Page 26 of Orc's Little Human
She arches against me, pressing closer, and the movement makes me groan into her mouth. My tusks brush her cheek as I change angles, and instead of pulling away, she turns into the touch. Her tongue darts out to trace the edge of one tusk, and the sensation nearly brings me to my knees.
"Fuck," I breathe against her lips, the word torn from somewhere deep in my chest.
She smiles against my mouth, wicked and knowing. "Is that a request or a promise?"
The sass in her voice, even now, even like this, makes something primitive and possessive surge through me. This woman—this fierce, impossible, maddening woman—she doesn't cower from me. Doesn't shrink away from my size or my tusks or the barely leashed violence that's always simmering just beneath my surface.
She meets me blow for blow, challenge for challenge, and it's the most intoxicating thing I've ever experienced.
I shift my grip, one hand fisting in her hair to tilt her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. She gasps at the slight pain, but her pupils are blown wide with want, not fear. I can see her pulse hammering against her pale skin, can smell the sweetmusk of her arousal mixing with the scent of river water and herbs that always clings to her.
When I press my mouth to her throat, she shudders in my arms, a broken moan escaping her lips. The sound goes straight to my cock, and I can't stop myself from grinding against her, letting her feel exactly what she's doing to me.
My magic is singing now, a constant hum beneath my skin that grows stronger with every touch, every kiss, every breathy sound she makes. It's like she's amplifying something in me, making everything sharper, more intense. I should be concerned about that, should be questioning what it means.
Right now, I don't give a fuck about anything except the woman in my arms.
She tugs at my braids, pulling my mouth back to hers, and I kiss her like I'm trying to consume her soul. There's nothing gentle about it—it's raw and demanding and desperate in a way that should probably scare both of us. But she gives as good as she gets, biting at my lower lip until I growl, kissing me back with a ferocity that makes my blood boil.
This is madness. Complete fucking madness. She's human, she's my prisoner, she's everything I should stay away from. But feeling her wrapped around me, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, listening to the little sounds of pleasure she makes—none of that matters.
All that matters is this. This moment. This woman who's somehow crawled under my skin and made herself at home there.
My hands roam her body with increasing desperation, mapping every curve, every soft spot that makes her gasp. When I cup her breast through the rough fabric of her tunic, she arches into the touch, head falling back against the wall with a throaty moan that makes my control snap completely.
I need more. Need all of her. Need to bury myself so deep inside her that I forget where I end and she begins. The intensity of the want is staggering, consuming, like nothing I've ever experienced before.
She seems to sense the shift in me, the way my touches become more urgent, more possessive. Her legs tighten around my waist, and when she rolls her hips against mine, the friction sends white-hot pleasure shooting up my spine.
"Korrath," she breathes against my mouth, my name falling from her lips like a prayer or a curse. The sound of it in her voice—breathy and wanton and desperate—nearly undoes me completely.
I can't stop touching her. Can't stop kissing her. All I can think about is consuming every inch of her as I carry her to my private chambers. She's never been in here—I've made sure of that. This space has always been mine alone, sacred in its solitude.
But having her here feels right in a way that terrifies me.
My bed is nothing more than thick furs piled on a raised wooden platform, but it's soft and warm, and when I lay her down on it, she looks like she belongs there. The firelight from the main room spills through the doorway, casting golden shadows across her flushed skin.
I hover over her, hands reaching for the hem of her tunic. She's so beautiful it hurts to look at her—hair spread across my furs like molten copper, lips swollen from my kisses, eyes dark with want. I want to see all of her, want to worship every inch of skin she's kept hidden from me.
But when my fingers brush the fabric, she catches my wrists.
"No." Her voice is breathless but firm. "Leave it on."
The words catch me off guard. My hands freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid as doubt crashes over me in cold waves. She doesn't want this. Doesn't want me. I've pushed toofar, taken too much, assumed she wanted what I wanted just because she kissed me back.
I start to pull away, my throat thick with something that might be shame. "I won't force you. I won't just take?—"
"Korrath." She sits up, one hand still wrapped around my wrist, the other cupping my face. Her thumb traces the line of my cheekbone, gentle but insistent. "I want you. I want this. I just... I need to keep the tunic on."
The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost painful. She wants me. She wants this. But there's something in her voice—something vulnerable and guarded that makes me want to pull her closer and shield her from whatever put that note there.
I don't ask why. If she needs the tunic on, then she keeps it on. Simple as that.
"Then undress me," I growl against her mouth, claiming another kiss because I can't help myself. "Touch me, Selene. I need your hands on me."
She doesn't hesitate. Her fingers find the leather ties of my vest, working them loose with steady hands. The worn hide falls away, and when her palms press against my bare chest, I can't stop the groan that rumbles up from somewhere deep inside me.
Her touch is electric. Every brush of her fingers sends sparks racing along my nerve endings, makes my magic hum beneath my skin like a living thing. She traces the scars that crisscross my torso—souvenirs from countless battles and the blood magic that's carved pieces from my flesh over the years. Instead of flinching away, she follows each raised line with reverent fingertips.
