Page 57 of Her Orc Protector

The words hung in the air, weighted with possibility. This wasn't like our kiss in the training yard—impulsive, fueled by adrenaline and surprise. This was a choice. Deliberate. Considered.

I met his gaze steadily. "Then don't," I said, the words barely above a whisper.

For a heartbeat, he remained still, searching my face as if to be certain. Then he closed the distance between us, his mouth finding mine with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes.

The kiss started slowly—tentative, a question more than a demand. But something shifted when my hands came up to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. His arms encircled me, one hand splaying across my lower back, the other tangling in my hair as the kiss deepened.

My back pressed against the wall beside the window. His tusks grazed my skin—not painful, just present, a reminder of his otherness that sent a thrill through me instead of fear.

He pulled back slightly, his breathing ragged. "Issy," he murmured, and my name in his mouth sounded different somehow—cherished.

I reached up to touch his face, my fingers tracing the edge of a scar that ran along his cheekbone. "I want this," I said, the words feeling like a discovery. "I want you."

Something flickered in his eyes—relief, wonder, hunger. Then he was kissing me again, deeper, his hands more insistent as they moved down my sides.

I felt a tide rising within me—desire, yes, but something else, too. A sense of reclamation. Of choice. Every touch between uswas because I wanted it, because I'd invited it, because I was present in my own skin.

Uldrek sank to his knees before me, his forehead pressing against my hip for a moment in a gesture that felt almost reverent. His hands circled my waist, strong and sure, then slid around to spread across my lower back.

He looked up at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded, my hand coming to rest against his cheek.

With deliberate care, he lifted the hem of my skirt just enough to expose my ankles, then my calves. His hands were warm against my skin as they traveled upward, leaving trails of sensation in their wake. When they reached my thighs, I couldn't suppress a small sound of pleasure.

He paused, looking up at me again. "Still good?"

I nodded, unable to form words around the tightness in my throat.

His hands continued their journey, sliding around to grip the backs of my thighs with gentle pressure. Then he leaned forward, kissing the exposed skin just above my knee. The contrast of his warm mouth and the cool air made me shiver.

"Cold?" he murmured against my skin.

I shook my head. "No. Not cold."

He hummed in acknowledgment, his mouth traveling higher, each kiss more lingering than the last. When he reached the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, my hands found their way into his hair, holding on as much for stability as for connection.

We stayed like that—me standing, him kneeling, my skirt gathered in his hands as his mouth mapped every inch of me. It wasn't about taking or being taken; it was about discovery. About choice. Each touch was a question, each breath an answer.

When his mouth pressed against me through the thin fabric of my undergarments, I gasped, my head falling back against the wall. He paused, checking my reaction, then continued withmore purpose, the pressure and heat of his mouth building a tension I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years.

My fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer. He responded by hooking his fingers around the edge of my undergarments and drawing them down, exposing me fully to his gaze.

His breath warmed my skin as he looked at me, and for a heartbeat, I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. I didn’t look away.

His voice, low and hoarse, rumbled against my thigh. “Still with me?”

I nodded. “Yes.” Then, quieter: “Please.”

That word used to feel dangerous. Now, it felt like power.

One of his hands stayed at my hip while the other slid down to lift my leg—gently, carefully—guiding it over his shoulder. The shift opened me, angled me toward his mouth. I gasped at the stretch, the sudden intimacy of it. I felt exposed and rooted all at once.

“You alright?” he murmured, his lips brushing the inside of my thigh.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Stars, yes.”

He didn’t hesitate after that.

His mouth met me with heat and hunger—slow at first, teasing, then deeper, more insistent. His tongue licked a slow, deliberate line through my folds before circling my clit, soft at first, then firmer. He worked me with a rhythm that had intention behind it—no guesswork, no nerves—just precision and pressure and a quiet certainty that unraveled me second by second.

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