Page 18 of Bound to the Orc Ranger

He slides a hand under me, palming my butt and lifting me more fully to his mouth. My knees fall further open, my heels digging into his back. I pant, short and sharp, unable to catch my breath as his tongue spears into my core. It’s big, like the rest of him, filling me as it moves in and out.

His tusks press into me on either side of my entrance, the added sensation sending my pleasure even higher, the coil of tension in my center tightening.

Then Rovann growls, the sound vibrating through me. The end of his tongue curls up, stroking over a magical spot inside. I gasp, mouth opening wide on a silent scream as I break on his tongue, hot delight pouring outward in a dizzying spiral of sensation that overwhelms me with pleasure.

I shiver, lost in the aftershocks as he picks me up and pulls me into the water and onto his lap. My head lolls on his shoulder. The rich clean scent of him fills my nose, and I instinctively nuzzle into him, pressing little kisses to his hot green skin.

His erection strains against my thigh, the round balls of the barbells a tantalizing sensation. But when I reach for him, he pulls my hand away.

“If you touch me, my bride, there will be no more ‘getting to know you,’” he growls. “There will be only taking.”

My core pulses at the heat of his words, and I reach again.

“No. I promised you wooing, and wooing you will get.” Rovann lifts my hand and nips it lightly with his tusks, his tongue hot on my palm.

His eyes full of promise.

Rovann pleasures me again when we make camp for the night and again in the morning, his dark eyes studying my face as his fingers work me to another shattering climax.

I’ve never done anything like this before, never felt anything near this level of arousal—and all before he coats my skin with his special fluid.

The way he holds me after makes my heart pinch with a different kind of longing. He makes it so easy to dream of a life like this, loved and adored.

I conjure waffles for breakfast, and even Hurtle eats one, plain and without syrup.

“Not bad,” he grunts, which is Hurtle for “delicious.” He snags another from the top of the stack as Rovann chuckles.

The pixies had gone to sleep for the day, but the sweet buttery smell of waffles and maple syrup must wake them. The leader flies into the clearing, her light-blue skin shimmering iridescently in the sunlight. I asked her name the other day, but Rovann let me know many of the wild fae don’t share their names lightly.

“Is this pizza?” She points a tiny finger. Pizza is their new favorite word, and I make them a small one each evening, no matter what Rovann and I have for dinner.

“These are waffles.” At her tiny frown, I add, “It’s kind of like pizza, a sweet pizza.”

“Sweet pizza.” Her expression clears, and she calls out in the high whistle of her normal voice.

I share an amused smile with Rovann as I pour syrup over a waffle and sprinkle it with crushed hazelnuts. These are the waffles I’d always dreamed of, homemade instead of toaster, and with real maple syrup instead of the flavored kind.

He snags it from me, sliding it onto his own plate before the other pixies reach us.

“That is ours!” The head pixie hovers in front of him, brandishing a small silver sword.

“There’s plenty.” He uses an absurdly huge knife to cut off a wedge and shove it into his mouth. The bite disappears in two gulps, and he shoots me a heated grin. “I worked up quite an appetite this morning.”

A blush heats my cheeks, but I smile back and prepare another waffle. “Here. I’ve made you a new one.”

The pixie flies back over to supervise, dipping a tiny finger into a pool of syrup gathered in one of the waffle’s wells. When she tastes it, her face beams with delight, her whole body brightening enough to rival the morning sunlight. “Sweet pizza!”

She cries out again, and little flashes of blue dart out of the trees. The sword disappears from her hands, and for once, she joins the others in carrying away their prize.

“Pixies have swords?” I ask Rovann. I’d never seen anything like that on her before.

“They may be the smallest of the wild fae, but do not discount them,” he says. “They are fierce when they flock.”

After breakfast, we break camp. As we ride through the forest, he tells me more of this world. “Alarria is an older, wilder realm of Faerie, cut off from the changes made to Avalon. There are no castles, no larger towns. We live closer to nature, like the Faerie of old, and accordingly, the Moon Goddess brings mostly wild fae here.”

“Wild fae?”

“The ones with earth magic.” He raises a hand, showing off his rich green skin. “Orcs are bound to the earth, usually to trees and plant life, and that connection is written into the color of our skin.”

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