Page 22 of Her Orc Blacksmiths

Morg cups my face with a large hand and smooths his thumb between my eyebrows. “What has you frowning like that?”

I twist my mouth to the side, unsure of how to answer. I don’t want to insult orc customs by refusing to become a warrior, but at the same time, I know I’m completely unsuited for the profession. The only knife I’ve ever wielded was in the kitchen.

Reluctantly, I meet his gaze and tell him the truth. “I don’t think I’d be a very good warrior.”

Morg frowns in confusion. “Oh? That’s all right.”

“I mean, even if everyone else in the clan knows how to fight, I’d really rather not,” I press, needing him to understand.

He chuckles then, his thumb slipping over my cheek. “Don’t worry, Jasmine, we have enough warriors to keep you safe. And everyone else, too.”

I put my hand on his chest by instinct, needing something to hold on to. My heart is thudding fast, and my voice comes out breathless. “You mean to say not everyone is a warrior in the clan?”

Morg leans in, his cheek brushing my temple. “No, of course not,” he rumbles. “You can do whatever you like now that you’re here.”

The meaning of his words is clear in the context of our conversation, but his closeness suggests a different interpretation. He’s offering me the freedom to explore, and I want it, badly, just as much as I wanted to sit in Torren’s lap this morning.

I tilt my face up, and my cheek touches Morg’s jaw. He brings his arm around my waist, tugging me lightly toward him, and I step forward, into his warmth. I’m aware of the open door behind us. Anyone could come and catch us here, which somehow makes this even sweeter. The thought of Torren walking in on us, seeing us together, is especially intriguing, and it sends a shiver through me.

Morg sniffs at me and groans, “Whatever you’re thinking, love, keep thinking it.”

I let out a breathless laugh. “I was thinking about Torren.”

Chapter

Eight

Morg freezes at my confession and lifts his head, and when his gaze meets mine, hurt glimmers in his dark eyes. He moves as if he wants to release me, so I clutch his tunic with both hands, unwilling to let go.

“No,” I hurry to say, “I was thinking what would happen if he saw us kissing.”

A moment passes as he thinks about my confession. It’s scandalous, I know. But it’s the truth, and I don’t know how else to tackle this situation between us if not with perfect honesty. If I start hiding things from either of them, the lies, even small, white ones, will build up too quickly.

But Morg doesn’t push me away like I’d feared. His lips touch the shell of my ear. “You want him to watch, Jasmine?”

The heat inside my belly intensifies, and I press myself closer to him, seeking relief for the tension. “I want you to kiss me,” I whisper.

Morg doesn’t hesitate. His firm, warm lips touch mine in a gentle caress at first. I return the kiss enthusiastically, and he gathers me close and explores, nipping at my lower lip until I gasp. Then he does something I never expected and swipes his tongue against mine, which I would never have thought would be pleasurable, but it sends a bolt of heat right into my core, winding me tighter.

I slide my hands up to clasp them behind his neck, all but clinging to him as he teaches me what he likes. He pushes his fingers into my hair and gathers it up, then tugs my head to the side gently and peppers hot, barely there kisses down the side of my neck. Goosebumps explode all over my skin at the sensation, and I let out an indecent moan, then bite my lip to silence myself.

“I like the sounds you make,” he rumbles, meeting my gaze. “But perhaps that’s enough for now.”

I want to protest that this wasn’t nearly enough. I’m burning up, and I know he must be, too, because the hard length of him presses into my belly through the fabric of our clothes. I should be terrified, especially because he’s so much larger than me, but the sight of him, I only experience that delightful anticipation that coils up inside me, waiting to burst free at the slightest touch of his hands.

Morg groans. “Don’t look at me like that, love. I don’t want to ravish you in the forge for the first time. I want you spread out in my bed, not in danger of being impaled by some project of mine.”

I laugh at that and release him reluctantly. He pushes back a strand of my hair, his gaze still heated. He’s so incredibly handsome, I need to clench my hands behind my back to keep from reaching for him again, especially since he mentioned the possibility of us ending in his bed.

If we were in the human lands, all of this would have been awfully forward. Sitting in a man’s lap—and even taking a walk without a chaperone—would be impossible, let alone kissing one like this. If anyone found out, they would question my character. But all the women here said that the orc society is different and I shouldn’t worry about propriety so much. And I like it. I like doing what feels natural and right, and if that means kissing this orc to within an inch of his life, maybe that’s exactly what I should do.

Maybe I should drink that tea Ritta gave me just in case.

I spin away from Morg to keep him from seeing how flushed I’m becoming. I step toward the window where another workbench is set up. The cool breeze flowing through the open window calms me somewhat, and I’m able to concentrate on the desktop in front of me.

What I immediately notice is the color of the metal bits and pieces strewn around a half-finished ornament in the middle.

“Is this gold?” I whirl back to face Morg.

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