Grafting a Dream: A Themorea Story
Minotaur!Andy Barber × Human Disaster!Reader
This was meant to be a campy joke of a fic continuing all the minotaur shenanigans we've had this year. But, I let the feral writer part of my brain out of its box where it promptly grabbed me by the throat and said "I am the Captain now" and made me watch as a whole world complete with a map, bios, and lore unfurled. And now I'm in love with a stupid cow man. I hope you're happy @stargazingfangirl18 Oh, and happy birthday! 😘😂
Author's Note: I deserve all the applause for getting this down to exactly 5000 words. I'm quite proud. I also deserve all the censure for writing and formatting it entirely on mobile. Gods help you desktop viewers.
With a heavy sigh, you tore yourself back to reality, having just devoured the sequel of your new obsession. Honestly—why were fictional alien men so much better than the real thing? Who wouldn’t want a seven-foot blue Adonis fated mate‽ And why did the MCs always fight it? Oh nooooo. A devoted mate and guaranteed orgasms? Run awaaaaaay! Idiots. Ugh. As much as you wanted to dive straight into the third one, you needed sleep before work. A solid—4 a.m.‽ Well, crap. That was maybe two hours of sleep if you were lucky. You really shouldn’t have stayed up…but you did. Should you risk a nap? Or just embrace your fate and power through?
Andy woke early and got ready for the day. He wasn’t looking forward to the coming month. He hated visiting the mortal realm and dealing with humans.
And yet, he didn’t trust anyone else to do it. Who could he send? Jake had volunteered a couple of times, but that birdbrain would get distracted and forget half the list. Natasha could handle it, but making her deal with human men would be needlessly cruel—whether more to her or to them, Andy wasn’t entirely sure. The Spartoi twins might manage, but they’d never shown interest in humans and would likely get swindled. Maybe he’d bring them along anyway, a trial run in case they ever had to take over. But then Steve had mentioned renovations while Andy was away. Bah. He’d figure it out later.
Andy met the others at the agora just as the sun hit the dial. Pleasantries exchanged, they got right to it. The Lamia Brothers had a couple of add-on requests—mostly from Lloyd—but nothing Andy couldn’t handle. Once the final version of the list was approved, Maria and Ransom helped Andy glamor to appear human. Ransom scoffed at the apparel. “This is what men of means wear now? How boring.” Andy stretched, testing the fit. “It’s not the worst contrivance they’ve come up with.” Maria and Ransom nodded and turned to rejoin the others. Maria lingered. “I know you hate these trips more than you let on. Thank you for shouldering the burden.” They shared a nod. Natasha and Ari opened the gateway and Andy stepped forward. “This trip’s list is larger than usual. Please clear the portal apotheke as soon as supplies arrive. I’ll be done in a month or so.” With that, he entered the portal and stepped into the human world.
You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you shouldn’t have. An energy drink, maybe a workout—you could’ve powered through. But no. Now you were an hour late, felt like hot garbage, and your manager was glaring like you were the most irritating creature alive. To be fair, you were feeling low enough that you believed it. “I’m so sorry, London. I’ve just had a rough morning. I’ll shake it off and get those orders processed.” “You’d better. Mr. Pronge is bringing a VIP this afternoon, and I don’t need him seeing whatever this shitshow is.” With that she stormed off leaving you wanting to cry at your desk. Shitshow indeed.
Andy’s contact, Robert Pronge, was utterly repulsive, yet he knew his business. The sooner Andy finished, the better. With Pronge’s help he'd have eighty percent of the list done in three weeks. Human logistics had improved enough that Andy might finish entirely in said three weeks instead of a month, especially if he collected the forge equipment directly from China. That detail, unfortunately, drew Pronge’s attention. The insufferable man pressed further about Andy’s operations, fishing for future ventures. “Yeah, sure,” Andy mused. Next time Natasha could deal with Pronge. Hard to be presumptive when you’re statuary. He chuckled at the thought—then a commotion from the offices had both men jumping.
