Page 5 of How To Woo A Warrior Orc

He smells the way autumn itself should: like pumpkin squares and cinnamon, like ginger cookies with sugared tops, like apple cider and dark, hot chocolate all rolled into one.

I want to run into his wall of muscle and soak up the way he feels and smells until I’m stuffed with it, until it replaces the bleak, stressed out darkness inside me with all the ways I should be feeling right now.

I want to so very badly. My feet take a step towards him, and I grip the counter behind me with both hands to keep from touching him.

I shouldn’t.

It’s not fair for me to seek comfort from him, an orc who works for me.

Highly inappropriate.

I bite my lip, staring up at him, feeling sad and desperate and not at all like myself.

“Is this still about the festival?” he asks, his green forehead furrowed.

The concern clear on his face makes me melt, and some of that darkness inside me dissipates. I nod, not trusting the tight knot in my throat enough to speak.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks, and I recognize some of that desperation I feel in his words.

I shake my head, unwilling to put it on him. “I don’t pay you enough to demand any more work from you.”

His expression darkens, and his lips pull back, exposing the tusks I almost forget are there, because they’re just part of him.

Now, though, with them on full display, I tilt my head, fascinated by them.

I take a step closer, just to get a better look–

And squeak as his arms wrap back around me, pulling me tight.

“Do you need a hug?” he asks, his voice a low, delicious rumble against where my cheek’s pressed against him.

I breathe him in, inhaling that wonderful smell, and the tension that’s left bean-sized knots across my back starts to dissolve.

I bury my face in his shirt, my hands automatically going to the small of his back, which is about as high as I come up on him.

By the moon, he makes me feelsafe.

I snuggle closer, and a low moan comes out of him. I stiffen, worried I’ve hurt him somehow, maybe exacerbated an old battle injury. I’ve seen the scars that lace down his sides when his shirt exposes his muscled torso.

It would be hardnotto notice his torso.

It would be even harder not to notice the fact that, ah, something between his legs is growing larger.

Larger, and much, much harder, until it’s pressing against my thigh.

Distracted and flustered, every single anxious thought practically flies away.

It would be so easy to just rub myself against him like a cat, look up at him and bat my lashes, and see if he can make me forget for a bit longer.

When the bell over the door jangles, I practically leap off of him, dismayed by how quickly my resolve to keep things polite and professional has evaporated with two lovely hugs.

“I, uh, I, um. Sorry,” I stammer, then whip around to the front door. “Welcome to The Pixie’s Perch,” I practically scream at the poor, unsuspecting customer.

My eyes close.

Very smooth. Nonchalant, even.

Ga’Rek makes a rumbling noise that might be a laugh, but I’m too embarrassed to even look at him.

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