CHAPTER 5 — Applejack Breath
STEPHANIE
A glow is peeking around the curtains. It isn’t bright enough to be called daylight, not yet, but it’s rolling in that direction.
I don’t realize what’s woken me until a pair of firm lips press a gentle kiss to my temple, and Roarg murmurs, “You gave me one hell of a birthed day to remember. Keep your sleep, sweet helpmeet.” And his broad hand brushes over my hip before cupping my butt in a markedly possessive fashion my body should probably be ashamed of responding to.
There’s a fine line between horny and hussy, and considering how my hips lift to press my butt deeper against his touch despite the number of times I was receptive to him last night (that would be every time he rose to the occasion), I’m afraid I came revving over the Hussyville County line hours ago.
The mattress dips and stressed ropes squeak as Roarg rises up behind me, leaving the bed. I peer around the room through half-peeped eyes, growing a little more awake as Roarg walks into view, butt naked.
There isn’t a muscle on this Orc’s body that isn’t lovingly carved and shown to perfection as he strides to a wooden dresser and draws out his outfit for the day.
He selects a pair of trousers first and steps into them.
(No underwear—if this and his wives stealing my panties is behavior to go by, Orcs seem to frown on anything but commando.) Since he’s turned enough I can watch him, I do.
In fascination, I stare as his cock—heavy, thick, and stiff—is forced down along his left thigh.
How this man can even get it up after last night and this morning’s marathon is astounding. I’m beginning to see why his three wives were practically delirious to add me to the roster. Dear God, their husband has a crippling sex addiction.
Next is a fresh linen shirt. It’s a shame to cover up those muscles, especially with a fabric that is as loose as this. He should work shirtless, definitely.
Then Roarg’s reaching for a black-dyed leather utility belt that’s draped over the top of the dresser.
A little different than the other belt it’s sitting beside, bigger, clunkier.
It’s all pockets and shiny silver grommets that look loaded with stuff, and he draws it around his slim hips and fastens the two big buckles it takes to keep the whole rig in place.
Roarg looks up as he jerks the leather tongue over the belt’s pins and meets my gaze. “Do you like watching me dress, my kwa?ara?”
Caught off guard, I blush all the way to my roots.
Roarg smiles devilishly at me and strides over, taking my face in his hand just like he did so many times last night. He really likes to stare into my eyes, and he does it now as he smiles at me. “I’ll tell you a secret: I like it.”
My cheeks are going to combust in actual fire and the area between my legs is waking up to throbbing life—and not entirely the sort of throbbing one wants to experience when a beautiful man is looking at them the way Roarg is looking at me.
Because as much as I’d love to take advantage of the concupiscent gaze he’s bestowing on me, I can’t.
It feels like I got nailed by a railroad tie all night long.
I’ll be lucky if I can walk without yelping as it is.
I change the subject like my life—pussy—depends on it. “What does kwagarra mean?”
Roarg’s smile softens and he draws his big fingers through my hair, combing out my tangles with surprising gentleness.
“Every wife is a treasure. A fourth wife though, a kwa?ara, she’s a priceless bounty.
When a man requires only one helpmeet, to have four is to have unspeakable wealth.
So your sweet-call name means my unspeakable wealth. ”
My lashes flutter, something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. “Oh.”
With a smooth deliberation that makes my insides clench, Roarg keeps his gaze locked to mine as he slowly wraps his fist in my hair and drags me up to meet his lips.
Abruptly, I pull away, jerking my hand up between us to cover my mouth.
Roarg leans back a little, surprised. “Stephanie?”
“Sorry, just… whatever I was drinking last night? I can taste it this morning. My mouth tastes like something furry and sad crawled up and died in it.”
Without a word, he jerks me to him by my hair and takes my mouth with enough force to make my knees weak.
My abused nether region questions if walking today is really necessary after all. Because if it isn’t—
Roarg pulls away slowly, and unwinds my hair from his thick wrist, his gaze piercing mine not with a challenge—no, that was met when he went in for a kiss heedless of my warning.
He’s staring at me hotly and with promise.
He declares, “You do not taste as if something has crawled past your sweet lips and died.” His gaze turns amused. “You taste like applejack... and me.”
