6. Rok’nhar

SIX

I feel damngood this morning. Shoulders looser than they've been in fucking years. Slept better than I have in fucking years, that's for sure, because I'm not groaning and cursing as I roll out of my bed and stretch—my empty bed.

Ice floods my veins and then I'm looking around for any sign that it wasn't all a fucking dream, that I'd actually had that sweet sunbeam snuggled next to me all night long, that she'd planted a little kiss on my nose and scuttled off before the sun started shining through my blinds and not just been a figment of my imagination.

Turns out I don't need to look much farther than the end of my nose for proof, don't need to look at all, actually…

I can smell her.

The scent of her cunt lingers like a fine perfume, sharp and sweet, with a tang of citrus and salt. But underneath all that, her. All over my face, my fingers, my sheets… everywhere.

I smile; least I didn't dream it all up.

But godsdamn, I need to shower. Part of me just wants to bask in her all day, but I don't know if I have the strength for it. I feel fucking fantastic overall, but no denying that my prick feels beat to hell and I'm pretty sure there's nothing but a lone dusty soldier swimming in my sac, wondering where all his friends ran off to in such a hurry. Haven't jacked off that much since I first discovered I could, and then to end the night the way we did? With her hands gripped around me, those sweet little lips wrapped around the tip of my prick, my seed spilling out the sides of her mouth and getting all over that barely there nightdress before she tore it off and gave me a taste of true divinity...

Fuck, my pricks getting hard and I'm getting lightheaded—definitely dehydrated. Guess it's gonna be a cold shower this morning.

The light in my bathroom flickers for a second before it turns on—damn cheap apartment—and then I'm stuck, staring at myself in the mirror. A loopy lavender scrawl that could only belong to Orlagh runs right across the reflection of my own dumbstruck mug.

Well, guess I'm never gonna clean my mirror. I keep my place pretty tidy, but I'm leaving that lipstick there and those sheets on my bed.

At least for now.

I manage to make it through my ice-cold shower without jacking off or passing out, and then make a beeline for my kitchen.

Breakfast is a quick, lazy affair; big bowl of granola and yogurt, four pieces of sourdough toast slathered in pineapple marmalade, and half a leftover chicken. Oh, plus a glass of orange juice the size of my head and a big mug of steeped nettles to wash it all down. I'm sitting at the kitchen counter as I eat, spoon dangling from one hand and a chicken thigh in the other, staring at the glass she used last night and wondering how soon is too soon to text her.

Fuck it. She left me her number and I'm gonna fucking use it. I drop the spoon and thigh, wiping my hands on one of the ochre cloth napkins from the set Mama'd sent me a few namedays ago.

Rok'nhar

I can do texting.

I'm elbow deep in dishes when my phone vibrates. My heart's in my throat as I watch it clitter and clatter against the kitchen counter, stomach full of faerie dust as I force myself to finish up the task at hand. I soap up my breakfast bowl and rush through the rest of my dishes, butterflies banging around in my insides as I wipe down the counter until finally I'm darting around the kitchen island to grab my phone.

Orlagh

I was hoping you'd say that.

Our list of can-do's is getting pretty long, isn't it?

Smile breaks across my face and I run my tongue across my lips, worrying my tusks while I think about all those can-do's we ironed out on the couch last night.

And in the shower.

And in my bed.

Honestly, I'm trying to think of something she'd ask that I wouldn't agree to. Especially if she was looking up at me with those violet eyes all liquid, running her hand down my chest, toying with the waistband of my pants. Pretty sure I'd rip out one of these tusks and hand it right over to her, no questions asked.

My fingers hover over the screen mid-reply, conflicted in how open I should be about the way I'm feeling. I throw myself down on my couch because I can hear Haf in my head giving me the business, telling me to play it cool, just like he'd done many times before, and even as recently as last month.

"You gotta make em wait," he'd said, shaking his head as he sprawled across my couch with one leg thrown over the arm, shoving half his footlong sub into his mouth and not even bothering to finish chewing and swallowing while he berated me. The amount of food that orc consumes puts even me to shame, but Haf's been blessed with the metabolism of a teenaged werecat and spends what time he isn't out playing the field in the gym. "That's your problem, Rok. Too eager. I swear they can smell it, just like we can smell their pussies getting wet."

