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“I have to confess, Allie... his advances aren’t entirely unwanted,” Kima says, her eyes fixed on the floor, unable to meet her lover’s gaze. “He’s so—”
“Big?” Allura suggests, biting her lip to keep from laughing.
“Yes. It’s appealing.”
Allura puts her fingertips underneath Kima’s chin, lifting her head so that their eyes meet. “I know well the things that you find appealing, love.”
Kima lifts her chin higher in a gesture of defiance. “Thus you see my intent to accept his latest advance.”
“I do. And I encourage you.” Allura shakes her sleeve a little, letting a vial slip forth, and offers it to Kima. “You may find this of use.”
Kima cracks the seal and sniffs the vial’s contents. “Oh,” she says. “I see.”
“Not that I have any doubt that your body can react accordingly on its own, but you may find that this... eases the way.”
Kima reaches up to wind her fingers through Allura’s hair, pulling her into an ardent kiss. “And if I decide that I don’t want to go through with it?” Her voice is, for the first time, a bare whisper.
Allura’s laugh is full-bodied, rich. “Then, my dear, I trust you know what to do with your weapons.”
Grog does romance her.
She can tell it’s hard for him; he’s not terribly bright. But he’s observed enough to know that he can’t just club her on the head and drag her off to his cave, or at least his bedroom at Greyskull Keep. Which is where they are, in the dining hall, enjoying a meal prepared by Laina, who is an excellent cook. She does give Kima a very curious look, but when Grog introduces her as “Lady Kima... we saved her from the Underdark. She’s a friend of Lady Allura,” Laina nods understandingly and withdraws.
Grog is wearing a black leather vest that makes his skin even more startlingly white, and loose black trousers. His greataxe leans against the wall, but other than that his outfit is remarkably tame considering his usual bare-chested, loinclothed, muscle-bound glory. He’s dressed up for her, and it makes him look even more vulnerable than when he’s hurtling around mostly naked.
For her own part, Kima’s opted for a blue tunic and trousers that she hasn’t been wearing for weeks. She’s washed her hair—well, Allura’s washed it for her, during their own private reunion—and pulled it back in a loose braid. They’re both barefoot, which is natural for her and also for him, she thinks, looking at how he pads almost softly to his own seat after pulling hers out for her.
They have the small dining hall to themselves, and their voices echo off the walls, but Grog has assured her that the others are out and about in Emon, and they won’t be disturbed. He looks nervous, which is sweet. What draws her to him is his power, his energy, his strength. She thinks he will be careful, not wanting to harm her... but powerful.
He makes her feel small, but not in the way that some people do (or try to; she doesn’t respond at all well to condescension). He makes her feel like he could imprison her in his arms without crushing her. The thought is very appealing.
The food is good: savory roasted vegetables and quail, the latter smothered in a rich red wine sauce. Kima eats hungrily and at one point looks up to see Grog with his fork halfway to his mouth, where it has apparently been for some time, watching her admiringly.
“Good appetite,” he remarks.
Kima smiles. “A welcome relief from trail rations.”
“Yes.” Grog looks flustered and jams a whole potato in his mouth at once. His cheeks flex as he chews; Kima can see that his white skin has gone pinkish, and stifles a giggle in her napkin. He washes the copious mouthful down with ale, but he seems to be going easy on it, inasmuch as he takes one long swallow and then sets his tankard down, rather than continuing to guzzle. Kima realizes he’s trying to be gentlemanly for her.
She sips the wine that Laina has brought her to go with the meal. Her head is buzzing pleasantly; it’s not particularly the wine so much as the simple pleasure of being back in her home city again, having this dinner with her party-mate under the blessing of her lover, who will doubtless want to hear a full account of the evening’s activities.
They finish their meal and Laina comes to clear their plates, bringing out a dessert that’s a simple confection of fruit with thick cream and fine white sugar in dipping bowls on the side of the platter.
“Enjoy your meal?” she asks.
“Oh, yes,” Kima tells her, indicating her plate, completely cleaned down to the bones. “Very satisfying.”