This had to be the worst day of your life. Toner cartridges don’t just explode. And if they somehow did, not all over the user. You were covered in toner powder, holding ruined documents over a smoking printer, when everyone converged at once. London was livid. “What is the matter with you? What did you do‽” She would’ve torn into you further, but Mr. Pronge—and arguably the most handsome man you’d ever seen—stepped in. “You always go around breaking my equipment?” Pronge asked. You wanted to vanish on the spot. The handsome man studied you, head tilted, gaze lingering. Somehow, it felt worse than all the other eyes on you. How it made you forget Pronge’s sneering presence was mystifying in itself. “Well! Nothing to say? Fine—we’re docking the replacement from your pay, and you’ll spend the rest of your shift cleaning this shit up!” You did everything physically possible not to burst into tears.
Andy stayed back, though every aspect disgusted him. The human, smeared with unpleasant ichor had probably done it to herself, but the reaction around her was needlessly cruel. The malice of humans still managed to surprise him. Didn’t they care for their women anymore? As Pronge continued his tirade, Andy studied you. At first, he dismissed you as just another human. But then his eyes lingered longer than they should have. And when he realized he’d tilted his head, he recoiled. What? No. Absolutely not.
Andy told himself it was nothing. A flicker of pity, that was all. He was a good male—responsible, dutiful. That human, though… covered in soot, trembling under the weight of sharp words, and left to clean the mess alone. It was intolerable. He wasn’t interested—of course not—he only cared because it reflected poorly on Pronge to leave a worker broken down like that. And because… well, because he was raised better. A good male looked after the vulnerable. That was all.
By the time the humans dispersed from the chaos, Andy had already excused himself. He drifted toward the cluster of cafés he’d noticed earlier. Food was a universal balm. If he brought something back—something thoughtful—it would balance the scales. A kind gesture and nothing more.
The café was bright, scented with sugar and something bitter he didn’t recognize. A woman behind the counter lit up when she saw him, leaning forward with practiced charm. “Well, hello there. What can I get you?” Andy glanced at the boards overhead and frowned. Too many options, none familiar. “I need… a pick-me-up for a woman,” he said at last. “I don’t know what she’d like.” The barista blinked, her smile faltering. She’d expected him to order for himself, maybe linger, flirt back. Instead, she gave a tight laugh, brushing off her disappointment as she busied herself at the register. “Well… our blueberry scones are really good. And this drink’s been popular lately—light, fruity, colorful. Very popular on Insta.” He nodded. “That will do.”
She moved through the motions quickly, sliding the scone into a bag and pouring the drink, stealing little glances at him. When she handed them over, her smile had shifted—less playful, more gentle. “Whoever she is,” she murmured, “she’s lucky.” Andy didn’t even react, just gave a curt nod and turned away, repeating his mantra in silence as he left:
Food. A gesture. A transaction of decency. Then she will be out of mind.
The barista watched him go, sighing as she wiped the counter wistfully lamenting that all the good men were taken.
You were still wiping up toner when something landed on your desk with a soft thud. You startled, turning, and saw a neat little paper bag and a bright, summery drink. The man from before stood there, posture loose but eyes unreadable. “Extras,” he said shortly, as if that explained anything.
You blinked. “For me?”
He inclined his head once.
You opened the bag and found your favorite blueberry scone, the familiar scent a comforting contrast to the toner tang clinging to you. Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you said softly. “Really. I… needed this more than I'd realized.”
He shifted, gaze flicking away as though the words unsettled him. “It’s nothing.”
With a small lift of your chin, you offered your name.
His gaze returned to you, steady, unreadable. “Andy Barber.”
“Andy,” you echoed, the name soft on your tongue.
For a moment, it felt like the world had gone still. Then you broke the scone in half, laughter bubbling up—light, a little breathless—because the powdered sugar dusted your already-ruined shirt like some cruel cosmic joke. You laughed anyway, shoulders shaking.
Andy froze. His head tilted, just slightly, as he listened—drawn in by the sound before he even realized he was doing it. Something in him leaned toward you, unthinking, instinctive. By the time he straightened, his jaw was tight, as though the gesture had betrayed him.
The moment fractured when London swept in, her heels clicking like punctuation. She eyed the scone, then the drink, then you, her smile softening into something so sweet it had to be fake. “Well, aren’t you spoiled,” she said smoothly. “Some of us go months without such little indulgences.” Her gaze slid toward Andy, lingering there with a practiced ease. “Not that I mind. It’s nice to be treated—over dinner, perhaps, Mr…?”
She let the question hang like an open door.
Andy didn’t even seem to notice. He gave his name politely, but his focus was already back on you. “Enjoy.”