Before I can be lit up by the fire of my blush, he holds my head still by cupping me between both his big hands and dips in to press a possessive kiss to my mouth, softly this time. “Roll over,” he murmurs, and I roll to my back with the obedience of a collie.
He rewards me by sliding one of his hands down my throat, lighting me up when he holds me there for the barest second before he dives under the covers, and gently begins caressing my breasts, giving each one a proprietorial squeeze.
Not done, he slides his touch over my belly, making me gasp when he finds and firmly cups my mound, two long fingers curling, slipping between my closed thighs.
He draws back from my mouth to whisper, “Open for me, kwa?ara.”
My knees part, spreading me open enough he can tickle my clit. A second ago, I would have said I felt bruised even here—but now I just feel starved.
Roarg seems to know. He draws his hand out to lick his thumb, then glides right back where we both want him to be.
He teases me at first, brushing my nub back and forth with only the barest pressure, making my breathing hitch and grow faster.
Soon, I’m lunging up to kiss him harder, and he’s stroking, stroking, touching me and murmuring that I’m pretty, that I smell good in the morning—warm and sweet and too tempting to leave alone, just like a man’s unspeakable wealth should.
I come for him.
He caresses me softer and softer, and when I’m mostly recovered, he releases a pleased growl, kisses me a final, fierce time, and leaves the room.
I’m still getting my breath back when I hear the distant strike of a hammer as the man who claims to be (and who made me claim he’s) my husband begins his workday in the forge.
***
Despite the fact that Roarg was conscientious enough not to finish inside me any of the times he took me last night (and any of the times when he climbed on top of me in the wee hours this morning), I still have a desperate need for cleanup when I rise from the bed…
And I only have a small washbasin and pitcher to do it in.
Oh, sure, there’s the copper tub in the bathroom near Roarg’s room, but with no running water in the house, I’d have to dress, sticky with cum, and ask for water—heated water no less—in order to enjoy a bath.
Or I can suck it up and do preliminary washing in a tiny bowl and then dress.
The pitcher’s water is at least warm, thanks to Namak?ga, who knocked and set it inside the room shortly after Roarg left.
I pull out the chamber pot Roarg showed me last night, which stows under his bed, convenient as you please.
Yes, I’m being sarcastic, but that was exactly the phrase Roarg used when he proudly showed me that I don’t have to leave his room to piss.
Having already used it once, I’m careful not to slosh it onto the floor as I position it between my ankles.
With a sigh, I squat over it, an endeavor I enjoy just as much this morning as I did last night—except for some lovely stinging when I pee.
“Yay for micro tears,” I hiss through gritted teeth. Stiffly, I stand, eyes squinching shut, feeling like I bounced on an extra-large cucumber all night long.
Grimacing, I dress in yesterday’s clothes—which are pretty clean, because I barely wore them before Roarg got home and promptly peeled me out of them—and I hobble out of the room to find the lady Orcs in the kitchen, quietly tending to two sleepy Orc kids, and Namak?ga is sewing by a window, using it for light.
But when the women Orcs see me enter, their faces light up, there are fang-filled grins all around, and they start clapping.
“Look at her limp!” Joktepitha cackles.
“I am so proud of you,” Namak?ga crows.
Even Ulda is smiling. “I’ve never heard him roar so loud. You must have turned his stones inside out last night.”
I cover my face. “Please stop talking about this!” I drop my hands and make a horrified face. “There are Orc babies present! What’s wrong with you people?”
The kitchen door opens, and everybody turns to find the topic of our inappropriate conversation casting a huge silhouette limned with soft morning sunlight.
He’s wearing sooty leather gloves that reach up his thickly muscled arms, and a sparkling sheen of sweat turns his velvety emerald skin glossy. His hooded eyes meet mine, and then he looks around knowingly at his wives. “Ulda, my sweet-tasting heart,” he rumbles.
She’s wearing a mildly curious Opkug on her hip, and Ulda herself is cracking an amused smile as she moves across the kitchen to Roarg—who drops seven silver rings clinking into her open raised palm.
All three Orc wives gape in shock.
Roarg reaches out, catches Ulda by her braid, and hauls her to his face for a kiss. When he pulls away, he looks at Namak?ga. “Namak?ga, my delightful biting vixen.” Then he looks at Joktepitha. “Joktepitha, my deadly bride.”
And then he looks at me. “Stephanie, who screams my name so lustily.”