Laina smiles and exits the room. Kima reaches for a strawberry, but Grog’s hand locks around her wrist. She feels her pulse leap beneath his fingers and looks at him, wetting her lips with her tongue.
“Allow me,” he rumbles, pinching the strawberry that she’d targeted between two fingers and dipping it first in the cream, then in the sugar. Kima opens her mouth as he lifts it toward her, and Grog presses it into her mouth, his thick fingers warm against her lips, the strawberry a burst of sweetness on her tongue. Grog pulls his hand back, but not before Kima drags her tongue along one of his fingers, which makes him close his eyes briefly.
He feeds her another strawberry and then a piece of peach, which drips juice down his fingers. Kima licks it away and feels the low rumble as he draws in a long, shaky breath. She turns her wrist easily under his other hand and frees herself.
“Grog. Move back a little,” she instructs.
Grog obediently scootches his chair back from the table, giving her a curious look. Kima assesses the situation and, rather than going from her chair to the floor then back up, stands up on her chair and steps across onto Grog’s thigh, moving to kneel where she can straddle as much of his lap as possible—which isn’t much. She ends up with one thigh pressed between his, his thick thigh solid between her legs, looking up at him with one hand on his side for balance.
“Kima...” Grog says, voice cracking.
She reaches for the dessert plate, finds a strawberry, treats it with sugar and cream, and lifts it to his lips. Grog’s tongue comes out and Kima feeds the berry to him; his tongue strokes along her middle three fingers and the feeling sends a sharp jolt through her body. It’s a reminder that there are ever so many other things they can do that don’t involve her trying to take him into her body.
Now that she’s sitting where she is, though, and can feel the insistent press of him through his loose trousers, she’s fascinated to see just how much they can do. Just how much she can take.
Before that, though; before that she reaches to the plate again and finds a piece of peach, stretching up so that they’re face to face—or at least they are when Grog realizes her intent and leans down to her. His breath is warm on her face. She presses the peach to his tongue and he laps at her fingers, but a trickle of juice still runs over his lip.
Kima takes a deep breath and presses her lips to his, tongue flicking over the juice, dragging over his skin, and one of Grog’s arms goes around her, pulling her tight against him.
It’s exactly how she thought it would feel.
“Lady...” Grog says, voice rough around the edges.
Kima shakes her head. “Just Kima.”
“Kima,” he repeats, before kissing her again. He may be two and a half times her size, but he’s quick to find the best way to kiss her without eating her face off. For her own part Kima explores his mouth with her lips and tongue, nipping at his lower lip, her hands on his chest working busily, stealthily at the lacings of his vest. She begins to map out the skin she’s exposing with kisses, and his breath is warm on the back of her neck as he groans at the sensation.
There’s a rattle from behind her and Kima’s off Grog’s lap and onto the table in an instant, drawing the dagger at her waist, wishing she’d brought something heavier.
Laina stares at her wide-eyed from the doorway, the tea-tray that she’s dropped a mess on the floor. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says. “My apologies, Lady Kima.”
Kima sheathes the dagger, silently cursing her own ineptitude, to be so easily distracted by kisses that a cook could get the drop on her. Although considering whose home this is, even the cook probably has fighter training at the very least. She looks down and sees that she’s upset the remnants of dessert. “No, please accept my apologies. I should be more trusting. I have traveled with Grog and his friends long enough that I should have accepted your hospitality without fear.”
There is something in her that will never let her trust anyone completely.
Laina nods sympathetically, coming forward to clear the table. Kima takes two steps back, feels Grog’s hands at her waist, and lets him ease her down to her chair. Laina assesses the state of the table, represses a sigh, and efficiently bundles the whole mess up into the tablecloth. She has the air of someone who has done this before and, Kima thinks, as Vox Machina’s employee she almost certainly has.
“I’ll be back for the tray,” Laina says, exiting. Kima can take a hint, even if Grog can’t.
“We should find somewhere else to be,” she says meaningfully.
