31
DATHOR MUTTERED TO her that they had to go and speak to Igbar before they left, and that the orc was not going to be pleased with him for outing his behavior to his master.
But when they went to speak to the other orc, who was in the company of Taktre, the two orcs who spoke to Dathor did not seem angry at all, but rather excited.
They smiled a lot, laughed at several things he said, and both of them shook Dathor’s hand.
Igbar gripped Dathor’s elbow at the same time.
The three orcs looked cozy and pleased with themselves.
When Dathor returned to her, he was smiling.
“That went better than I had expected. They’ve been waiting for this revolt for some time.
They tell me there are orcs all up and down the Silvarenna, many of whom work in the mines, who would be happy to be of assistance, and that is something I am going to keep in mind. ”
He helped her up on the horse, settled in behind her, and the minute his body was seated against hers, she felt his erection grow.
They rode back that way, his hardness nestled in against the swell of her backside, his arm banded around her waist, holding her tightly against him, and she could not help but think of the way it had felt to be taken by him, to have been stretched and crammed full of him, the memory of the way his rhythm had felt as he rocked his cock in and out of her body.
It was odd, because when she’d been younger, she had thought that having him inside her was going to be the pinnacle of her experience, and it wasn’t, at least, it didn’t feel as good as having his fingers or mouth on her clitoris.
However, there was something powerful and intense about it, the joining of the two of them, the way her body was made to accommodate him, made with an opening for him to settle into and to find his pleasure in.
In a way, it could be looked as if she was made—women were made—for his pleasure—for men’s pleasure.
But she also thought it was power. Women were made with something men wanted. It made them vulnerable in one way, vulnerable to having it taken, but also it meant that it was something that women could hold over men, something they could entice with.
It was all complicated and strange, she could see, but it explained nearly everything about the way men and women interacted, and she could see that it could be a very good thing or it could be the worst of evils.
It was funny how everything was like that in the end.
How the Peak was set upon a cliff that could be the sweetest and most beautiful of landscapes or it could be ravaged by the worst of destructive storms.
How the keep itself had been their torture chamber and their safe haven.
How she both hated and loved the people who were the closest to her.
How Dathor had hurt her worse than anyone on earth (and she had hurt him) and how their love was the strongest thing she knew.
Everything was a bundle of opposites.
Maybe it was another reason not to begrudge Elrion his contradictions.
There were no heroes. There were no villains.
This war was neither right nor wrong.
And yet, she knew, with a conviction she could not explain, that it must happen, that just like the storms that raged across the Silvarenna’s mountains, that just like the tracks that were being lain all over the country, that some things were inevitable.
And orc oppression would end.
There was no other side to choose.
DATHOR FUCKED HER in the carriage, and he felt it like triumph.
She had packed a trunk, and he half-listened to her as she spent the first ten minutes of the journey going on about how she did not think she had packed the dresses correctly, that they were all going to be wrinkled, and that she did not think she could even put the dresses on without a maid, that she would need assistance to get dressed.
Finally, to silence her, he said that he was adept at getting her out of her clothes, so he could certainly get her into them.
And she gave him a look, such a look, and he pulled her across the carriage, into his lap, and lifted her skirts. She moaned when he touched her and said she had been wet for him during the whole horse ride back from Thelandel Chapel, that she had felt his cock rubbing her the entire time.
He was mad for her, too mad to wait.
He freed himself and made her straddle him and slipped into her wet heat, and he barely lasted any time at all.
He nearly came inside her. He barely got himself out before that happened.
She snuggled in against his broad chest, her skirts askew. “It was tidier when you were finishing in my mouth all the time.”
He laughed. “That can be arranged. You can swallow me any time you like.”
She hummed. “All right. I’m a bit sore, anyway, so next time?”
“Sore?” He was ashamed of himself, but part of him liked the idea of it, liked that he’d been at her so many times with his thick, huge member that he’d affected her in that way.
The idea she’d be snuggled in against his chest like this, still affectionate with him, happy enough to endure some discomfort to allow him to have pleasure in using her body, that…
that was a heady sort of feeling. But he did not wish her to be in pain.
“You’ll stop me the next time if it’s even a little bit painful, Aerhril. That’s an order.”
She sighed. “Well, it’s sort of a nice soreness.”
His voice was a rasp. “What does that mean?”
She let out a little laugh. “I don’t know. I love you, I suppose, that’s all.”
“Oh, Aerhril, I love you, too. I’m out of my head for you.”
“I know.” She kissed him. “And you did not even attempt to bring me, you know, you selfish brute.” She took his hand and guided it between her thighs.
“I am ever so sorry,” he said, and he was.
He was embarrassed to have been preoccupied, in fact, but he had gotten her off that morning and walked around all day without a release.
He teased her tiny clitoris until it spasmed against his fingers and he held her tightly against him, and she babbled out that she liked his thick orc fingers and she called him ‘husband’ again.
He liked it. He felt a tenderness rise towards her, and he had not thought he could feel more attached to her, truly, but there was something incredibly powerful about her small form in his lap, his fingers on her most secret place, and her finding his orcness arousing, and her finding the idea of being married to him arousing.
However, another part of him tightened at the idea of it, and he didn’t know what to do about that, though, because it aroused him, too.
He was aroused at her elfness, at her softness, her smallness, the juxtaposition of them as opposites. She’d been turned down by Elrion because she’d been sullied by an orc, but it aroused Dathor to think he was sullying her.
Even as it throbbed somewhere else, for this joining between them, clearly as natural and perfect as the sun rising, as right and true as a stream tumbling through the spring grasses, was not sullying. It wasn’t filthy. Just because he was an orc, he wasn’t tainting her.
So, some part of it hurt.
But some part of it made him ever so hard and eager.
He had urged her to say it.
He knew that it was partly so arousing to think of them as husband and wife because it was forbidden.
Things between them, they were complicated. Maybe they always would be.
Maybe that was why he let her rest and then he put his mouth between her thighs and licked her this way and that way and made her come on his tongue, made her wet and slick and ready for him, and then he whispered, “You can take me, can’t you, sweet elf wife?
You can take me again. It’s a good soreness, is that not what you said? ”
And she agreed, sighing, and she did take him, and what was more, she acquiesced to letting him finish in her mouth, and she swallowed his seed away, keeping it “tidy.”
But he knew he hurt her.
He knew and he did it anyway.