Your heart skipped. London wasn’t the one he answered. He hadn’t taken her bait, hadn’t given her even a scrap of acknowledgment beyond basic manners. Instead, his gaze settled on you again—steady, undiscernable, and yet… there was something in it. Something that made heat creep up your neck.
London’s smile twitched, just a little, the edges sharp where she meant them soft. She had expected him to notice her. To want her. But his attention had already gone back to you. And unless you were imagining it, his head tilted the faintest degree as he studied you.
You took a small bite of the scone just to cover your nerves as you studied him in return. You were reminded of the seven-foot blue aliens you'd been pining over just that morning. Andy was, simply put, huge—broad shouldered, towering, striking in a way that made your stomach flutter in spite of yourself.
When Andy inclined his head once more and left, you were left in stunned silence. You almost felt bad seeing London’s brittle smile. Almost.
Andy told himself the distraction was over. The scone, the laugh, the foolish tilt of his head—it was done. He had errands to finish, a realm to return to, and a human who would vanish from his thoughts the moment he stepped back through the portal.
The gate shimmered, and he emerged outside Nagasaki with a list of purchases to collect. Camellia cuttings, specialty teas, lacquered tools—items Maria had carefully noted. He moved with efficiency, trading silver for slips of green wrapped in damp cloth, his mind narrowed to the work.
Then a vendor pressed something into his hand—a pale, powder-dusted sphere. “Mochi,” she explained. The powder clung to his fingertips and in a flash he saw sugar dusting your shirt, your laugh bubbling up as though it surprised even you. He swallowed it down—both the sweet and the memory.
By the time he returned through the portal to your country, he had doubled his efforts to forget. He was happy his next matter of business was his favorite—the farm. He confirmed his order—apple grafts in new varieties; white strawberries; purple tomatoes.
Then he spotted you—crouched near a crate of early lettuces, chatting easily with a young farmhand. A basket dangled from your arm, half-filled with a variety of produce.
Andy went still, the slips of grafted apple wood forgotten in his grip.
You laughed at something the farmhand said, and the sound threaded through the air, snaring him tighter.
One of the farmers nearby called to him. “Mr. Barber—your purple tomato plants are ready to go. Want to have a look before we pack them up?”
Your head snapped up. “Purple tomatoes?”
The farmhand grinned. “Yeah, a specialty hybrid variety. Gorgeous to grow, real rich flavor. We’ve only got the plants right now, but you can come see if you like.”
You rose with your basket, curiosity bright in your eyes. “Oh, I have to see those.” Then you noticed Andy standing there, watching, silent as stone. Recognition flickered. “You,” you said.
Andy inclined his head once. “Me,” he agreed.
The farmer glanced between you both, oblivious. He motioned down the row. “Come on, I’ll show you both the tomatoes.”
You moved toward the greenhouse without hesitation. Andy followed, telling himself it was only because the farmer had invited him. The greenhouse was warm, earthy, alive. Sunlight filtered through the glass, gilding the rows of plants. You bent close to inspect them, fingertips brushing a leaf like it was something delicate and rare. When you leaned in to study the dusky wine-colored fruits hanging from their stems, his head tilted again, unbidden. “They’re beautiful,” you murmured. Andy said nothing as a thought bloomed, dangerous and sweet: she belongs here.
Andy’s head tilted again before he caught himself, but the damage was done. His mind had already run ahead, weaving the image of you not in some fluorescent office, not under the scorn of petty mortals—but here. Among plants. Among his orchards. With him.
The sound of your voice struck him like the memory of your laughter. “They’re stunning! You’re here for these? You have excellent taste,” you said, eyes bright, lips curved. Perfect, Andy thought. The word rang through him like a hammer strike.
Perfect little heifer.
He shut his jaw, as though he could grind the thought to powder, but it only rooted deeper. His gaze swept over you, cataloguing: the curve of your shoulders, the steadiness in your hands, the way you touched growing things with reverence. You were strong. Resilient. Breedable.
The word coiled in his mind, primal and heavy. You were meant for green things. For orchards. For him. His thoughts seethed. I'll bring her to Themorea. I’ll see her in the gardens where no mortal cruelty can reach her. Mine to guard. Mine to keep. My perfect mate.
