Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Harper

Living with Giza was a lesson in how not to be perfect, and it was humbling.

I mean, it wasn't like he did anything wrong. Actually, it was the opposite; he did everything right , while I felt like a bumbling idiot around him.

He would cook dinner; I would trip over my own foot while bringing the pasta to the table.

He would start a conversation about some intellectual pursuit; I would blather and babble for a bit, sounding very much not like a refined young lady who went to freaking law school, for God's sake!

He would do something utterly kind and caring and sweet, like offer to draw me a bath, and I would snap back that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much .

And oh-em-gee, the little flash of hurt that would flash through his dark eyes when I snapped at him like that? The way he would retreat to formality again? I hated it.

I hated myself for causing it.

Yeah, I was pretty much failing this accidental-baby daddy-surprise-roommate thing, wasn't I?

I was awkward and hesitant and constantly second-guessing myself, and honestly? I don't think I could blame most of that on the baby. I mean, I'm going to blame the tripping on him, since I felt like I gained another pound and a half inch around my middle every day. My center of balance was off!

But the other stuff? All me. Being imperfect.

I was confused and irritable and wanted to yell. And cry. And orgasm.

Oh yeah, because that was another big part of living with Giza: the longer I was around him, the more I noticed how good he smelled. Or looked. Or felt .

I remembered why I fell into bed with him in the first place, and how damn good he could make me feel.

Maybe I could blame the baby for my heightened libido. Isn't that something the websites always mentioned? Yeah. Yeah, being pregnant was why I couldn't stop thinking about Giza's mouth on my aching nipples, or his thick cock spearing me from behind, or his tongue…

With a groan, I dropped my forehead against the refrigerator.

"Harper?" He was suddenly at my back, a comforting presence, although he didn't touch me. "Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine," I mumbled, forcing myself to straighten and pull open the door to the fridge. The cold air helped my fiery blush. "What was it you needed? Parmesan?"

"The pickled onions," he prompted, a note of amusement in his voice. "For the salad. "

"Right." Ah, there they were, top shelf, on the right, with the rest of the glass-jarred condiments. I had to admit, Giza's fridge organization was almost identical to mine. "There they are."

I slid them across the counter when he turned to grab them and used the chance to shuffle toward the kitchen island. "What else can I do?"

He glanced up from where he was slicing cucumbers thinly, the unusual blade in his hand flashing darkly. I recognized it from his shop, and assumed it was one of the gargoyle-made ones he sold.

"Can you mix the seasoned vinegar into the rice?" He nodded to the simmering pot on the stove, which emitted a sharp odor. "Use the plastic spoon that's still in the rice, or we'll have a mess. The rice will stick to a wooden spoon."

I really liked the way he was full of interesting information like that and shared it. He wasn't lecturing me or anything, just speaking as if it was common knowledge. It felt like he respected me enough to assume I knew it as well.

So I picked up the plastic spoon. "This one looks like it was made for the rice— whew that is a strong smell!"

The noise he made behind me might've been a laugh, if Giza laughed. "Rice vinegar can be harsh. Do you want me to do it? Is your stomach okay?"

He was thinking of me, and I was blurting out stupid stuff. "No, no." I hurried to mix the seasoning into the rice. "No, this is fine, I was just surprised."

"When I told you I'd make you chirashi , I was hoping you'd be surprised in a good way."

Was that a joke?

I snuck a peek at him. He was still chopping, but his dark gaze flickered my way, and I saw his beard twitch when his lips curled upward. It was a joke !

I snapped my attention back to the rice, trying to hide my reaction to the way he'd looked with that little smile.

Ooooh daddy .

Since the moment I'd discovered the opposite sex, there were a few things I knew for certain:

Big dicks are where it's at.

Older men know what to do with their tongues.

Tattoos might be terrible in the courtroom, but they're hot as hell.

Beards and topknots are… Well, they're the opposite of law firm partners and successful podiatrists like Simon, aren't they?

I don't know what made me think I was going to be able to marry Simon. Well, that's not true, I did know: Mom had decided it was time for me to marry, and I should marry the son of one of her friends. So she shopped around, met Simon, introduced us, and then helped him buy that ridiculous five-carat diamond ring.

I went along with it, because a marriage between a successful law partner and a rich podiatrist? Well, that was just perfect, wasn't it? And I was used to being perfect.

But every time Simon and I were in bed together, I was thinking of someone else.

Someone big and burly and tatted-up. It wasn't anyone specific, just my ideal.