“Oh, right.” Grog looks at her, looks at his axe, and looks at her again.
“You can bring the axe,” Kima says.
Grog smiles.
They end up outside in the keep’s small garden. Laina has an orderly series of herbs and vegetables growing close to the keep’s walls, but there’s a modest stretch of grass, some young trees, and over to one side an archway covered with sweet-smelling roses. There is also a long wooden bench under an older tree with spreading branches, and Kima turns her footsteps that way.
Grog sits on the ground, leaning back against the bench; Kima sits on the bench, and now they’re almost of a height, if a good half-foot’s difference can properly be called ‘of a height’.
She touches his head, fingers running over his tattoos, and he reaches up to stroke the scar that crosses her eye, one careful fingertip tracing the weal that almost left her half-blinded.
“You are so strong,” he says to her.
Kima laughs. “You could crush me.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean here.” He touches her lightly on the chest with the same fingertip, and Kima can’t keep from shaking a little.
Grog kisses her forehead, where the scar starts. Kima knows it’s still a raw, angry purple. Some of her other scars have faded to red; in time they will be pink or silver, knitting together her skin. He finds another one, up above her hairline, where a chunk of her ashy blonde hair was yanked out at some point by one of the duergar who captured her. This one, she knows, can’t quite be concealed by brushing the rest of her hair over it.
It doesn’t seem to matter to Grog, who kisses it as well. This time her shiver is more pronounced, and he draws back to give her a concerned look.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” Kima says. “It’s not that sort of shiver.”
Grog nods slowly in acknowledgment and kisses the scar under her left eye—she’s lucky to have eyes at all, she thinks—his tongue coming out to trace it slowly. She expects him to thoroughly dampen her skin with saliva, but he manages not to. He does seem to know what he’s about, and she recalls mention being made of him accompanying Scanlan to houses of questionable repute. It makes her wonder if he’s ever had anyone quite so small as her before. Certainly she has never been with anyone so big as him—in any sense of the word.
She puts her hands flat on his chest, arresting his movement. Grog obediently stops, giving her a look of deep desire.
“Are we staying out here?” she asks. “Or going up to your room?”
His eyes widen. “I wasn’t sure—do you want—”
Kima rolls her eyes a little and slides off the bench back into his lap. It’s a nice lap. She’d like to stay in it. She actually stands on his thighs this time and leans her whole body against him as she kisses him, teeth nipping lightly at his lower lip, tongue stroking the tiny hurt away. Grog’s eyes close; a moan rumbles through his body and, by extension, hers. It feels lovely to have such a profound effect on him. Not that she doubts her own ability to arouse; she’s a paladin, not a divine celibate.
“Will anyone come looking for us or find us out here?” Kima asks.
“Keyleth might. Not on purpose, but that’s her place.” Grog indicates the rose arch and Kima realizes it’s not just decorative, but the entryway to a small druid bower, with definite hints of lingering magic about it.
“Your room, then,” she says decisively. She moves to step down off Grog, but he hoists her up to perch on his shoulder, turning his head to nuzzle her stomach through her fine linen tunic before standing up, easily balancing her there. She wraps her arm around the back of his head for support, laughing a little breathlessly.
Grog has to put her down when they get back to the keep’s rear entrance. Smaller than the front and well concealed, the doorway itself is only maybe twice Kima’s height, meaning Grog has to duck. The passage beyond immediately opens up to a higher ceiling, scaled for Grog. The spiral stairway he leads her up doesn’t really suit either of them; he takes the stairs two at a time, while Kima has to ascend with what’s almost an undignified bound.
This floor is dedicated to Vox Machina’s living quarters. Looking down the hallway, Kima can almost pick whose room is which: there aren’t names on the doors, but someone has gone to a good deal of trouble either purchasing or embroidering small tapestries that hang beside each doorway, lit up by candles in sconces—fresh candles, newly lit for the homecome heroes. The one beside her is two crossed silver flutes; directly across from them is a radiant sunburst, golden threads shimmering in the candlelight. Both these rooms have smaller doors than the keep’s average.
