Chapter Five #4
As the night deepened and temperatures dropped, Andre snuggled against Farigoth, sighing when a big arm wrapped around him.
He soaked up Farigoth’s warmth, his intoxicating scent.
If only he spent the nights with Andre in the tent.
His big body would keep him warm. But it wasn’t going to happen.
Until their mating ceremony, Andre would sleep alone.
He was a guest of the orcs, and he’d have to respect their customs.
When they returned to their tent for the night, Farigoth moved the flap aside for Andre. “I’m sorry I have not taken proper care of you.”
“No, you—”
“You have been cold at night, have you not?” Farigoth’s voice was stern.
Avoiding the question seemed like a bad idea. “It has been chilly,” Andre said truthfully, giving a little shrug. It wasn’t Farigoth’s fault. He was just upholding tradition. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” Farigoth growled and ducked into the tent after Andre, who, surprised, staggered back and stumbled. His heel caught on a pelt, and he fell, landing among the furs. He stared up at Farigoth, who had to stoop, the tent too small for him to stand upright. He towered over Andre.
“What…”
“I cannot allow you to be cold for another night.”
“But orc tradition—”
Farigoth grunted. “My mate being warm and comfortable is more important.” He crowded into the tent.
Andre shuffled backward, pushing against the far end to create space.
It made no difference. Farigoth filled the tent.
Andre was tiny in comparison. “It’s fine as long as you don’t give me permission to mate you—the tribe would smell it. That, we must save for the ceremony.”
Andre nodded. That was easy. It wasn’t like they were going to mate.
Farigoth stretched out on his side and pulled Andre against him. “You will not be cold tonight. I won’t let you become sick.”
With their bodies shoved together, Farigoth’s heat overwhelmed him. After a minute, Andre was sweating and had to shrug off his fur cloak.
Farigoth chuckled. “Now you are warm.” He ran a hand down Andre’s spine, making him quake.
Andre pressed his nose to Farigoth’s chest. “You smell good.” The closer he was to Farigoth, the more inhibitions he lost. It should’ve worried him, but he’d never felt safer than in his embrace.
He was valuable to Farigoth, who was more than capable of protecting him.
The orcs’ liberal approach to sexuality both terrified and excited him.
Andre inhaled, pure power and masculinity penetrating him. He’d been hard before, but that was nothing compared to the iron rod he was now sporting. Without thinking, he rolled his hips, grinding his scantily clad erection into Farigoth.
Farigoth growled, the low sound vibrating through Andre.
He froze. Oh no. He hadn’t intended to rub himself on Farigoth.
“I’m sorry.” Andre’s voice was small. He didn’t shuffle away though as he should have.
Farigoth stroked his back, soothing him. “It’s natural for a mate to lose control in the presence of an orc. Don’t worry. I can smell your need is high. It is normal. You want to be mated and bred, and your body does not understand that it isn’t time yet.”
Farigoth made it sound simple, like it was an instinct Andre had no control over and could not be blamed for.
And wasn’t that the truth? Valians, especially the nobility, kept a facade of modesty, but Andre knew what lay beneath it.
Lord Aranin was ravenous for his husband.
Resh and Master George knew no shame. Lord Dalton and Lilian might appear chaste, but Andre had heard what the washerman had to say about their bedsheets.
All those men, himself included, were overflowing with lust in a culture that sought to smother it.
That the orcs were so different should’ve felt liberating, but a lifetime of sexual repression had left its mark on Andre.
And yet, being so close to Farigoth in the privacy of their tent aroused him beyond belief.
His fingers itched to touch Farigoth. As soon as the thought crossed Andre’s mind, the urge overpowered him.
He couldn’t help placing a hand on Farigoth’s abdomen.
It wouldn’t lead to anything, he told himself.
Farigoth let out a low rumble, and Andre dragged his hand upward, feeling the powerful ripples of Farigoth’s stomach, the hardness of his muscles. He petted his chest, quietly moaning when he cupped a thick pec, that big nipple ring pressing into his palm.
“So needy,” Farigoth muttered. It sounded like a compliment.
Desire pulsed between Andre’s legs. His cock was hard, his hole empty.
He was putty in Farigoth’s hands, docile and pliable, eager for every scrap of attention.