"I'm not eager, man, I'm just…" One meatball had rolled out of my sub and onto the wrapper, and I'd poked at it while trying to find my words.

"Desperate?"

"No, asshole."

That same meatball hit Haf square on that proud, strong chin of his with a wet thwack before rolling across the floor. Stain's still visible on the carpet, but just barely, and that pissy little shriek he'd made when it found purchase was worth it.

"I'm just not into that, Haf. Those games. Why would I want to pussyfoot around? If I feel something, I'm saying it. Mama always said, hold your cards too close and the game might be over by the time you're ready to lay ‘em out, might let destiny flit on by you."

Haf shook his head emphatically, draining his soda noisily as he wiped his chin, already reaching for mine. "No, no. Bless your mama, Rok, but no. That's female shit they think but don't mean, right? Hang on to your cards and you make ‘em nervous, make ‘em drop what they got, and then you get to see if the game's even worth playing. And destiny… you mean a mate? That's just old school boarshit, Rok."

"That's some real orc shit, and you'd know that if you'd grown up in a place like Brok'hal instead of the big bad city. But your line of reasoning? That's what sounds like some boarshit to me, Haf."

"Oh yeah? Well, beg your fucking pardon, but I'm not the one who hasn't gotten fucked proper in well over a year—I'm the one who's had his dick in a different pussy every night this week."

I'd thrown my wadded up sandwich wrapper at him as I got up, laughing despite myself. "You belong in a fucking barn, Haf. I don't wanna hear about your dick or the poor fucking souls you subject to it. Stop fuckin' and sharing like you aren't a damn adult. Besides, what about after?"

His heavy brows knitted together in confusion as he chewed. "After I come?"

"Fucking hells, Haf," I laugh, "is that all you ever think of? Believe it or not, the world don't revolve around your prick."

"Debatable."

"What I mean is, you're gonna ghost that poor girl and go home alone. And that may be what you want, but… it ain't what I want. I want something real, something honest. Something that sticks. A mate, if I can find her."

He'd thrown the wrapper back at me after that, then pulled up his phone and followed me around the apartment, trying to show me all the nudes he'd collected throughout the week like the fucking blockhead he is. I'd given him quite the earful, reminding him that showing off private pictures like that was both in poor taste and not shit I was about to tolerate in my own home. Haf grumbled a half-assed apology, giving me hell for buying that little cat bed and cutting up that meatball to leave out on the balcony. We'd sat and talked a while longer, him turning the conversation back to me needing to get out there and build up my own line of hopefuls, pleading his case on the single life until I agreed to go out to Club Fantasy with him over the weekend—and good thing I did, otherwise he would have gotten his ass handed to him by a minotaur—but he and I both knew I'd never see things his way, that I didn't want my life to look like his.

We'd headed to pickup bloodball after lunch like we did the third Friday of every month, and I'd given him a lesson on show muscles versus real muscles like I do on the third Friday of every month. He may look the part of a big, tough, picturesque orc, but I'm the one who'd win an old-fashioned clan battle and we both fucking know it.

I sigh, staring at the little blinking cursor on my screen.

Honesty.

Rok'nhar

And here I was thinking that list wasn't long enough.

That's still casual and flirty, right? Took everything I had not to ask her to let me spend the rest of my days cooking her dinner, buying her flowers, massaging her teeny feet, licking her pretty little cunt. See how she'd feel about trekking down south and kneeling before the mating stone together while our families all sniffled and smiled behind us.

Am I crazy? I don't think I am. Truth is… I ain't hard to get, never have been. And I sure as hell never would be for a goddess like the elf next door.

Orlagh

Well, that's good, because Zoya's fans want more of you ASAP.

I've been getting flooded with questions about your next appearance on my stream my entire shift so far.

My phone won't stop buzzing!

I frown to myself, coffee table creaking as I kick up my feet next to the headset and controller I had happily abandoned last night, brushing aside the urge to put them back where they belong as I reread her messages.

Was I misreading things?

