Page 20 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
“Neither do I,” he says.
And then he does the most dangerous thing he’s done yet—he touches my wrist, light as a whisper, grounding me. Not pulling. Justbeing.
“Do you dream about me?” I ask.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Every damned night.”
At bedtime, I sleep curled in my childhood bed, the walls faded and peeling around me like paper skin, the orchard humming outside the window. I dream of Garruk’s hands—callused and careful—on my waist, at my jaw, across my shoulders, trailing fire behind each touch. I dream of his voice low against my throat, of him saying my name like it’s the only word he still remembers how to speak.
And when I wake, breathless and damp with want, I don’t feel ashamed.
I feelseen.
CHAPTER 12
GARRUK
The sun hangs low, bleeding red-orange across the sky, and I stand beneath the old Sentry Oak for a full ten minutes before I spot her. Ivy’s sitting on a mossy stump near the creek, tracing patterns in the damp earth with a stick. Her dark curls escape the messy knot at her nape, catching the fading light. My pulse kicks against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Say it. Just say it.
I cross the clearing, boots crunching on fallen twigs. She looks up, eyes wide and wary, but doesn’t flinch. "Garruk."
The air thickens between us. I stop a breath away, close enough to see the freckle beneath her left eye. "Been thinking," I grind out, the words rough as bark. "About last night."
She drops the stick. "And?"
"This... whatever this is." Her gaze locks onto mine. "It won’t be simple. Not for you. The stares. The whispers. Folks cross the street when they see me walking alone. They won’t like some city lawyer mixing with an orchard-bound orc." Her hand curls into a fist against her knee. "And I can’t change what I am. Or what I need to protect here."
Ivy stands abruptly, closing the space until her chin tilts up toward mine. Her scent—sun-warmed apples and rain—drownsme. "Let me save us both some time." Her voice doesn’t waver. "You can’t offer me an easy life? I neverwantedeasy, Garruk." A shift in the orchard wind lifts strands of her hair. "I wantedyou."
The admission cracks through me like lightning—raw, loud, terrifying. Any resolve snaps. I reach for her jaw, callused thumb brushing her cheekbone. "Gods help us."
Her fingers knot into my work shirt. "Took you long enough."
Our mouths meet. Not tentative like the moonlight kiss. This is claiming. Surrender. She tastes like defiance and honeyed tea, and I pull her flush against me, arm banding her waist while my other hand tangles in her hair. Her sigh shatters into a gasp when my tongue slides against hers. Nobody speaks about the scar on my knuckle catching on her sweater, or how her hip fits against mine like a lost carving. The orchard falls silent, holding its breath around us.
My voice scrapes against her neck as we break for air. "Still scared?"
Ivy’s nails skim my spine. "Only that you’ll stop." She drags me down again. The world narrows to her mouth, her heat, her tangled breaths against my skin.Mine. The word drums under my ribs, a truth too loud to ignore.
Her mouth still tastes faintly of tea, tart and sweet. I lift her effortlessly, my heartbeat wild against her ribs. She clings, legs wrapping my waist. We stumble toward the mossy bank by the creek where her stick still lies forgotten. The air hums with crickets, the creek whispering below. My hands tremble on her sweater hem.
"Off," she pants, already tugging at my flannel buttons. "Now."
I dive in. Her sweater shreds at the neckline, my tusks scraping thread, my patience gone. Ivy arches against me. "Yes?—"
Her breast fits perfectly against my palm. I’m lost in her skin—the shock of heat, the pebble-hard nipple under my thumb. I bend to close my mouth over it. Her cry unravels into a sob. Her hips rock against my half-hard cock, friction like wildfire through denim.
She pushes me backward onto the moss. Leans over me, dark curls falling around her face. "You," breath ragged, "aren't the only one who needs this." Her fingers unbuckle my belt, pull denim down past my hips. My cock springs free, thick and flushed. Her palm runs its blunt length once, twice. I nearly snap.
"Ivy—"
"Show me," she demands, straddling my thighs. Her pants tear away. Bare beneath. Dark curls nestle over her pussy, slick and glistening. Wetness coats my thigh. Her scent was apple blossoms this morning. Now it’s musk and salt. Divine.
I sit up, swallow her gasp against my tusks. Slide a finger into her heat, feeling her pussy stretch around me. "This isn't water magic." Delving deeper. "You're a damn fountain."
Her inner walls clamp around me. "Shut up, Garruk—fuck meproperly."
