Page 65 of Her Rugged Orcs

She whimpers, her body arching between us, and Grash’s laugh rumbles through the room, low and satisfied. "She knows. Don’t you, little one?"

Eira doesn’t answer, but the way she clings to us, the way her body responds to our touch, is answer enough. Dren’s hands slide up her thighs, and I feel her tremble, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She’s claimed, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she would want to be anywhere else.

"I love you always and forever," she whispers. There's no manipulation in her voice, no calculated moves like when we first met. Just raw truth that makes my warrior's heart stumble.

Dren growls against her skin. His possessive sound vibrates through her, making her shiver. I watch as his lips drag lower, pressing against her stomach, marking a path that promises more.

I lean over her, studying the way her eyes darken when I get closer. "Say it again," I command.

She reaches up, her fingers tracing the sharp angles of my face. "I love you, Murok." Her touch slides to Grash, who rumbles with approval. "I love you, Grash." Finally, her hand finds Dren's hair. "I love you, Dren."

I capture her chin between my fingers, tilting her face toward me. "No more doubts?" I ask, because I need to hear it, need to know she's finally stopped fighting this.

"No more doubts," she confirms, and her smile - gods, her smile could bring armies to their knees.

The day stretches ahead of us, full of promise and desire.

Eira is wearing Dren’s shirt—too big for her, the fabric hanging loose off one shoulder—and I feel a possessive surge at the sight. She looks small, delicate, but I know better. She’s as fierce as any of us, and that’s why she’s ours.

I move first, my fingers brushing the edge of the shirt where it drapes over her shoulder. "This doesn’t belong on you," I say, low and commanding. I tug at the fabric, sliding it down her arm, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the faint scars that mark her skin. She doesn’t resist, but her breath hitches, and her body tenses—not in fear, but anticipation.

Dren’s hand is already there, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone, his touch feather-light but deliberate. He doesn’t speak, rarely does, but his eyes say everything. They’re dark with need and I know he’s as lost to her as I am.

Grash growls from her other side, his massive frame shifting closer. "Stop teasing her," he rumbles, his voice rough, his hands already moving to the hem of the shirt. "She doesn’t need your games, Murok."

I smirk, leaning in to brush my lips against her ear. "He’s impatient," I murmur, my breath hot against her skin. "But I know you like it slow, don’t you, Eira?"

She shivers, her head tilting back, and her lips part. "You’re all impossible," she mutters, but there’s no bite in her words, only heat.

Grash pulls the shirt off in one swift motion, tossing it aside, and suddenly she’s bare, her body exposed to us, to the light, to the hunger in our eyes. She’s perfect—slender but strong, her skin pale and marked with the faint reminders of her past. But she’s not broken. She’s ours.

My hands are on her before I even think, sliding up her sides, feeling the way her muscles tense and relax beneath my touch. Dren’s fingers are at her hips, his touch light but insistent, and Grash’s hands are everywhere—her shoulders, her waist, her thighs. She gasps, her body arching between us, and her hands clutch at the furs beneath her.

"Too much?" I ask, my voice a low purr, though I already know the answer. She shakes her head, her eyes dark, her breath coming in gasps.

"No," she whispers, her body trembling beneath us. She’s overwhelmed, and I smirk. Good. She should be. She should feel the weight of our touch, the way we worship every inch of her.

Dren’s lips find her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and she moans, the sound soft and raw. Grash’s hands slide lower, his grip firm, possessive, and I notice the way her body arches into his touch, the way she craves it.

I lean in, my lips brushing hers, and she meets me halfway, kissing me with desperation. I’ll never tire of the way she gives herself to us, the way she trusts us with her body, her heart.

I feel Grash’s growl vibrate through the bed, and Dren’s hands tighten on her hips, his touch possessive, worshipful. We’re a tangle of limbs, of heat, of need, and I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

My hand slides up her stomach, feeling the way her muscles tense beneath my touch, and she gasps, her body arching into me. I smirk, my thumb brushing over the curve of her breast, and she trembles.

"Sensitive," I murmur, my voice teasing.

"Stop talking," she mutters, her hands gripping my shoulders.

I chuckle, leaning in to kiss her again, my tongue sliding against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She moans, the sound raw and unguarded as her body arches into mine.

Grash’s hands are on her thighs, his grip firm, possessive, and I see the way she shivers, the way her body responds to his touch. Dren’s lips are at her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and she moans, the sound soft and raw.

She’s consumed by us, and I know she wouldn’t have it any other way.

45

GRASH

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