I thought all that happened after the camera turned off was strictly personal, especially after that bullshit with her ex, but… Was all that last night just business? It had felt real, real fucking personal to me, but… hell. Now I've got Haf in my head, telling me how I wouldn't know a good thing if it landed square on my prick, how I reek of desperation to every female I try to get close to, how I'm hamstringing myself before the race even starts because I've got too many feelings for a grown-ass orc and I'm too hung up on old schoolboarshit.

Maybe… maybe I should pull back, just a touch. I don't want to lie to Orlagh or nothing, but I don't want to scare her off, either. I really, really like her. But if she isn't my mate… can I live with that? Can I forget about a lifetime of dreams, forget about finding that string of fate tying me to somebody out there just because I've been dreamin' about those violet eyes for two years?

Right now, right here, with the scent of her still lingering in the air and driving me half fucking mad? I think maybe I could. I think I want her more than anything I've ever wanted in my whole godsdamn life—more than a true mate, more than a union hand-picked by the old gods and sanctified at the stone.

Rok'nhar

That so?

I toss my phone down on the couch next to me and take up the controller, planning to distract myself when my phone buzzes again, almost immediately.

Orlagh

Oh yeah, big time.

Seems like the only thing my fans want more than Zoya is you, and I can't say I blame them.

Godsdamn. Well, that—she's being flirty now, isn't she? I can't be imagining things.

Can I?

No. No, damn it, I'm not.

Last night wasn't about Zoya and whatever the hell I'm gonna call my one-eyed alter ego—that was about Orlagh and Rok, us.

Wasn't it?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I'm so confused, and I don't want to fuck anything up. But I can't start pulling back anymore than I have, that just ain't me. Guess I'm just gonna have to be a touch clearer about what I'm in this for, and hope she follows suit.

Rok'nhar

High praise if that's coming from Zoya. Higher praise if that's coming from you. And you've seen my growing list of can-do's, sunshine—if it makes Orlagh happy, then I'm all for it.

Orlagh

You know what would make Orlagh happy?

If you came and met her for a coffee at the end of her shift

Perk Ya Later in Oldtown

11 AM

Rok'nhar

I can do coffee. As long as there's a metric fuck-ton of something sweet in it.

Orlagh

Then it's a date!

I mean we can go over your fan mail

Or whatever

Plus we have pastries

And noted lol

See you in a bit!

A… date?

I'd like to say that I didn't spend the next hour mulling over those words, that I'd mustered up the sac to just flat out ask if it was a proper date or she was just speaking all colloquial and shit.

But I didn't.

I'd also like to say that I didn't spend forty-five minutes in front of my closet, pulling out shirt after shirt, then putting on and taking off shirt after shirt, before finally taking off that last shirt and landing right back at the one I had picked out in the first place. Or that I hadn't opened up that drawer I never bother with while I was getting ready, the one with all the styling creme and cologne and shit, fumbling around with this mess of hair on my head and then spilling half the Durotar Noir down the sink because my hands were trembling so bad.

But I did.

Fucking hell.

Is this a date?

I'm thinking about it the whole walk over, getting more and more certain I've put the cart before the courser. We're meeting to iron out details for the next stream, is all. Go over some requests and fan mail I've apparently gotten.

Also, pastries.

But… she did say meeting her would make Orlagh happy, not Zoya…

Thankfully, I can walk on autopilot as I contemplate all the pitfalls I might tumble into before the day is done because Oldtown is on my usual route to work, just about a ten-minute walk from the pleasure district where Dinners Dragons is.

Don't spend much time in Oldtown because it's, well, old. Buildings are a fine sight on the outside, all sleek lines and geometric shapes, but small as hell on the inside since most of them were built before Galtree became the melting pot it is. Some are in the process of being changed into something a bit more inclusive, but it's an unspoken rule that most are a no-go for orcs, minotaurs, trolls, and most winged folk. Tried going into a quaint little deli once and broke the chairs, could barely squeeze through the damn doors.

Suddenly I don't have room to worry about if this little rendezvous is a date or not, I'm more than a little concerned that I'm about to plop down in some tiny little cafe chair like I did at Aethelthorpe's Delicatessen and bust it and my pride to bits right there in front of her and everyone else in the place.