And then I'd seen my sister find love, and realized I didn't want to settle for "the perfect marriage" with Simon, so I dumped him and attended her wedding and got drunk. And bumped into a gorgeous green male with fascinating tattoos, perfect hair, and the kindest eyes .

But Giza in a tux?

Nowhere near as handsome as Giza out of a tux. Or Giza focusing as he plated the chirashi for me. Or Giza holding me as I fell apart, sobbing. Or Giza suckling me until I screamed his name for the third time—

You're doing it again.

Behind me, I heard him clear his throat, and I had the sudden, horrifying thought: Could he somehow guess how turned on I was becoming? I remember reading that orcs' senses were more developed, and he'd smelled the baby in a crowded room so clearly…

Oh God, how embarassing.

If he can tell you're horny, just blame it on his kid .

Yeah, right. That'll go over well.

The only way Giza and I were able to have a decent conversation was because we didn't talk about the child I was carrying. His child.

"Why not go sit down, Harper?" Was his voice a little higher than normal? "I'll bring dinner."

"Probably a good idea," I muttered, happy to take the excuse to go sit still and focus on something besides my pounding pulse or the thought of him licking—

Stop .

The plate landed near me with a clatter, and I looked up to see Giza leaning on the table, fingers spread wide, his head bowed. He was breathing heavily.

I was already reaching for him when I realized what I was doing, and hesitated. "Giza? Are you—?"

"I'm fine," he growled, and yes, that was a growl. With jerky movements, he placed his own plate across from me and slid into his chair. He snapped out his napkin too forcefully to be polite and stared down at his plate. "Do you want chopsticks?"

He was not fine. "No thank you." I could use chopsticks, but I didn't like them with rice. When I was dealing with a food only a few millimeters across, they were less effective. Bring on the spoons, please and thank you. "Giza, what are you—"

"Let's talk about you , Harper," he suddenly declared, jerking his gaze up to mine.

I flinched at the intensity in his dark eyes, and…was that a bit of green, right in the middle? Since when did his eyes glow green? "I…what about?"

He picked up his fork. "What were you thinking about just now? Before I came in?"

I felt myself pale. Oh God, he knows. He knows, doesn't he? He knows you've been thinking of running your hands along those forearms, of holding him as he thrusts into—

His nostrils flared.

Yep, he knew.

My gaze dropped to his forearms, which had been bared when he'd rolled up his sleeves to cook. "Your tattoos," I blurted, grateful for the distraction. "I know you're an artist, but I don't know anything about them. Did you design yours?"

Slowly, Giza seemed to deflate. It wasn't until then that I realized how tense he'd been…but now he relaxed. His finger twirled his fork almost unconsciously as he studied me.

Then he nodded and dropped his attention to his plate. "I did."

"What do they mean?" I dunno how I knew that they did have meaning, and weren't just swirls and patterns.

It took him a long moment, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't revert to the earlier line of questioning. Finally, he exhaled, and I saw a flicker of green from beneath his lashes.

"Each design represents something different. I link them together with borders, but they are completed in sections."

Without thinking, I reached across the table and placed the tip of my index finger on the outside of his left wrist. Giza flinched, but didn't pull away.

I didn't know what that meant.

"What's this one?"

The breath he took was shuddering. He rolled his shoulders, lifted his fork to his mouth and chewed. When he swallowed, he began to speak.

"This was part of the mourning ritual when my grandmother died. I was blessed to know her. My father performed the arappat and the stam'alla , and my brothers and cousins and I all received this design."

I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. "How old were you?" I whispered.

"Nine. I was young for the marks, but from a young age, I've known it would be my duty to hold the memories of our people." He hesitated. "One of my cousins felt the same way, which is why the elders felt they could spare me to come through the veil and educate the humans."

Is that why he'd been chosen to join our world? Because he carried the history and stories of his people? I remembered my sister telling me about a book from the library, written by an anthropologist, whom Giza had helped understand orcish culture.

I had so many questions, but for now… "And the chevrons on your forearm?" I nodded to his left arm since the right forearm was covered in swirls. "Are they mourning as well?"

"Not this one." He gestured to his left arm with his fork. "My father did that one to celebrate my first pullatap —when I took down a bkarn buck by myself."

When had I ceased eating? The food was delicious, but I realized I was content to sit and listen to Giza's guttural tones as he spoke of his home world. "It sounds dangerous."