It’d be so easy for Farigoth to tease him to orgasm.
With his powerful scent and mighty presence, what had been an insurmountable obstacle for human men would fall into Farigoth’s lap.
Andre’s body would open to him like a flower, confessing his devotion in the most intimate way as he spilled for his master.
Not yet. He couldn’t have that yet.
It didn’t stop his body from taking over, his hips from rocking against Farigoth, chasing friction and satisfaction.
Farigoth gave the good-natured laugh of a man whose misbehaving dog was too cute to punish. He allowed Andre a few seconds of bliss before pushing him onto his back, pinning him down.
“Do I have to tie you up?”
Andre’s insides tightened, squeezing a drop of pleasure from him. He needed something inside him. Every part of him was screaming for Farigoth to claim and fill him, satisfying a hunger no man had been able to meet.
“I’ll be good,” Andre said, cheeks glowing. Hot and panting, he let himself be held down, basking in Farigoth’s power over him. Farigoth could do anything he wanted.
“Sleep now, my sweet human.”
Peace swept over Andre, and he let his muscles go slack. It took but a moment for his eyelids to drop. He placed his hand on top of Farigoth’s where it rested on his chest, and before he knew it, he’d drifted off.
As the horde progressed south, temperatures rose.
They crossed the Great River and traveled deep into the Turian lands, where flowers and trees stood in full bloom.
The southern landscape was littered with overgrown temple ruins and cypress groves, the remnants of once grand estates crowning distant hills.
But nothing could’ve prepared Andre for the splendor of Turia, the crumbling capital of the old empire.
White marble statues lined the bridge that arched across the largest moat Andre had ever seen.
The boggy water stretched for miles on either side, and so did the city walls beyond.
The clopping of hooves on the old road mixed with the men’s astonished murmur.
Across the bridge, a monumental gate welcomed travelers, classical columns carrying a finely crafted pediment from which a lion head overlooked the approach.
The forest was reclaiming the stone, ivy crawling up pillars, roots snaking over the city walls.
Beyond them, Andre found trees instead of houses, any wooden structures having rotted away in the decades since the Turians had fled.
Stone archways and lost temples dotted the vegetation.
The orcs pressed on, leading the men down a well-trodden path.
The sounds came first—rumbling words spoken in melodious Oordoon, the clanking noise of hammer and anvil, the crunching of leaves under wheels.
Then, the forest gave way to the sprawling heart of the city, a dense cluster of lichen-covered buildings, ferns and trees sprouting wherever they could.
This had to have been the most affluent quarter of Turia, houses built from stone, not wood, surviving the ravages of time.
Orcs thronged through the streets, occupied with their daily grind. Nostrils twitched as they picked up the men’s scent, the tribe watching with rapt attention as Farigoth and his troops passed with their mates.
The guards closed their ranks around Andre, who sat straight-backed, allowing Chestnut to pick his own way across the worn cobblestones. The crowd thickened as the train progressed through the city, guards pushing the horde to the sides to let the chief pass.
Eventually, the street ended in a square of mind-boggling proportions.
Temples, tall and broad, carried by stately columns adorned with acanthus leaves, mixed with grand palatial buildings guarded by grim-faced warriors.
Moss grew in shadowy corners, vines drooped from roofs, and tufts of grass were shooting up between cobblestones.
The orcs might’ve taken possession of Turia, but they had not driven out the forest. Hailing from distant jungles, they were used to living among the greenery, plants encroaching on their living space an occurrence as ordinary as birdsong.
It struck Andre that the orcs, for all their warfare and carnality, had a closer relationship with nature than humans. Had they not been so different physically, he would’ve thought them reminiscent of the elves.
Eric dismounted first, handing the reins to one of the city guards.
Andre got off his horse. “Will you show me where the stables are?” he asked the guard.
The orc grumbled an unintelligible response. Farigoth barked a rebuke that sent the guard falling to his knees, pressing his brow to the dusty ground.
“Forgive me, High Mate,” he stuttered, “I meant no offense. Of course I will show you to the stables.”
Bemused, Andre trailed after him to an airy outbuilding, the nicker of horses audible from afar. He handed over Chestnut, assuring himself that he was well taken care of before following Farigoth across the main square to one of the palatial buildings.