The Half-Orc's Maiden Bride (Aspect and Anchor)

Lightly, I drag my teeth over the head of him.

He sucks in a breath. "You're going to be the death of me, Iolanthe."

"I want you alive," I whisper, and lick the spot I scraped. "I don't know how to pleasure you, though. I have no experience in this. Will you show me what you like?"

Agakor groans again, the sound pained. "How are you so sweet? Your father put far too small a price on your lovely head, my wife-to-be. You are a prize beyond riches." He takes one of my fluttering, stroking hands and cups it in his, guiding it onto his shaft until my palm is pressed against him. Then, he guides my fingers to curl around his length. He takes my hand and drags it up and down his length, the foreskin moving with my hand and making my fist glide up and down his shaft.

Oh. He likes it rougher then, harder. Understanding, I take over and pump him eagerly with my hand, and when his grip relaxes on me, I know I'm doing it just as he likes. I lean in and press another kiss to the tip of his cock, just because I want to keep putting my mouth on him, and when he makes a sound of pleasure, I get bolder. I take the head of him between my lips and suck, thinking about how he'd put his mouth all over the sensitive bead of flesh between my thighs.

His breath hitches and his hand goes to my hair. "Gods. Gods, Iolanthe. That sweet little tongue of yours is wondrous."

He likes my tongue? I use it even more, teasing the head of his cock with little swirls before I suck him into my mouth again. He's too big for me to do more than tease the tip, but he doesn't seem to mind. It's as if Agakor likes my frantic, jerking hands and my hungry mouth on his cock. He murmurs encouragement as I stroke him, his gripping hand tightening in my hair as his hips twitch. Oh, that's a good sign. I work him frantically with my mouth, squeezing and pumping my fist, because I want him to have the same release I did.

"Move back," he breathes, the sound so muffled and strained that I don't hear it at first. He repeats it again, tugging gently on my hair this time. "Move back, Iolanthe. Now."

Quivering, I recoil. "Did I do something wrong—"

Before I can finish, he grips my hand again, using me to work his shaft. As he does, he throws his head back and I'm struck dumb at how rugged, how tortured, how handsome his primal face is. He's lost in the moment, his teeth bared, showing a pair of small upper fangs that match his much larger lower ones. It takes me a moment to realize that he's coming, and then I see a spurt of something into the air. It splatters on his bared thighs, and over my fist, which is still covered by his hand. His cock erupts, overflowing with creamy ropes of what must be his seed, and I'm gasping in shock at the heat of him as he pours over my fingers.

"You," he finally manages with a ragged breath, his face strained, "were magnificent. I just didn't want to come in your mouth and frighten you the first time. Wanted you to see what you were getting into."

Oh. He was going to come into my mouth? With all that? I blink, astonished, because there's a lot of seed coating my hand and his thighs. A great, great deal. Curious, I lift my hand from his and lick a dripping fingertip, and I love the fierce groan he makes as he catches my actions.

It's still not my favorite taste, but oh, I like his response. I like it so much that I lick my fingers again, and I find the taste growing on me. "I thought I'd done something wrong," I confess, feeling sheepish. "You'd tell me if I did?"

"I told you you were perfect and I meant it," Agakor says. He grabs another cushion from the window seat and mops at my hand and his thighs, and I'm mutely horrified at the smears he's leaving on the poor cushion. "What?" he asks, when he catches my expression.

"I'm going to have to ask Turnip to clean that," I stammer. "Won't she know what we're up to?"

He chuckles, and the sound curls pleasantly in my belly. "You think she doesn't know already?"

Oh. Oh. "She does?"

"Aye, and if she's smart, she'll keep her mouth shut." He finishes mopping the worst of it with the poor ruffled pillow, and I use the hem of my innermost chemise to awkwardly help out. Once his thighs and our hands are no longer sticky, he hauls me into his arms and nuzzles at my neck, and I can feel the heat of his bare length pressing against my skirts. "My lovely, hungry bride," he murmurs, and he sounds thrilled. "I love your touch."