The goods Andy had procured were steadily portalling in from his rented storage lockers to the apotheke. He wasn’t expected back for another couple of weeks, so he’d hoped to find the place empty.
“Andy! There’s no way we have everything yet. What happened?”
He’d been so caught up in planning how to get you here that he nearly missed Lloyd, processing the last batch of goods he’d sent through.
Andy studied him for a moment. Lloyd wasn’t the most loyal, nor the most trustworthy—but he was capable and meticulous. He and his brother Fowler were willing to get their hands dirty in ways the others avoided. That made them dangerous. And dependable.
“I need a secure apartment at my estate,” Andy said evenly. “Discreet. Comfortable.”
Lloyd’s cerulean eyes slid up from the crates, glinting with sly amusement. His lips curved into a serpent’s smile. “Ah. So that’s it. Fowler and I never thought you’d break first. Always so noble, and here you are—setting up a love nest.”
Andy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.
Lloyd smirked, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Don’t coil up so tight, grumpcake. Fowler and I have talked about it ourselves—finding companions. Mortals aren’t without their charms, and Themorea could use a little… diversification. A little investment in the future?”
The words slithered between jest and intent, a half-joke that carried too much weight to dismiss. “Maybe. Will you help?”
Lloyd chuckled, turning back to the crates. “Oh, I’ll see to it. And when you see how well it works out… don’t be surprised if Fowler and I go shopping, too.”
Andy gave a noncommittal nod and turned to leave when Lloyd added, “But you get to explain it to Natasha.”
Andy froze just shy of the portal. He hadn’t considered how this would look to the Gorgon. He blanched, and Lloyd’s chuckle curled through the air.
“I take it you found some sweet thing that rewrote your brain, because this is very unlike you. I can’t wait to meet her. Don’t get me wrong—I support this more than you know. My brother and I aren’t the only ones who’ve felt… emptiness. Many of the others will back you if it plays out well.” Lloyd’s grin widened, sharp as fangs. “Hell, I think even Natasha… well, shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, eh?” He shook off his visible excitement and got back to business. “Fowler and I’ll have the apartment ready in a week.”
Andy drew a slow breath and studied Lloyd. For once, there was no game in his words. He was being almost… sincere. How had Andy not noticed the loneliness, the stagnation of his peers? It seemed cuttings for the orchards weren’t the only grafts Themorea needed. Then he thought of you, and his resolve hardened. The details of how others might follow could wait. You were not up for debate. You were his.
Something of that ironclad resolution must have shone in his eyes, because Lloyd practically vibrated. “Oh, I can’t wait to meet your little sunshine if she gives you that look.”
With that parting jab, Lloyd slithered off to find his brother, and Andy stepped through the portal.
Pronge was ahead of schedule on the list and practically crowing. Andy endured it in silence. Then you walked past the glass partition. Pronge caught the flicker in Andy’s expression and his smirk sharpened.
“You know,” Pronge drawled, leaning back in his chair, “my office manager said something funny the other day. Not much for brains—good thing I didn’t hire her for that—but she’s got a mouth on her. Ranted about that little disaster over there.” His chin flicked toward you. “Called her Miss Dumpster Fire. Said you were hanging around her desk, even brought her a scone. Sounded jealous, if you ask me.”
Andy’s face didn’t change, but his body angled forward, slow and deliberate. Pronge’s grin slipped. He lifted both hands.
“Hey, hey. No disrespect. I’ve been looking into you, Barber. And you know what I found?” He tapped the desk with a thick finger. “Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. The way you move across borders, the way your shipments vanish?” He gave a low whistle.
Andy’s voice came low. “Get to your point.”
Pronge swallowed, but his eyes gleamed with oily confidence. “Me? I like keeping things tidy. Gossip like that can turn messy. But for the right consideration, I can make sure your little miss stays out of everyone’s mouth. That jealous office manager? Quiet. The whole trail? Gone. Neat and clean.” He snapped his fingers. “Like she never existed.”
Andy didn’t know what Pronge thought he saw in his expression, but the man raised his hands again in mock surrender. “Relax, Barber. I’m not saying it’s personal. Strictly business. You want her gone, I can make it happen. You want her safe?” His grin returned, razor-thin. “Different kind of arrangement. Either way, she’s yours.”
Andy hated the means, but couldn’t deny the usefulness. They struck a deal.