The next door along on their side is much larger, and the tapestry beside it depicts a foaming mug of ale. Grog looks a little embarrassed when Kima laughs.
“They’re just a bit of decoration,” he mumbles.
“They’re lovely,” Kima says honestly.
Grog smiles and precedes her into the room, lighting a lantern and reaching to hang it on a hook, where it casts light into all four corners of the room. Kima looks around with interest. The bed is large but unremarkable, save for a lumpy-looking feather mattress that looks like it would have been horribly unwieldy to bring up the stairs. The bed frame is made of solid-looking wood, probably assembled in the room. In contrast to the utilitarian rest of the room, the quilt spread over the bed is crocheted in bright wool, a riot of colors.
“Pretty. Where did you get it?”
Grog outright blushes this time. “Me ‘n’ Pike made it.”
Kima grasps and kisses his hand. “Nice work.”
Aside from the bed, there’s a wooden chest at the foot of the bed and a wardrobe up against the opposite wall. A small nightstand beside the bed holds a candle, a well-loved toy bear, and a sketch of Grog and Pike, looking right at the artist and laughing. There’s an unlit fireplace; the room is comfortably warm just from having the two of them in it.
It’s so basic and yet so him that she’s really impressed. So few things to nonetheless stamp his presence on the space.
Grog leans his axe against the wall beside the door, which reminds Kima to ask, “Does the door lock?”
“Uh... no. It would be dangerous in a... dangerous situation. I could block it...”
An imp of the perverse seizes Kima. “People sometimes hang a sock on the outside doorknob to let people know not to come in.”
Grog looks dubiously at their bare feet. “No socks.”
“No.” Kima reefs her tunic up and off over her head, exposing her upper body: her breasts and torso are crisscrossed with scars both new and old. “I’ll use this.” She drapes it over the doorknob and closes the door, turning back to face Grog.
She’s expecting him to grab her and kiss her or something like that. Instead he just stares at her, eyes wide. Kima feels self-conscious but her arms stay at her sides rather than covering herself shyly.
“You are a valiant warrior,” Grog says at last, reaching out to touch one of the older scars, a wide pink-silver reminder of an attempt to tear her heart on the point of a dagger. Her nipple hardens into a peak, and his next touch is to rub his thumb over it, sending a ripple of pleasure through her.
“I could say the same of you, barbarian,” Kima returns, touching one of his tattoos, drawing her fingers down to map out the curve of his jaw.
Grog lets out a suitably barbaric growl and gathers her up to dump her on the bed, where the mattress is exactly as lumpy as she’d expected, but she only has a second to notice before he’s kneeling beside the bed and kissing her. Not on the mouth. He’s kissing every single scar, from the smallest silver nick on her forearm that was just a slip with a paring knife, up to the long dark one that nearly cost her a breast, like the women she’s heard tell of who remove one breast to better shoot their arrows.
His tongue lingers in the dip between her breasts and Kima encourages him with the palm of her hand on the back of his head. Grog growls again and then drags his tongue over her breast. Kima arches into the feel of it and his arm goes around her back, holding her in place while he kisses and suckles at her breasts, sending red-hot pulses of pleasure through her. She can hear her own breathy moans and his returning hum of approval.
He doesn’t stop with her upper body, either. He tugs at her belt and Kima unbuckles it herself, setting her dagger in its sheath on top of the chest at the end of the bed: close enough for emergencies, far enough away for trust. She wriggles free of her trousers with his help as he drags them easily off her. Kima forestalls him reaching for her for a moment to finish unlacing his leather vest, spreading it wide so she can span his chest with her hands. They don’t quite reach even with her fingers spread as wide as she can, and Grog rumbles another laugh.
“We’ll see who’s still laughing at the end of the night,” Kima says, dragging her fingernails down his chest, from his clavicle to the lowest of his ribs—or where she can best guess they are, anyway, under all the muscle. He stops laughing and sucks in a whistling breath, and Kima does it again.