Was it my imagination, or did his grin look a little proud? Giza was normally so serious that it was a little strange to see him smile like that. I decided I liked it and would do what I could to encourage it.

"It was. I was the first of my brothers to accomplish it."

"And the other?" I pointed to his right arm. "Is that another hunting feat?"

He sobered. "That was the first design I inked on myself. Mourning for my father."

Ah .

I'd heard of mourning tattoos, of course. My father had a simple fishing hook marked on his chest in memory of his own father and their open water adventures together. But Giza's array was…stunning.

I was fascinated.

"How do you do them?" I asked.

And so, as we enjoyed a delicious homemade chirashi , Giza told me of his art.

He explained how he met with his clients ahead of time, often two or three times, not just to consult about the design, but to know them. He ate with them, drank with them, they worked together. He listened to their stories and learned about their pasts.

When he designed the tattoo celebrating or commemorating their lives, he did so knowing the most he could about them and their hearts. I thought it was incredible these people came to him from all over the world, trusting him to make the choices for their bodies.

"It's…it's almost like therapy, isn't it?" I realized.

He paused in the act of sipping his sake, then nodded. "I suppose it is. The gods know I've cried with my clients before as they process through whatever it is. Together, we work out what the most important aspects are to remember." His attention was on his cup as he carefully placed it down on the wooden table, but I doubted he was seeing it. "I suppose that's what's important; a tattoo is a memory in the realest sense, and it's vital each memory is as clear as possible."

"That's incredible," I breathed. "What would you—If you had to design another tattoo for yourself now, what would you remember?"

The green flare in his eyes flashed again as his gaze raked my face, my shoulders, lingered on my breasts, then fell to the bump of my stomach hidden beneath the table. He glanced away. "I don't think I should answer that."

And I had to resist the urge to fan myself with my napkin.

Why in the world would I ask him that? Oh God, come up with something else to say!

"How do you do them?" I blurted. "The tattoos. I mean, do you use modern equipment?"

He seemed almost grateful for the subject change, and shook his head, avoiding my gaze. "It wouldn't be appropriate. I use the kahp and muni ."

When I asked him to explain, he seemed to relax a little more—at least enough to meet my eyes—and became more animated. The two tools sounded primitive to me, but I was glad to hear he used modern sterilization techniques and professional-grade ink.

His movements became more animated as well, and I admit, I loved his passion. I mean, his passion for his work and his art, not the other kind.

Although I liked that passion as well.

Focus on what he's saying! If you start thinking how much you want to kiss him again, he's going to smell your arousal, and you're going to be embarrassed!

But…would it matter?

I was pregnant, for fuck's sake. Pregnant with his baby. I couldn't go two minutes without remembering how I'd gotten pregnant, or what an amazing lover Giza was. I was horny all the time, thanks to the hormones flushing through my system—or maybe thanks to just being in constant contact with Giza.

Time to admit the truth: I wanted him.

And to be fair, it was his fault I was in this position in the first place. How bad would it be if I asked him to help deal with the consequences? He'd said he wanted to take care of me, yeah? So maybe I should ask him to…you know… take care of me .

"Harper?"

I started, realizing I'd been staring at him. "Yeah! This is…wow, Giza. Wow."

He'd frozen, one set of fingers—and their claws—extended downward, with the other hand curled into a fist atop it. "The kahp ," he said, shaking his fist, "represents the hammer Torvar the Strong used to strike the muni— the rake"—he wiggled his claws—"which planted the first trees and vegetation. It's a literal story of the clans' emergence after they were birthed by Malla the Beginner."

I guess religion was enough to drag my attention away from the memory of Giza licking my pussy. My brows rose. "Torvar the Strong? Malla the Beginner? These are the gods you pray to?"

Slowly, Giza lowered his hands, his beard twitching with a frown. "I…grew up with them. They were real to me then."

I shifted in my seat. "And now? "

He was staring at the painting of the tree on the far wall. "These stories…they're a comfort to me."

"Do you believe?"

His gaze slipped back to me. "I've seen so much since I've come to your world. Microorganisms and life-saving technology and the infinite cosmos? How can I believe the people were birthed by the goddess and the land dragged from the oceans by a mighty warrior? How can I believe Palton the Hunter sends the herds, or Markep waters our crops?"

There was a bleakness in his expression I didn't like. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to touch him. Instead, I focused on clearing my place setting. "Perhaps those things can be true in your world. After all, it's up to you to remember, to share those beliefs, right? You can believe in two things at once."

