping until the swell of his balls kissed the curve of her ass. "It doesn't make a difference where in the world I am, Bluebell. This is what comin' home is."
She was glad they'd come, she decided, clinging to his back as he began to thump into her with deep, solid thrusts. She understood him a bit better. She understood the dynamic of this place where he was from, understood that he lived with his own heavy expectations and that he too had managed to escape them, even if he didn't quite admit that to himself all time. She thought perhaps that the reason tradition was so important to him was because he felt so removed from it.And maybe he’s just a teensy bit guilty too.It was ridiculous for them to already be talking about marriage and babies and where they would raise their family when they hadn't even reached their one-year anniversary, ridiculous and stupid and they should probably tap the brakes. But marriage and babies and a family was what he wanted, what she wanted when she thought of her future with him, and as he groaned above her, his hips pressing tightly to her in half a dozen long deep pulses, filling her to the brim, she saw no reason to change anything. They were happy, they were moving in the right direction, and she wanted to give him everything he wanted, which was what she wanted as well, as long as he was at her side.Life in the real world.
♥ ♥ ♥
Silva
––––––––
Silva checked her lipstickin the car's rearview mirror and took a deep breath, attempting to calm her rapid pulse.It's fine. It's no big deal and it'll be fine . . . just calm down. The valet stand was just ahead, car doors opening for sylph-like women in short dresses, dryads and selkies. Just two more cars and then she’d be walking in. She tried to listen to her inner voice, tried to heed its wise words . . . but it was wrong. It was wrong, because itwasa big deal. It was the first time she'd be meeting her boyfriend's friends, the first time he'd ever invited her to do so, the first time he wasacknowledgingher in the wider world. It was ahugedeal.
Not your boyfriend, she corrected. That wasn't the kind of mistake she could afford to be making, not tonight. She didn't know what was an acceptable title to call him was, but she’d never once heard him refer to her as his girlfriend. He’d not called her his sweetheart, his paramour, his significant other, nor any of the dozen different words in Elvish and various commons hecouldhave called her but hadn’t, and therefore he was not, as the unhelpful little voice in her head so often reminded her, her boyfriend.
She didn't know how he would introduce her to these mystery friends, and she didn't want to admit how worried she was over that moment, over what he would call her as aloof eyes flicked in her direction, silently judging. Tate's friends would be as effortlessly cool as he was, she was sure if it — detached and smirking, graceful and poised. Growing up in the country club world of Elvish society meant she was well versed in haughtiness and icy smiles, and Silva was confident she'd be able to hold her own with these people . . . provided she made it past those fraught introductions.
If she was labeled asmy friend Silva, she would start to cry.
She knew herself well enough to recognize that her disappointment and despair would mix and bubble and overflow, as if her emotions were some ill-fated science experiment; that she’d have a short window in which to push away from him, to escape to a restroom and have her breakdown in private, and that would be the end. No more carefree weekend nights spent at the Pixie, perched on a high stool while he tended bar on Rukh's night off, pressing her face to his strong back once the final patron staggered out the door at closing time, slipping her arms around him; no more waking up on Sunday mornings securely pressed against him, no more soft kisses in the grey morning light and lazy lovemaking, no more freedom and mischief and laughter. No coming back.Stop it! You're not going to do that, it'll be fine. Just follow his lead.
The valet gave her a bright smile as she stepped from the car with her heart in her mouth. A minotaur in a tight black shirt stood at the entrance, giving her an appraising once-over as she approached, opening the door before she could even mention that she was with a private party.Here goes nothing . . . you can do this. It’ll be fine.
The club was low-lit and upscale, with ambient house music and a gleaming bar, populated with dozens of beautiful people. A group of men around a high table near the door, humans from the look of it, turned to watch as she passed, one madecomment too low for her to hear, earning a round of laughter from his fellows. Silva swallowed and pressed on.
She didn’t often come to the city alone, and the number of humans here, particularly the men, all too bold and unwilling to acknowledge the notion of personal space, made her nervous.
