Page 72 of Bound to the Orc Guardian

I may be the biggest fool in all the realms for having denied it, but I cannot deny this—the feeling of wholeness I find when bound this tightly to her.

Selena crests another peak, her body shaking below me, her breath broken up into little gasps I love.

I pull out at the last second, thrusting between our stomachs. Pleasure courses down my spine, singing through my balls and out of my cock. Orc seed splashes everywhere, slicking our stomach and chests and pouring down her sides to wet the furs. My knot grows, trapped between us with delicious pressure, sending shudders of aftershocks racing through me.

Selena clings to me, her hands on my shoulders, her knees gripping my sides as my weight settles fully onto her for several moments. We gasp and shake, both trying to catch our breath.

My heart slows from its wild race, and I use the hand still pressed to her ass to spin us onto our sides without losing contact. I’m not ready to give up the feel of her against my knot. This isn’t anything near what I imagine it will feel like to truly knot her, but it’s still wonderful.

My seed covers her stomach and chest and sides. She will smell like me. It appeases a part of my feral possessiveness, but only part. Goddess, how I want this woman!

She gives a soft little huff of amusement. “I’m not sure who made the bigger mess, you or me.”

“Definitely me,” I say, rubbing my seed into her breasts.

She loops a thigh over mine, hooking her heel in the back of my knee. “Stop being funny. I’m still mad at you.” Yet her lip twitch gives the lie to her words.

“Did I not just make it up to you?” I brush a lock of hair off her cheek.

She shakes her head and gives a sleepy yawn. “But that was a good start.”

“Start is good,” I say. Start means more to come. Start means a future with Selena in my arms, in my life, as my bride.

The kind of future I never let myself imagine before.

When my internal clock wakes me for dawn, I make love to my bride again as we lie on our sides, rocking into her carefully until she shatters around me, her orgasm slow and sweet.

She sighs into my shoulder afterward, happy and spent. Then she whispers, “Still mad.”

It surprises a delighted chuckle from me. “How long do you expect to be angry for?”

“Oh, years at least.” Her beautiful eyes sparkle with mischief and life. “Maybe a decade.”

“I see I have my work cut out for me.”

“Yep. Lots and lots of…work.”

I pull her to me and press a kiss to her soft lips, careful with my tusks.

Then I ease back and sing,Under the Apple Treepouring from me for an audience of one.

It doesn’t matter that this song has existed for centuries, because here and now with her, it’s as if I sing it for the first time. As if it was written so long ago just so I could perform it this morning.

I sing this song for the thousandth time, yet it feels as if all of the other times were practice. This is my first time truly singing it, feeling it. Never have the words meant more. Never has the longing in the melody been this great. And it is only for her.

I repeat the first verse an extra time, the one that best speaks of what she means to me—what she does for me by bringing her joy into my life.

Come, lay thee under the apple tree,

And I’ll eat your fruit all night.

For you are the lovely lass for me,

Who bathes my heart in light.

As the last note fades, she pulls me back to her, pressing her lips to mine fervently. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I love that song.”

“It is yours,” I say. “I sing it only for you now.”

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