He looks so much like he wants to just grab her and crush her to him, but he keeps his hands to himself—mostly. One fingertip keeps tracing the scars that crisscross her body. Her left hip, a fall from a horse. Her thighs, the soft lines of stretch marks when she had her first growth spurt. The long one up her right shin, throwing herself out of a tree onto a troll’s head.
Grog licks his lips and looks at her, and Kima sits down and then lies back on his big bed, and he goes to work on her.
Each kiss is scarily delicate, considering how she’s seen him rage in battle. He starts with the long shin-scar, kissing up from her ankle to her knee, and then trailing his tongue along the same path. Kima spreads her legs wider and she sees the brief moment when he clearly wants to skip ahead. But he doesn’t. He seems determined to kiss every single scar, and he finds a couple she’d almost forgotten: the one on her thigh where her sparring partner had attempted to cut her legs out from beneath her; the frankly ridiculous tiny dot of her closed navel piercing, a relic from her pre-paladin days.
At last he’s hovering over her, on his knees beside the bed, his breath warm just below her navel.
“May I?” he asks, voice shaky, and Kima lets out a frustrated noise that makes him laugh. He’s still laughing as he dives in to lick her hard, one single drag of his tongue to start with, and she feels the vibrations as a whole-body shudder.
“Oh, gods.” She rides up against his tongue and Grog splays one hand out over her belly, pinning her in place while he works her with his tongue and lips. When he pushes his tongue right inside her Kima just about screams, no longer caring whether the other residents of Greyskull Keep are at home.
He keeps fucking her with his tongue, his upper lip pressed against her clit, his teeth behind it providing just enough pressure to make it really work. Then he curls his tongue inside her and she does scream, hips moving up in spite of his restraining hand.
She’s flying and falling all at once, but he catches her even as she peaks and pushes one thick finger inside her, and Kima comes apart all over again, thighs squeezing tightly around his head, inner muscles spasming around his finger. He pushes a second finger into her and she stretches to accommodate him, reduced to inarticulate cries, hands fisting into the quilt.
It seems like she’s never going to stop coming, but at last Grog lifts his head, lips slick with her juices, and eases his fingers out of her. Kima relaxes, panting, and Grog moves to sit beside her, touching her hair with awkward sweetness.
“Good?” he asks tentatively.
“Yes,” Kima replies and then, in case her verbal response isn’t clear enough, she knocks him onto his back, straddling his wide hips and grinding down against the solidity of his sizeable erection, and it’s his turn to make guttural noises, grabbing at her waist and rubbing up against her.
“Let’s get these pants off you,” Kima says, and he’s quick to respond, wriggling out of them with a speed that speaks both of his eagerness for her to have full access to his body, and his desire to be shed of this unfamiliar bit of clothing. He sprawls back across the bed and Kima just stares for a long minute, feasting her eyes on the expanse of his pale skin—pale save for the dark, thick column that is his cock.
“You like?” Grog asks almost shyly.
“Very much.” Kima leans over him to take her turn at doing the licking, lapping at his tip where there’s more than a small bead of pre-come. Grog whimpers, a bizarre sound coming from such a big man.
Kima opens her mouth wide and sucks just the head of him in; it stretches her lips, her cheeks, and all she can think of is how good that thick hardness will feel inside her.
Kima licks and sucks at him a little longer, enough to get a good taste of him, but desire makes her impatient. Before too long she’s hovering over him, thighs shaking with the effort of holding herself up, the tip of him just nudging at her entrance.
“This may not work,” she warns him.
Grog gives her a needy look. “Try,” he says simply, and Kima does.
It’s easier than she expected, and harder at the same time. She is very wet from his earlier ministrations, but there is an awful lot of him to take in. She eases the head of him just inside herself and then pauses, drawing in a deep breath. He’s holding perfectly still; she can feel his muscles quivering with wanting, but he’s restraining himself from just slamming up into her.