I run my hand through my hair and then audibly curse myself as I remember all that painstaking time spent trying to make it look messy but not sloppy, drawing angry stares and shocked squawks from the birdfolk walking by, a pair of older ladies with brilliant red and orange feathers now very clearly ruffled. I bow my head and hold my hands up in apology as I pass before shoving them into my pockets.

Just gotta keep it cool. If the chairs ain't fit for orcs, then I'll lean casually against a wall, do my best to look dashing till she's off the clock. We can take our coffees to go, walk over to that picturesque promenade along the river.

I stop in front of Perk Ya Later and sigh. The door is even smaller than I was dreading it would be, but I can't back out now, don't want to back out.

It's now or never.

My hand dwarfs the little doorknob, a pretty crystal thing that turns easy enough. I'm stooped half over, squeezing in sideways, and the little tinkling bell is getting hit over and over again, because of-fucking-course it is. My neck gets hot as I push the rest of the way in, straightening up to see… a comfortable space.

Very cozy for such a big layout. Exposed brick walls are hardly visible behind the endless array of bookshelves, every one of them full to bursting with plants and weathered leather tomes and games and chatchkes of all shapes and sizes.

Three plush little rockers around a small oak coffee table are on my right, occupied by a pair of raven haired halflings and a studious foxkin curled up on the bushiest tail I've ever seen, their pointed face buried deep in a book half their size.

On the left is an empty floral print couch and a plaid rocking loveseat of a clear standard size, commonly referred to as medium by folks who aren't assholes and normal by folks who are.

A gleaming chestnut counter wraps around the coffee bar, lined with stools of every color and shape and size. A lily-white fae with a mass of wild white curls sits on one end, nimble fingers a blur across the fanciest looking drawing tablet I've ever seen as she shades the tips of an intricately detailed double-headed dragon prick.An ancient fae leans over a mug of something steamy beside her, as dark as she is light, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms covered in rose tattoos, stronger than one would expect to pair with a face as lined and craggy as driftwood.

A couple of bar height tables in the center of the space have comparable seating and are accommodating a group of tieflings in business attire, clearly in the middle of some kind of meeting, contracts and piecharts and spreadsheets littered across the tabletop along with half-eaten muffins and several carafes.

But there in the back is the sight that makes me practically sigh in relief—two wingback chairs, blue velvet, and each one big enough for a pair of minotaurs to squeeze into, let alone one chunky orc.

"My stars, you have to be Rok."

I turn my attention to the register by the coffee bar and am greeted with a most unfamiliar sight—I'm being ogled. At the moment, it's by a half-orc with minty green skin and two inky black braids hanging down her shoulders. She's got one eyebrow raised as she drinks me in and she's blowing a big blue bubble with her chewing gum as she does it, sucking it against a respectably sized tusk with a loud snap before smacking it between her full lips some more, calling out over her shoulder into the back.

"Hey Orlagh, your orc in shining armor's here."

Now, hold on… orc in shining armor? What exactly did Orlagh tell her fellow barista about me? Because the singsong in this half-orc's voice makes my ears burn, as does the way her eyes keep lingering boldly in places I'm not accustomed to having eyes linger. She's gorgeous, though. Exactly the type Haf would go for, but not quite mine. My high school sweetheart was an orc, of course, and my ex was a werebear, but the truth is I've always been drawn to elves, and only one in particular for quite some time now.

"Oh, leave off already, Brix."

There's an ache in my chest that I can't mistake when she walks out from the back to join her coworker behind the counter, lavender eyes wide with admonishment for the half-orc. Orlagh is… breathtaking. Hard to believe I've walked by this place so many times without knowing that she might be right inside, bustling back and forth in that adorable black-and-white checkered apron she's got on, shining that sweet, sunny smile on every lucky customer just like she's shining it on me right now.

"Hey, Rok. I've just got to close out my till before I get our coffees."

Even with all that acrid coffee and the syrupy sweet scents wafting around the place, I can scent her clear as day. Can't keep my eyes off her swaying hips as she jaunts on into the back again, or stop thinking about how sweet she tasted every time she came on my tongue last night.

"I'll keep an eye on him, sugar. Not that I need to," Brix drawls, still looking me up and down. "From the way she was talking, I'm surprised you didn't show up in a cape."

