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He turns those dark eyes to me as I stand timidly in the doorway of my room—his room, actually—and emotion flashes over his face. "You've changed your mind." Agakor states it flatly, as if it's a given. "You no longer wish to marry."
"What? N-no, that's not it at all." I want to tug on my braid or my clothes, a nervous habit, but I force myself to hold onto the door so I don't seem like a ridiculous twitchy fool. "I actually have questions about tomorrow. They can wait, of course. I'm sorry to get you up."
Before I can manage a polite smile and retreat, Agakor gives the two guards at the door a glance and then steps inside. "No one comes near here," he growls at them, taking my hand in his and leading me into the dark. "We won't be but a moment."
He leads me a few steps into the bedroom and doesn't release my hand. The door to the hall remains open, spilling some light into the otherwise dark room. Turnip doesn't stir, continuing to snore, and Agakor glances over at her, his face craggy in the thick shadows. "She's a deep sleeper."
"I think she drank a fair amount at dinner," I whisper. "Should I wake her?"
Agakor shakes his head and lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss on my knuckles. The broken tusk to one side of his mouth grazes my skin, but instead of alarming me, it sends a shiver through my belly. "Are you certain you still wish to marry?" When I nod, he brushes another kiss over my knuckles, and my nipples prick in response. "Then tell me what troubles you."
I'm distracted by his mouth on my knuckles. His lips feel soft and firm against my skin, and very warm. The caresses are distracting and making that strange heat pulse between my thighs again. "I…I don't know what to expect," I whisper to him, unable to take my eyes off of his mouth on my hand. "What is a bride tasting?"
"It's where I pleasure you," he murmurs, kissing my knuckles again. Something hot and wet grazes against my skin and I realize it's his tongue, and I suck in a breath.
"But how? Are you going to…bite me?"
He chuckles, the sound low and deep and makes my belly thrum with anticipation. "You don't know how? You can't guess?" When I shake my head, he presses soft kisses to my knuckles again. "Like this, love. How my mouth is on your hand? That's how it'll be on your cunt."
And he licks my knuckles once more.
I gasp, shocked and fascinated at the same time. "You…are you sure you wish to do that?"
"Oh, aye." Agakor brushes his lips over my skin. "I can think of little else. I want to brush your soft folds apart and then press my tongue to your seam, just like I'm doing right now." The tip of his tongue dips and presses between my knuckles, and it feels obscene and decadent at the same time. "Are you worried I won't make you feel good? Because an orc always makes sure his woman comes twice."
I shiver all over, fascinated at that big mouth on my hand, at the press of his tongue into my flesh. "I…see…"
He smiles over my hand and then brushes his thumb over my fingers. Funny how much bigger his hand is than mine. "I regret we cannot practice. I would love to touch you before the ceremony, but we're not supposed to be alone together."
"Right," I say faintly, not pulling my hand free. I can't stop staring at his sensual mouth as he continues to press tiny kisses to my hand. By all the gods, I feel hot and achy and feverish, yet I know I'm perfectly healthy. I lick my dry lips. "I'm so sorry to disturb you with my silly fears."
Agakor rubs my fingers again. "First, they are not silly fears. Your family has taught you nothing about the marriage bed, and even if they had, Cyclopae customs are not Adassian customs. And second, because it is you, it is never a bother." He gives me one last kiss on the back of my hand. "I'm just relieved you didn't have second thoughts about my ugly mug—"
"Never," I breathe, and then blush at how fervent I sound. "I gave my word."
"I don't want your word," he murmurs. "I want you willing and eager in my bed. All the agreements in the world matter nothing if you hate me for touching you."
"I don't hate it." The words feel as if they're being ripped from my throat, and my shyness wars with my need to tell him how I feel. "And I don't hate you. I want to be your wife."
He grins again, and the sight of it no longer alarms me. Instead, it fills me with yearning. "Until tomorrow, then, my pretty bride." He releases my hand, casts an amused look over at Turnip's still-snoring form, and then heads out the door. It closes after him, leaving me standing in the shadows in my nightgown, the place between my thighs throbbing.
