Page 45 of Bound to the Orc Renegade

When Krivoth grumbles something under his breath, Storm huffs in amusement.

Mist yawns loudly, showing off a mouthful of fangs, then bumps her head against my thigh, asking for scratches.

Krivoth restarts the fire and makes me mint tea. It’s not coffee, but it’s hot and the minty taste’s refreshing.

He takes the leftover deer meat out of the magically treated leather he’d stored it in and slices it into strips, which he fries in the last of the fat. I’m beginning to think his real magic might be what he can do with nothing more than an iron skillet, some salt, and whatever he finds in the woods.

Breakfast is hot and salty and greasy and effing delicious. Even Mist steals a piece without a single snide comment about the horrors of meat being cooked.

Then we’re off, galloping through a magical purple forest, with Krivoth’s arms around me, keeping me safe and warm.

I practice activating my magic as we ride, adding the challenge of motion as well as the fact that I can’t physically touch the ground when I’m on Storm’s back. It doesn’t work. I’m not sure which of the factors stops me—maybe it’s both of them combined—and the only thing I can think of is to go back to my original method of feeling Krivoth’s magic to make the connection.

Closing my eyes, I let myself sink back into him. But the constant sway of our bodies, the thump of the unicorn’s hooves, the flashes of light and dark on my eyelids as tree limbs temporarily block the sun… It’s all too effing distracting.

“Keep hold of me,” I say, tapping at the hand spread across my stomach. Then I do something only possible because I trust Krivoth so much. I play jungle gym on his body, clinging to the arm he uses to grip Storm’s mane, lifting my knees onto his thighs.

“Taylor, what—?”

“I need to feel your magic. Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” I say with a lot more conviction than I feel. My movements aren’t anything anyone would call graceful, but after a few minutes, I’ve turned completely around, facing Krivoth, my legs wrapped around his waist, my hands on his shoulders.

“That was painful to watch.” Mist laughs her purr laugh.

“I disagree,” Krivoth says, his eyes full of heat. “She can practice that maneuver whenever she wants.”

His hand flexes on my lower back, sending a rush of tingles through me. If I let myself drop down just a bit, I’d be right on top of his dick.

Magic, Taylor, I remind myself. You’re doing this for the magic.

And yet, when I lean my forehead against him and try to focus on his magic, I feel a concentration of it at his groin. I jerk upright, opening my mouth to ask what the hell it is.

Then my lips snap closed on a poorly muffled giggle. Oh, god, did I really almost ask him if he has a magical cock?

“Did you get it to work?” he asks, looking at me closely.

“Nope!” I shake my head, the sides of my messy bob long enough to whip my face. I bury it against his shoulder again, scrunching my eyes closed and trying to block out every other distraction… especially the one I can feel calling to me from his cock.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Krivoth

Taylor scrambling around to straddle me gets me halfway erect, and as soon as her legs wrap around my waist, there’s no longer any “halfway” about it. My cock aches for her so intensely my stud comes to life as well. The large piercing senses her nearness and stretches outward with its magic to feel what her sensitive nub will like best.

She jerks away, and I swear desire flashes across her expressive face, only to be replaced by amused shock, her lips shaking with it. Then my bride presses against me again, her forehead burrowing into my chest, and my arm tightens around her.

Selfishly, I hope it takes her a while to find her magic so I can continue to hold her like this.

Storm slows to a canter as we cut through a stand of pine, and my knees grip his sides as I adjust my seat to match the new rhythm. We follow the barest suggestion of a trail, one cut by the passage of regular animals instead of purposefully made by fae. The path steepens before us right as the trees open up on rock formations such as I’ve never seen before.

Twenty yards ahead, hexagonal columns of smooth gray stone stand packed together, cleaved in two by a narrow chasm running down the middle. It’s as if a giant poured molten rock into a massive vertical honeycomb and let it harden. The crisp edges of the top cut across the much brighter sky like the teeth of a saw blade. Even the ground of the passage holds the same pattern, hexagonal rocks fitting together perfectly like a flagstone path laid across the floor of the world.

Taylor must feel the jolt of shock that runs through me. She leans back and twists around, her thighs tightening on me to hold her in place. My bride’s mouth falls open, her eyes filled with wonder. “Oh. My. God. This is amazing! Was this made with magic?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“The dragons might,” Mist says. “They’re the longest lived of the fae and have many historians.”

“The Moon Goddess only brought the dragons here three-hundred years ago, same as the rest of us,” Storm grumps. “These rocks are far older.”

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