Mr. Pronge had been strangely kind to you the rest of the week and even sent you home early on Friday. “Get a jump on the weekend,” he said, as if generosity came naturally.
You took him up on it.
At home, you made a cup of tea and curled up with book six, ready to lose yourself for a few hours. You did, until you realized you weren’t picturing blue alien hunks on the page. You were imagining Andy—and had been for several books now. You regretted not asking him out. He would’ve made a move if he wanted to see me again. Stop daydreaming. That bitter little truth lodged in your chest, and eventually the daydreams slipped into sleep.
It wasn’t restful. Your neck ached, dull and throbbing, and your limbs felt too heavy to shift. Waking never quite came. You floated instead, thoughts drifting, until Andy’s voice—low, steady, familiar—cut through the haze.
”You’re okay. Relax your brow, beloved, and rest.” Dream Andy whispered, and this time… you obeyed.
You didn’t stir again. Your breathing stayed even, though a faint twitch now and then betrayed the drug working its way through your system. Andy sat in the chair beside the bed, elbows braced on his knees, watching you in the soft light. It was just a jab. She’ll sleep the night and have a slight headache in the morning. No muss, no fuss. Vile assurances from a vile man. The brothers had done a good job on the apartment at least. You lay half-curled in the blankets, hair spilling across the pillow, lips parted in unconscious repose. You weren’t meant for that world. Not for Pronge. Not for anyone but him.
A crease flickered across your brow, subtle but sharp enough to draw Andy forward. He brushed a strand of hair back from your face, his hand lingering for a heartbeat. “Rest, beloved,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Rest.” The tension eased from your expression. Convinced you'd sleep well now, Andy stepped out to prepare for the morning when everything would change.
You stirred, head heavy, limbs sluggish. Your hand curled in the blanket, trying to anchor yourself. This wasn’t your chair. The cushion beneath you was a bed—broad, indulgent, too perfect. You let out a weak laugh. Dream Andy, you’re getting ridiculous. First you show up in my head, now you’ve whisked me away to a dreamy bed.
As if summoned, Andy appeared.
You blinked at the figure framed in the doorway, early light bending around him. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that burned steady even in half-shadow. “Andy,” you whispered, relief rushing in. Of course. Dream Andy, come to soothe you again.
When he crossed to the bed, you rose without hesitation. The ache in your neck, the fog in your head—none of it mattered once his arms closed around you. Solid. Steady. The cedar-dark heat of him seeped into you until something inside cracked open. You nuzzled against him, tugging him down onto the bed. His surprised huff turned into a low, pleased sound as he gathered you closer.
You kissed his throat, then his jaw, chasing the warmth of him, desperate for more. He groaned your name and you silenced him with your mouth.
The kiss stole your breath. Not blurred or flimsy like dreams. This was sharp, consuming, devastatingly real.
Panic bolted through you. You tore yourself back, colliding with the headboard, heart pounding.
“This isn’t a dream‽”
Andy didn’t flinch. He stayed exactly where you’d left him gaze locked on yours. “No,” he said softly. “It’s not. You’re safe. With me.”
The words wrapped around you like iron, like a vow. He didn’t reach for you right away—he waited, letting the weight of his presence settle, letting you see the truth in his eyes.
Your fingers trembled in your lap. “Then… how?”
His lips quirked, just barely. “Later.” He leaned closer, bracing a hand against the headboard beside your head, his body heat searing through the air between you. “Right now, all that matters is this.”
His presence overwhelmed your senses as his mouth brushed yours again, this time slower, deeper, deliberate. A real kiss. A real Andy. And instead of panic, fire licked through your veins.
You whimpered against his lips, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hand slid to cradle your jaw, angling you to take more of him, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek as if he’d been starved for the shape of you. You melted into it, hands gripping the fabric at his shoulders, desperate to pull him closer.
“Andy…” you breathed between kisses, your voice ragged, caught somewhere between wonder and hunger.
“Mine,” he growled against your mouth, his voice rough. The word went through you like lightning, and then his weight pressed you into the mattress, solid and commanding.
Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him in. He ground against you, hard length sliding against your core through too many layers, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound greedily, tongue tangling with yours.