Kima reaches for her discarded belt, finds the vial that Allura gave her in the belt pouch, and tips some of the slick liquid into her palm, reaching down between her legs to stroke it over Grog’s cock. He lets out a guttural moan and this time does buck up against her, forcing himself inside her another inch or so. She stretches and flexes around him; it stings but feels so good. She strokes more of the oil over him and sets the vial aside.
Slowly, slowly, she grinds down against him, easing him into her a half-inch at a time. It’s not his length that makes it difficult so much as how thick he is; thick enough that her hand doesn’t close all the way around him, especially at the base. Grog’s fingers twitch, hands opening and closing; Kima reaches down and catches them, settling them firmly at her waist, and he makes a rumbling sound of gratitude, fingers digging into her skin.
At last she’s taken him in as far as she thinks she can. Kima starts moving her hips carefully in short, considering thrusts to gauge what she can take and how she can move. Grog’s whole body shakes with the energy taken to keep himself still, to not just pull her down and take her. His hands on her waist almost completely encircle it. Kima leans down to kiss him; this more than anything else makes her really feel the hard length of him inside her and the very real difference in their sizes.
“Sit up,” she says, and Grog does so, scooting to put his back to the wall, one hand staying on her waist, keeping him inside her as he moves. It’s an interesting experience to be so easily handled. More interesting still as she now straddles his lap and can look up into his face instead of down. His arm around her waist holds her close and he tries an experimental move of his hips, pressing up into her slowly.
Every time they move she discovers new limits that her body can surpass.
Kima presses her lips to Grog’s lower lip and then bites down. Grog yelps and bucks up hard and she feels the last thick, solid inch and a half of him push right into her. She moans loudly and Grog gives her a concerned look.
“Kima...”
“Do. That. Again.” Kima lifts up off him and then slams down as he rises to meet her, and she feels so full that she can’t hold back another loud, passionate moan. Grog makes a similar, deeper noise, and then he’s riding up into her, finding an easy rhythm with her as she rises up and impales herself on him again and again. His arm around her waist is tight; his other hand goes to the back of her head, cupping it with his palm, drawing her into a thorough, deep kiss.
They keep kissing for a couple of minutes, but then Kima has to break away, gasping. She rests her forehead against Grog’s solid bare shoulder, focusing on the rise and fall of their bodies. Hers, mostly. Grog isn’t moving a lot except for the way he’s rocking slowly up into her. It’s good—so good—but it’s not quite enough.
“Stop a moment,” she says and he obeys, loosening his grip on her waist. Kima turns in the circle of his arms, settles her back against his chest, and lowers herself back down onto him. He pushes in a little easier this time and they both moan with relief as their bodies reconnect. Kima looks down to see where he’s pushing into her body and whimpers when she gets a good look at just how much he has her stretched open. “Bahamut...” she murmurs. “That’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.” Grog may not always be quick on the uptake, but he realizes immediately that thanks to this change in position he can touch a whole lot more of her. Both hands find her breasts and linger for a long moment before he apparently decides that one will do. His left hand stays there, teasing and lightly pinching at her nipples. Of course, from a goliath, a light pinch is pleasurably rough. Kima arches her back into the touch, head tilting back against Grog’s shoulder. He kisses her again, mouth covering hers in time to catch the moan of pure delight that she lets out when his other hand cups her mound and one of his thick fingers, by accident or design, finds her clit.
“Hmmm,” Grog says, and this time she can’t mistake the slow rub for anything but deliberate. Kima gasps and Grog’s left hand comes down to press against her belly, holding her tight against him so he can work on her properly. His finger slips easily over her, trailing down every third or fourth rub to collect a little more of her slick juices from where he’s buried inside her.
Kima’s forgotten how to breathe. She twists in his grasp, and Grog allows her enough freedom to start riding him again, but his finger doesn’t stop its work, and she keeps pushing her hips forward into his hand, instead of down onto his cock. She lets out an exasperated noise and Grog chuckles deeply.
“Too much for you, my lady?”
