Page 21 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, nails raking his back. “Please, don’t ever?—”
He swears in Orcish, plunging faster. The room smells of sex and spice. I claw at his biceps, my moans climbing higher.
His mouth crashes over mine, swallowing my scream as I shatter. His rhythm falters, cock pulsing hot inside me. A broken groan escapes his throat, forehead pressed to my collarbone as he spills.
We breathe in ragged unison. His fingers still tremble where they cradle my waist.
“Still think you’ll hurt me?” I whisper.
He huffs against my damp skin. “Know I did.”
I guide his palm to my racing heartbeat. “Alive, aren’t I?”
His laugh sounds frayed. Dangerous. He nips my earlobe. “Barely.”
The weight shifts as he pulls out. Cold air licks my thighs before he drags the quilt over us. His arm settles around my ribs like forged iron. Dawn gilds the apple blossoms plastered to the window.
“Need to check the greenhouse,” he mumbles into my hair. “Storm might’ve?—”
I knee his shin under the covers. “Five minutes.”
A sigh rumbles through me. His hand slides possessively over my hip. “Three.”
I trace the whorl of his ear. “Compromise at four?”
“Hm.” His lips brush my forehead. “Brat.”
Rain taps its lazy rhythm. His breath evens against my throat. I count each beat—proof he stays.
His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear like a war drum with no battle left to fight. Morning light turns the apple blossoms outside into stained glass shadows on the quilt. I trace the tribal tattoos spanning his pec—ink older than our friendship, raised lines telling stories in a language I’ve never asked to learn.
His chest stills. “Stop thinking so loud.”
My fingernail follows a spiral pattern. “Says the guy holding his breath.”
A grunt. His thumb brushes my shoulder blade in apology. The silence stretches, sticky as caramel glaze.
“So.” I press my grin into his sternum. “Legally speaking, does this mean you owe me half the orchard now?”
He stiffens. “Maddie.”
“Too fast? Fine.” I prop myself on one elbow, quilt pooling at my waist. “Minimum, you’ll have to start paying for cinnamon buns like a regular customer.”
His jaw clenches. Gold eyes track a water droplet sliding down the windowpane. “This isn’t… I don’t do this. Ever.”
“Sex? Hadn’t noticed.”
A flare of nostrils. “Involvement.”
I pluck a stray black hair from his chest, stretching it between my fingers. “Hmm. Decent length.”
“Maddie.” His hand engulfs mine, stilling the fidget. “Be serious.”
“You first.”
He mutters a curse in Orcish, sitting up. The quilt slips to his waist, revealing the hard V of his hips. “You make everything a joke when you’re scared.”
Fire licks up my throat. “And you’ll what—carve me a lecture about emotional intimacy? Bake me a thesis on commitment phobia?”