"Brixa'khar!" Orlagh pops her head out of the back again, halfway through taking off her apron. "I am literally going to kill you if you don't stop talking. And besides, not all heroes wear capes, you know."

"Yeah," I say with an awkward little laugh, trying to lighten the mood, "some wear 6XL t-shirts."

"Boy, do they…" Brix mutters, eyes raking me over so hard I'm pretty sure they're leaving scratches in their wake.

Orlagh scoffs, big eyes wide and getting wider as the pair of them burst into giggles. She turns toward me, all sunshine and smiles, and points at the little table by the bar with napkins and spoons and coffee creamer.

"Rok, there's a bottle of soda water right there by the half-and-half. If she starts humping your leg before I come back, feel free to hose her down."

I laugh a little as I rub the back of my burning neck, watching those hips sway as Orlagh saunters off again, disappearing into the back. Brix has not let up, resting her elbows on the counter as she leans forward, pointed chin cradled in her hands.

"So, handsome. Is it true?"

"Is what true now?" I glance around at the other patrons, hoping someone might be fixin' to get up and order something so she ain't so focused on me, finding no such luck.

"That you kicked Wolf's ass last night. In your… underwear?"

My ears go hot again. "Well, not exactly. Sort of, I guess. Security stepped in before?—"

"Security? Hmm," she says, tilting her head to the side. "And what'd they look like? Want to make sure I'm getting all the muscles right in my mind, you see."

"Okay, enough." Orlagh laughs as she emerges. Brix finally drags her eyes away from me to give her a little wink, handing over a couple of mugs that had been sitting on warmers at the bar. Orlagh sticks her tongue out at her friend and then brings our drinks out to the table by the velvet chairs. I notice that there's already a plate of sweet and savory looking scones waiting for us, too—the aforementioned pastries, as it were.

I give Brix an awkward, absentminded little wave before I turn to drink in the sexy ball of sunshine I came to see up close, heart aching at just how damn perfect she is.

She's wearing this sleeveless green corduroy number with a zipper going all the way up the front, bottom to top, and that dress is hugging every curve she has. Her short, sleek tangerine hair is tucked behind her pointed ears, catching the light as she turns to greet me with a hug, and I'm so caught up smelling the vanilla and citrus of her skin that I get one of her long sunburst earrings stuck in my scarf. And then we're twisting and bending and laughing, and damn if this isn't something straight out of a godsdamn sitcom. It takes a minute, both to untangle and to stop shaking from laughter, but we untwine and unwind soon enough.

"Well," she says, her violet eyes sparkling as she plops down into one of the velvet chairs, fiddling with her earring. "We just keep getting into one tangle after another, don't we?"

I'm chuckling with her, smiling so wide my tusks are catching on my cheeks as I ease down into the chair across from her, grateful beyond grateful that I didn't have to throw a wrench in this date—fuck, here I am calling it a date—by not being able to fit in the furniture.

"We sure do. Can't, uh, say I mind though…" I trail off, looking at the big ass coffee cup in front of me, patchwork print and more akin to something I'd put soup in then a bunch of dark, bitter sludge, and part of me winces.

I fucking hate coffee.

I know it's a sin in some circles, but I've got more than a bit of a sweet tusk and I can't stand the bitter taste.

"This for me?"

She nods behind her own coffee mug. "I made it disgustingly sweet, as requested. Though I'm verbally releasing all liability in the event of immediate tusk decay."

"Well, thank you for the warning, ma'am."

I raise an eyebrow at her as I pick up the mug and give it a sniff, pulling a brave face before taking a sip, but godsdamn if it isn't the best coffee I've ever tasted.

"Sure is sweet," I say with a smile. The way she's looking at me has me feeling bolder than I ever have, so I clear my throat and swallow down my nerves. "But it ain't the sweetest thing I've ever tasted."

She leans towards me, violet eyes full of mischief, cradling the oversized green mug in her long, elegant fingers. I look down, knowing full well my cheeks are burning as I imagine those fingers wrapped around something else green, something hard and hot, growing harder and hotter against my thigh as we speak.

"Oh really? And what's the sweetest…"

Our eyes meet again, and it don't take long for that sweet summer strawberry flush to meander all the way up past those soft, sunny cheeks to the tips of her long, pointed ears.