Now Taureans?
Ahhh, my cup of tea.
Go ahead. Call me shallow. Say what you want. But those big bastards know how to make a girl cry—the good kind. Legs shaking, spine melting, "thank the gods I'm alive" kind of cry.
I mean, come on. Seven feet of solid muscle, voice like thunder through honey, thighs like tree trunks, and horns. Actual horns. You look at one and your body just remembers being a helpless little forest creature. It's primal. It's wrong. It's delicious.
Now, they do have a thing. A preference. Always from behind. No eye contact. Don't even try. You turn around mid-act and suddenly they're grunting like you asked for their mother's name. Nope. You get mounted like a prize mare and you stay there.
And gods, the smacks.
They've got hands like dinner plates and they know exactly what to do with them. Not the cruel kind—no, they play. You get a slap on the ass that makes your teeth clack and then a gentle hand smoothing it over like butter. Like "yes, I hurt you, and now I make it better." It's practically poetic.
They don't talk much. Not into dirty talk. Just breathing. Growling. That low, steady rhythm like they're plowing a field and you're just lucky to be under it.
And after?
They're sweet.
Big dumb cuddlers. Hold you like you're a bedroll and snore like a bear. One of them once braided my hair afterward. Poorly. Still counts.
So yeah. Taureans.
Call me basic. I will ride again.
Bollo.
Gods.
That man.
My regular down in Toemacha. Big fella. Shoulders like ox yokes. Chest like a beer barrel. Voice like gravel being poured over silk. Dumb as a cartwheel, but stars above—he knew exactly what to do with all that meat.
We had fun. Real fun. The kind that makes your toes curl and your liver ache. I'm not even exaggerating. I'd limp for days after a visit. Madam used to tease me, said I looked like I got hit by a blessed cart. I said, "No, just Bollo."
Brute, in the best possible way. No finesse, no nonsense. Just raw, honest-to-gods usage. Picked me up like a rag doll, pinned me to the wall, plowed me through a feather mattress once. Still miss that mattress. It never recovered.
Met him again, years later. Wasn't expecting it. I was passing through this sleepy hill town, pine trees everywhere, and there he was—hauling timber, shirtless, sweating like sin. My knees just about gave out.
We didn't talk much. We both knew why I followed him behind that grove.
Quickie. Pine needles on my back. That same old growl in his throat.
But it wasn't the same.
Afterward, he smiled all crooked, pulled his breeches back up, and said he had to get home. Turns out he's got a wife now. And a son.
Heh.
I don't blame him. Life moves on. Some people grow roots. Some of us just keep flying from fire to fire.
Still.
Every now and then, when the campfire's low and the dragon's snoring like a thunderstorm, I think about Bollo. About the way he used to slam into me like a man trying to knock sense into the gods.
And yeah. I smile.
And walk a little funny, just from the memory.