As I watched, a sort of stillness settled over him, and he stared at me as if each piece of himself was focused on me. It was disconcerting. And wonderful.

"I think…" His nostrils flared just slightly as he leaned forward. "I think you must be very wise, Harper O'Donnell."

I felt myself flushing—from his praise? From embarrassment?—so I covered up my awkwardness by pushing away from the table, carrying my plate.

"No, please—" he began, but I was already hurrying to the sink.

"I'm not going to collapse from cleaning the dishes, Giza," I assured him as I bustled back to the table. He was lifting his plate, beginning to stand, when I said, "Here, let me—"

And I made the mistake of placing my hand on his shoulder, as if I could hold him in place .

With a groan, he dropped his plate and cutlery to the table and leaned into my touch.

I'd gone breathless. "Giza?" I wasn't sure what I was asking.

It seemed like a bad time to blurt How would you feel about a night of wild fucking? Again?

He groaned again, swaying away from me. My hand stayed on his shoulder as if it was glued there.

"What is it?" I prompted, praying he'd tell me he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

He didn't. But his voice sounded like a croak when he finally answered. "Sore. I'm just sore. From the couch."

Oh shit . "Oh, Giza." I tightened my hold on his shoulder and moved around behind his chair to place my other hand on his other shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I knew that couch was too small for you!"

"No, it's fine. I want you to be comfor…" His words ended in another groan as I dug into the knotted muscles at the base of his neck. "Gods below, Harper," he groaned.

I hoped that was a good sign.

Even seated, he was tall, and my growing belly made my movements awkward. But I dug my fingers into his muscles and pressed the heel of my palm against his skin.

It wasn't much, but he dropped his head with a little raspy noise of surrender.

"I'm sorry you're sleeping on the couch," I whispered, knowing he'd been doing it for me .

"You need the bed," he grunted, head still bowed as I did my best to rub away the pain in his muscles. "I'm just old."

Is that what he thought? I knew his age. "Forty-seven is not too old ."

He didn't respond for several breaths, and I thought he wasn't going to. "Sometimes it feels ancient. Decrepit. "

I hummed, and without thinking, quipped, "You don't feel ancient," as I dug my thumbs into his firm muscles.

Oh fuck. You're really failing at this subject changing, huh?

Because yeah, I was feeling him, alright.

And damn , he felt good. Taut, hard. I dunno if orcs aged differently than human men, but Giza took care of himself with his home cooking and daily runs. There was nothing decrepit about this male, not at all.

But he merely snorted. "I dunno. I'd think a thirty-two-year-old would consider me a dinosaur."

He remembered my age? I focused on my movements, on the way his muscles moved beneath my ministrations. "I've always been attracted to older men," I confessed. "You're not a dinosaur. You're a…" What was it called? "A silver fox."

The noise he made was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, but he shifted so I'd have a better angle on his neck.

No one had ever accused me of being a good masseuse. Hell, I don't think I'd ever tried . It's not like I'd ever once felt the need to comfort Simon any more than he'd wanted to do something nice for me . But I tried to imagine what would feel good, and I did that for Giza.

I wanted him to feel good.

The realization was…well, it was telling, but also likely tied to my arousal. I wanted him to feel as good as touching him made me feel.

And then I realized I wasn't massaging him anymore so much as stroking him. His skin, his hair. I was touching him, and I wanted more.

Without thinking, I bent down and placed a kiss on the back of his neck, on the skin between his collar and his hairline. The skin I'd just been massaging, just been stroking. It was a light kiss .

It wasn't enough.

I kissed him again, then again, a trail of kisses leading to his ear. I wanted to kiss the pointed tip. I wanted to drag my tongue around the swirls of his inner ear. I wanted to make him feel good .

"Harper." His growl stopped me. I froze with my hands on his shoulders, and my tongue an inch from his ear.

"I think…I can finish the dishes."

It was a bucket of cold water splashing over my hot little libido.

I stumbled backward, away from him, trying to make sense of what was going on with my body—with my mind . I'd been touching him as if I had a right to touch him! This was so much more than the little kiss I'd given him on the beach that first day!

What had I been thinking?

Oooh, I know the answer to that! Pick me! You weren't thinking at all , were you? Your body wanted his, and you were trying to make that happen!

Dammit, I hated when my subconscious was right.

I turned and hurried to the bedroom, slamming the door to the master bath, wondering if I could hide in here for the rest of the night.

For the rest of forever.