Kima bites his bicep by way of response, sinking her teeth in and then sucking hard. Let him explain that away to the others: a red-purple bruise surrounded with the perfect impression of halfling teeth.
He bites her in return. Noses aside her hair and nips at the back of her neck. Kima clenches around him and Grog bites harder, both hands tightening on her at the same time. Kima’s never heard the sound that comes out of her mouth before, but she hardly has time to process it because then she’s coming so hard, writhing in Grog’s strong relentless grip, that she sees endless showers of dancing lights, a cascade of brilliant bursts, and her entire small body shakes with the force of it.
Grog holds her through it, and then presses a surprisingly tender kiss to the top of her head. “Good?” he asks, as if the answer weren’t perfectly obvious.
Kima laughs breathlessly. She feels like she’s dripping all over him. “Very good.” She brushes a kiss over where she bit him earlier. “Come on, don’t stop there...”
“Wasn’t going to.” Grog resettles his hands on her hips and resumes moving within her, rocking up into her, slow and slow, as if testing her.
“You can go—oh—faster than that.”
He hesitates, and Kima grabs his arm for balance and sets a faster pace herself, feeling a long groan rumble through him as he realizes she’s serious.
At first the faster pace makes him make the most adorable whimpering noises, but as they go on Grog falls silent, burying his face in Kima’s hair. She can hear and feel him taking deep breaths, the tension in his body slowly ratcheting up notch by notch. She turns her head and presses her lips to the base of his throat: kissing then licking then biting.
“Kima,” Grog groans. “Can you...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence but Kima can guess. She finds it within her to move just that extra bit faster and harder, though she’s stretched almost beyond what she can handle, and Grog makes a massive sound of relief. She can empathize with that not-quite-there feeling.
One huge hand comes down to cup her soft mound, holding her in place and pressing in a little. Grog’s panting in her ear, jerking his hips up the best that he can. He manages her name every third or fourth stroke and Kima is suddenly very sure that, whatever other experiences he’s had, nothing has been quite like this. She can say the same for herself.
One of his fingers pushes against her clit, probably by accident as he seems too frenzied now to do it on purpose, and Kima cries out, voice breaking on his name. Grog’s whole body tenses and then he growls her name, and the pulse of him inside her is like having a second heart throbbing between her legs.
“Oh, gods,” Kima manages, her thigh muscles announcing their displeasure with her as the high of the encounter begins to wear off. She plants her palms on her knees so that she doesn’t fall. Grog, still shaky, puts his hands on her waist and helps her dismount. There’s one hell of a wet spot on the quilt; Kima moves to avoid it and touches herself tentatively with two fingers. Aside from being ridiculously wet between their mingled fluids, everything seems to be fine down there.
Grog’s looking at her like she’s an avatar of a deity. “That was so good,” he says wonderingly, and Kima laughs.
“Yes, it was.”
Grog looks down at his lap, then at Kima, then at the wet spot, and gets up off the bed to locate a giant-sized towel, spreading it out on the bed. Kima uses a corner of it to wipe herself up. Grog stretches out on the towel and Kima lies beside him, face to face, one of his huge arms draping over her.
“Pike’s gonna be mad that we made a mess of the quilt,” Grog says mournfully.
“You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
“She’ll notice if I send it to get cleaned.”
“Get Scanlan to use Prestidigitation on it.”
“You think I want him to know about this?” Grog sounds scandalized.
Kima’s prone to honesty in a lot of circumstances where she’d be better off keeping her mouth shut. “I don’t think you’d mind letting him come to his own conclusions.” The look on Grog’s face tells her she’s right.
Grog pulls her in closer against him and kisses the top of her head. “What about you? Are you going to say anything?”
“I did promise Allura I’d tell her what happened.”
“...in detail?”
“How much detail are you all right with me sharing?”
Grog kisses her again, this time on the mouth. “Give me half an hour and you can give her twice as much detail,” he says, and Kima smirks against his lips, snuggling into him. She won’t be surprised if he falls asleep instead, but if he doesn’t...
Well, she still has half that vial of oil left.