They crowded the sidewalks, charging along with little heed to anyone else walking, expecting her to dive out of the way upon their approach, and stood too close on public transport. The very first time she’d come to Bridgeton on her own had been during a week-long holiday her second week of university, to illicitly obtain birth control far away from her grandmother’s prying eyes, and the catcalls she endured on her walk back to the train nearly had her in tears, running to catch up with a dark-haired werewolf she recognized from Cambric Creek, trailing behind him as closely as she could without gaining his notice, finding a spot on in the train car within a few feet of him. He’d never paused in his phone conversation, but she’d felt safer in his presence, a slight shield from the humans teeming around them like piranhas. Not even the nudist orcs at the resort made her as nervous, and despite Tate’s grumbling, she’d found most ofthemto be quite chivalrous once they had clothes on, during the weekends she spent at the Pixie. She edged past another cluster of human men at the front bar, weaving through the press of bodies as invisibly as possible.
She saw him immediately, once she cleared the narrow bottleneck of bodies in front of the bar near the doors, caught the glint of his cocky, crowded smile from across the room on an elevated platform with a dozen other people, as she slid through the crowd. Silva slowed as she neared, her breath catching at his appearance. Tate was slim and short for an orc, lean and strong and graceful like a ballet dancer, possessing none of the bulk of the patrons who crowded around him at the Pixie . . . but seeing him here, surrounded by goblins and nymphs and satyrs made his actual size stand out in a way she’d never really appreciated. There was an cyclops near the bottom of the steps whose height and bulk would surely match his, as well as the minotaur at the door and the assorted other larger species she saw scattered through the crowd, but the vast majority of the club-goers were much smaller in stature, emphasizing his height and broad shoulders. He would dwarf even the tallest elf at the club, she realized with a swallow.That's going to make it a lot harder to fit in at tea.
He saw her then, his eyes picking her out of the crowd as she approached the platform, crinkling with his smile. The dress she’d chosen for the night was far different from her normal wardrobe selection. Wine-colored and beaded, the illusion front on the plunging neckline showed off far more cleavage than she normally dared, the spaghetti straps left her arms bare, with a hemline that skimmed her thighs. It was a far cry from her preferred pastel-colored, softer habiliment — frilly, lacey, softly feminine styles that she knew he preferred as well, but she saw immediately it had been the right choice for this coolly sophisticated crowd. She wondered if he'd been shifting nervously, wondering if she'd show, or if he'd not even noticed her absence. Silva did not need to contemplate long to know which side of that equation she herself would have fallen on, but with Tate, it was impossible to tell.
VIP bottle service, she noted, stepping up to the raised platform where the party group was gathered. Silva swallowed her smile, knowing well his opinion of the service and the people who ordered it. There was a small chalkboard in the back hallway of the bistro, a contest for the staff to see who could convince the most orcs to order the exorbitantly expensive amenity, and he and the girls were maniacally competitive about it. As a porter lifted the velvet rope for her, she was unable to name the emotion she saw in Tate's honey-gold eyes, traveling up her legs slowly, but it didn't matter when he tugged her to his side with a firm hand on her hip. She had deduced he was able to alter the perception of his sharp teeth, and as she arrived at his side, the only remarkable thing about his mouth was his slender tusks, ringed in silver and seeming slightly longer than usual in the absence of his normal dagger-like smile.
"You look beautiful." Her cheeks warmed as he whispered in her ear, kissing her lightly before she turned to meet the raised eyebrow of the coffee-skinned djinn he’d been chatting with as she’d come up the stairs. The girl had thick, dark hair, twisted into a fat braid that skimmed her waist, and intricate golden henna around her eyes. She was lovely, Silva noted with a self-conscious gulp, as lovely as the cluster of purple-skinned elves — Silmë elves, like her — and the ivory-skinned Summerland elves with whom they stood. She disliked herself when she acted this way, but she couldn’t prevent the traitorous little voice in her heart from wondering, as her eyes traveled over the group, taking in their long legs, graceful necks, and bouncing curls, how many of these beautiful women he’d slept with. She forced a bright smile as he turned, making quick introductions.