Your hands fumbled at his shirt, desperate to feel skin. He caught the urgency, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion before you were on his chest, the ridges of muscle tight beneath your palms. He was beautiful, real.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, catching your wrist and pressing a reverent kiss to your pulse. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t you dare,” you whispered, voice breaking with need.
The look he gave you then—hungry, triumphant, undone—set your body aflame. He tore your shirt over your head, tossed it aside, and lowered himself to taste your bare skin. His mouth claimed your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. You arched up, moaning when his teeth grazed your nipple, his tongue soothing after.
“Andy—”
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice dark as his hand slid down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.
“Andy!” you cried, hips bucking as his touch found you, clever fingers sliding through slick heat. You clutched at his shoulders as pleasure jolted through you.
“Good girl,” he growled, circling just right, pressing until you were gasping, writhing, desperate for more. He pushed a finger then two inside, stretching you open while his thumb teased your clit, each movement coaxing you closer to the edge. “That’s it,” Andy whispered against your ear, biting your lobe, his pace relentless. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
Your body obeyed, climax tearing through you like wildfire. You clung to him, crying his name as waves of pleasure crashed, your thighs trembling around his hand. He held you through it, groaning as if your pleasure fed his own hunger.
When you finally sagged back against the pillows, boneless and gasping, Andy drew his fingers from you—then brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a guttural sound that made your core throb all over again.
“Mine,” he repeated, voice raw.
And then he was tugging his belt loose, freeing his cock, thick and straining, flushed at the tip. Your breath caught at the sight.
“Please,” you whispered.
Andy smirked before sliding the head against your slick entrance. “Dream or not,” he murmured as he pushed inside, stretching you inch by glorious inch, “you’ll never wake from me.”
Some part of your brain realized that should worry you. You’ve essentially been kidnapped by a man you barely know. And then you heard your own mocking voice from a few weeks ago. Why did the MCs always fight it? Oh nooooo. A devoted mate and guaranteed orgasms? Run awaaaaaay! Idiots. And you were no idiot.
Your walls clenched as Andy eased in, slow but unrelenting, filling you until you couldn’t breathe. He was thick, stretching you almost painfully, the kind of stretch that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
Your hands clawed at his back, dragging across muscle as you gasped, “Andy—oh my god—”
His forehead dropped to yours, sweat already misting his brow. His voice rasped, guttural. “That’s it, sweetheart. Take me. All of me.”
When his hips finally pressed flush against yours, the weight of him buried deep inside, you cried out. You’d never felt so full, so utterly claimed.
Andy groaned like a man breaking. “You feel like you were made for me.”
He gave you no time to reply before withdrawing, slow enough to make you whimper, then slamming back in hard enough to rattle the bedframe. You yelped, the shock of pleasure-pain stealing your breath. He did it again. And again. Each thrust deeper, harder, more desperate.
Your moans turned frantic, the air thick with the sound of skin on skin, the creak of the mattress, his ragged growls.
“Andy—” you sobbed, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
“Say it louder,” he snarled against your neck, biting down just enough to leave a mark. “Scream for me.”
And you did. Every thrust knocked another cry from your throat. He drove into you with a brutal rhythm, hips slamming, cock hitting that perfect spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.
Your body arched under him, begging, chasing the edge. “I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, thumb finding your clit again, circling hard and fast. “You’re mine, and you’re going to fall apart on my cock.”
Your orgasm tore through you, violent and consuming, your whole body seizing around him as you screamed his name. The world went white, every nerve lit with fire as your climax milked him inside you.
Andy’s control—and glamor—shattered. With a roar, he pounded into you harder, faster, chasing his own release. His thrusts turned erratic, savage, until he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you with a shuddering groan, heat flooding your core.
He collapsed against you, both of you gasping, bodies slick with sweat, tangled in sheets that smelled of cedar and sex.
For a long moment, silence. Only the sound of his heartbeat hammering against your chest, your own pulse answering in frantic rhythm.
Then Andy lifted his head, kissed you slow and sweet, utterly at odds with the feral way he’d just taken you. His voice came rough but steady:
“Not a dream.”
“Are you sure? Because I think I'm dreaming that you're a minotaur.”
Andy huffed a laugh. “You think human men could ever?”
You laughed surprising even yourself. “No. And this is so much better than blue aliens.” Laughing even harder at Andy's confused look, you barely wheezed out. “Later. Add it to all the later topics.”
