Page 13 of Bred By the Orc
And although he said nothing to me, I realized he knew I was awake. He rode loosely, relaxed. When I shifted my weight, he inhaled sharply, and I felt his cock stir at my back. Did just knowing I was awake arouse him like that?
I wasn’t certain how I felt about that, but I couldn’t deny my chest gave a little squeeze of what might have been excitement.
Eventually, I couldn’t keep still any longer. “Drakolt? I have to…stop.”
Immediately, he reigned in the horse. Mayhap my surprise showed as he unwrapped me from the plaid, because one of his brows twitched and the corner of his lips curled.
“Ye need only ask, lass,” he told me as he lifted me down from the horse.
Despite the pressure of my bladder, I paused, hands on his strong forearms where they’d landed. His hands were still on my waist, and Ishouldpull away…but instead I tipped my head back to stare up at him.
In the daylight, those tusks were not scary at all. In fact, they looked…intriguing. Primitive. Fascinating.
“And if I asked you to turn around and ride me back to my Father?”
His lips twitched again as he shook his head slowly, not dropping my gaze. “The veil is shut for another month, Sorcha. Ye’re stuck here with me.”
Unconsciously, my fingers flexed on his arms. I swallowed and forced myself to step away. Why did the idea of beingstuck with himnot fill me with the bone-deep terror I expected?
The rest of the day was surprisingly easy. We stopped when I asked, and I had the impression he wasn’t pushing too hard. The horse picked its way carefully up scree-covered mountainsides and down into a small valley.
Through it all, Drakolt held me and answered my questions about his land. He told me about the different species of birds—some I recognized, some I did not—and the surprisingly similar trees. The horse we were riding, he said, was a descendant of the herds stolen from humans generations ago.
The land was as new and fascinating as he himself was.
We avoided speaking of the orcs themselves for the first few days. But on the third morning, after waking curled in his plaid beside a small stream—aching and cold from the hard ground—I asked about Roxanna and his brother who had taken her.
He told me about Varkaan’s good nature and charming habits, and made me laugh with stories from their childhood, where Varkaan always seemed to be getting the best of his grumpy twin. Drakolt proved to me that although Korvak looked vicious, Effie would be safe with him.
I couldn’t wait to see them again, but by now I understood why Drakolt was taking his time. There was a possibility some of Father’s men had followed us, and he didn’t want them to catch us.
By this point, deep down, I was beginning to wonder if I wanted them to catch us at all.
Riding with Drakolt, hearing about his world…somewhere along the way, it had turned from a terror into an adventure.
The sort of adventure I had hoped for—but afraid I would never have—when I left Father’s keep to marry Laird MacDonald.
And thatadventurehad rather a lot to do with the male at my back. The male who held me so safely, who kept me warm, who allowed me my space and comfort and didn’t force himself on me at night, even when Ididwish for a warm set of arms around me.
But that doesn’t mean he didn’t touch me.
Och, nay, he touched me.
At first, I thought the touches unintentional, mere brushes. His fingers might caress my neck for a moment when he gathered my hair to push it to one side when it blew in his face. Or his hand might drop to my thigh when he held the reins, his knuckles teasing the sensitive skin through the layers of gown and chemise.
But after a few days of our leisurely journey, I began to doubt the accidental nature of these touches.
Drakolt’s palm cupped my side, his hand big enough that his thumb rested against my back and his finger caressed the ticklish area under my ribs. Then, when he would brush my hair from one shoulder, his fingers would linger, tracing the upper ridge of my ear and making me shiver. He wouldlower his chin, as if bringing his lips closer to my skin, and I could feel his breath on my neck.
His hand would stroke from my knee to my hip, linger on my thigh to squeeze once, twice, as if testing my strength. I would stiffen, offended, then melt slowly back against him when no further assault came.
Assault, aye, because that was what this was: an assault to my senses.
Drakolt was both hard and soft at once, and despite days on a horse—days in which I knewIfelt less than fresh—he still smelled of that same intriguing scent that made me want to bury my nose in his skin and identify it.
And every single time his fingertips touched my skin, or he proved his strength by holding me tighter, something deep within me jumped to life. My core warmed, dampening at his nearness.
How was it possible I could become aroused by such a monster?
