Page 27 of Stolen Hours

“To help us get pregnant?” she suggested gently. “To keep your, um—Wow, we’re going to have to get better at using certain words, Ian. We’re going to be married people soon.”

“I just made my vows. I’m a married man right now,” he grunted, kissing her hard. “Fine, as the husband, I have to be the bravest and boldest.” He looked somber, puffing his chest out as if ready to go to war—and then curled close to her, keeping her hand on his member, daring to guide it under the kilt so that she caressed his bare skin. “It’s to keep my cock in your puss, love, so that the seed takes hold.”

“Ohhh. Oh, that’s this part?” Farrah let her hand wander, getting more and more comfortable as she perceived Ian’s enjoyment. At the moment, it was wrapping around the hard bulge at the base, a thick apple of flesh.

“Farrah, easy... You’ll start something we can’t finish.”

“Who says we can’t finish?” Farrah chuckled, hand gentle, but surprisingly sure.

“I wanted everything to be perfect for you.”

“I’m with you, my heart’s desire. What’s more perfect?” Farrah nuzzled in under his strong chin and kept her hand busy, stroking up and down, faintly alarmed at how big he was, but also quietly confident that when she needed it, magic would be her friend.

IAN WAS FLUMMOXED,but pleased. He’d thought Farrah would be much more nervous, much more delicate, and needing to be led. Human women weren’t the same as Orc maidens; that’s all his elder brother (married to an Orc from the Bogchurch clan) had warned him of before reminding him to read the works of Ultarn the Prolific.

Ultarn the Prolific wrote a guide to marriage and all things related to bedrooms and bairns, which was a staple for all male Orcs of marrying age, at least the ones in Ian’s clan. He’d read it, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to read about the sweet pleasures he might never experience when he hadn’t had a girl in his life, and since finding Farrah, he’d spent every waking moment thinking about her, preparing for their wedding, their new life, and his move across the ocean. Now the pages he’d skimmed seemed to taunt him. Yes, he’d planned to read more and ask a few more questions (hopefully of Finlay, now that he was back from his honeymoon), but that was because he’d counted on waiting for their wedding night, as he thought Farrah would want.

She was leading things, which was lovely, and arousing in ways he’d never imagined, but it wasn’t fair. He was supposed to do his bit—and his bit had to be more than hers. As her hand had already ascertained, there was no need to “prepare” him. He was hard and ready, like a battering ram.

But the thought of his cock battering away at Farrah’s sweet little cunny made him nauseous with worry. What if he broke something?

“Do you want to be inside?” Farrah’s sweet whisper almost made him lose control.

“More than anything, love, I just don’t want to hurt you getting myself situated,” he confessed.

Farrah was silent for a second. Then, she laughed, that rustling wind-in-the-grass breathy chuckle that he knew was just for him, and that he had come to love more than any sound in nature in just a few weeks. “I was asking if you wanted to be inside the house? Or even if you want to wait,we can.”

“I don’t think I’m as skilled as you deserve,” he admitted, and he hated admitting any shortcoming to his bride.

“Ian, we’re not unskilled. We’re exploring. Everything with you feels good, and isn’t that all that matters? You’ll never hurt me, and I’ll always tell you what I want. I trust you, so I can. I think a lot of women don’t have husbands like you. I’m the luckiest woman on Earth,” Farrah soothed, kissing him, sliding her little tongue against his larger one, her slender jaw hugged by his tusks.

And it seemed so easy then, to keep hugging her, to keep possessing her like this, caged in his tusks, in his arms, and feeling her clinging back against him, her hand lovingly massaging his hardness, her long leg over his outer thigh until he could feel the damp heat of her sex pressed to him.

“My beautiful Farrah. Don’t even know a proper pet name for ye, darling, with how beautiful you are, and how much I love you, more than any other thing I’ve ever seen, more than any other thing I thought I knew.”

“Ian... Ian, I love you the same way,” Farrah’s whisper turned into a moan when he dared to stroke the hot, wet spot under her panties, his fingers slipping under the fabric when her hips thrust forward. “Oh, yes,” she breathed out, voice low and hungry. “Touch me there.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. His thick, smooth fingers went to work, exploring as slowly as he could force himself to go, barely keeping his eagerness in check.

So soft. So slick. His fingers stroked up and down, learning her layers before settling into a more thorough exploration of the hard little button on top, hidden by curls the color of sun-bleached wheat. Farrah’s voice was his guide, a siren’s song, telling him he was doing the right thing as he pressed down and around, learning the circular motion she preferred. But that siren’s song couldn’t be refused, and it led him to the lips, telling him that if he really wanted to hear his bridecrying out in pleasure, he needed to taste her. Open her. Drink from her until she was literally making sweet rivers of juice for him to lap up.

He kissed his way south, sad to pry his cock from her warm fingers, but excited to explore, to please her.

“Ian—”

“What a gorgeous girl I have. So lovely and pink, and looking so tempting,” Ian shushed the faint note of caution in her voice as he knelt between her legs just long enough to slide her underwear off and pin her skirts up. He undid his kilt with only a minor flash of worry about what Farrah would say, or if anyone might discover them. He used the long yards of fabric (an Orc’s kilt being 30 feet instead of the human’s standard twenty-four) to extend their outdoor bed and lay himself down between her legs, nuzzling her soft inner thighs and sighing as he found a new favorite pillow.

“You’re so gorgeous, Ian. Beautiful. Your skin... It’s my new favorite shade. And I’ve always... I always felt better surrounded by green. My parents said it was the magic in me, the love of woodlore and herbcraft. That I belonged in a glen or a garden. I think I belong with you.”

“And I belong with you,” Ian assured her, rising up on one elbow, fingers stroking and teasing through her curls and down to her cheeks, stroking her outer lips lovingly. “And you’ll not just be surrounded by green, but full of it.”

“God, yes. Soon, please,” Farrah agreed.

He had to admit that the biggest boost to his confidence was the way she opened up to him easily, all while looking hungrily at him, as though she was excited, not nervous.

Any lingering nerves on his part took a little holiday. He bowed his head and nuzzled his lips into her curls, nose working in deep, silent inhales of her scent, a rich, sweet forbidden scent that was no longer forbidden.

This is my mate. My bride. My cup to drink from and fill. Ian let out a low, satisfied chuckle and dipped his head between her legs, tongue dancing, and tusks pressing her outer lips.