He starts to move. Long, slow strokes that light up every nerve ending, that build heat low in my belly all over again despite the orgasm that left me trembling only minutes ago. His hands are everywhere. Gripping my hips, steadying my shoulder, threading through my hair and tilting my face so he can kiss me while he fucks me.
The mirror shows everything. His body moving over mine, muscles flexing with each thrust. My legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back. The place where we're joined, slick and obscene and impossibly intimate.
"So soft," he murmurs against my throat. "So warm. Made for me. Only me."
"Only you," I agree, because it's true. Has been true since the moment he showed up on my doorstep with a battle axe and zero understanding of what a wedding actually entails.
He shifts the angle. Hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids and a broken sound tears from my throat. Do it again. And again. Relentless precision applied to the singular goal of taking me apart piece by piece.
"Come for me," he commands, low and rough. "I want to feel you. I want to watch you fall apart while I'm inside you."
I don't have a choice. The orgasm crashes over me without warning, sudden and devastating and so intense I forget how to breathe. My body locks up, muscles clamping down, and Kruk groans like I'm killing him. Follows me over the edge with a snarled oath, burying himself deep and grinding against me like he's trying to fuse us into one entity.
We collapse together. A tangle of limbs and sweat and racing heartbeats. The air conditioning kicks on, cool air washing over overheated skin, and I shiver despite the warmth radiating from Kruk's body where he's draped half on top of me.
He rolls us carefully. Tucks me against his side, one massive arm wrapped around my shoulders. His other hand traces idle patterns on my hip, following the curve of bone beneath skin, mapping territory he now considers his.
"I love you," I say quietly. Simple. Direct. No room for misinterpretation.
His hand stills. Then resumes its gentle exploration. "I love you too. Even though you are chaos incarnate and cannot keep a coffee stain off your shirt for more than five minutes."
I laugh. Can't help it.
"We should probably talk about what happens next," I say once I've gotten myself under control. "Like. Logistics. Do you move in with me? Do I move in with you? Do we get a place together and subject some poor landlord to the inevitable property damage?"
Kruk considers this with the same focused intensity he brings to everything else. I can practically hear the gears turning behind those dark eyes, his tactical mind methodically assessing variables and calculating outcomes like he's planning a military operation instead of deciding where we're going to live.
"I think," he says slowly, each word measured and deliberate, "we should get tacos first."
I blink. Once. Twice. Then crane my neck to look up at him, certain I've misheard. "Tacos."
"Yes." He nods, completely serious. "I have decided I enjoy human rituals. Wedding cake was acceptable. The strawberries were excellent. Tacos are next on the list of experiences worth investigating." He says this like he's documenting field research, cataloging cultural phenomena for some imaginary report.
"You want to get tacos," I repeat slowly, making sure I've understood correctly. "Right now. Immediately. Post-sex tacos."
"Is there a better time for tacos?" He sounds genuinely confused, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies my face. Like the concept of delayed taco consumption is a strategic flaw he can't quite comprehend. "You expended significant energy. Nutritional replenishment is logical."
I start laughing again. Can't stop this time. It rolls out in waves, hysterical and relieved and so full of affection I think myribs might crack from the pressure. Kruk watches me like I've lost my mind. Which, fair. I probably have.
"Okay," I manage between giggles. "Okay. Post-sex tacos. That's a thing we're doing now."
"Good." He drops a kiss on my head. "Then we will discuss logistics. Moving arrangements. Whether you require assistance organizing your belongings into a system that does not resemble a natural disaster."
"My organization system is perfectly fine, thank you very much," I protest, attempting to sound dignified despite still being stark naked and thoroughly debauched.
"You have seventeen coffee mugs in the bathroom," he counters, his tone absolutely flat, factual. Like he's presenting evidence in a military tribunal. "I counted them. Three on the toilet tank. Five along the bathtub. Nine clustered around the sink in what appeared to be a defensive formation."
"I was running an experiment," I say, lifting my chin with as much authority as I can muster while pinned beneath two hundred and fifty pounds of satisfied Orc.
"On what, exactly?" His eyes narrow slightly, that analytical expression sliding into place. "The structural load-bearing capacity of your sink? The tensile strength of porcelain under sustained caffeinated beverage exposure? Because if so, the experiment is nearing critical failure. I observed stress fractures."
I swatted his chest. He catches my hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss against my knuckles. The gesture is so tender it makes my throat tighten.
"I'm keeping you," I tell him. "Just so you know. You're stuck with me now. No returns, no exchanges, no refunds."
"Good," he says simply. "That was always the plan."
Three Months Later
