Page 23 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
"You used to beg sweeter." I bite her earlobe, tongue tracing the curve of her tusk marks.
She arches, breasts pressed to my chest. "You used todemand it harder."
Laughter rips from me, dark and ragged. I hammer into her, the counter creaking with each thrust. Her head knocks a jar of calendula petals—golden dust snowing across her collarbone. She tastes it when I kiss her, bitter and floral, her moans hot against my tongue.
"Harder—"
"Demanding." I yank her leg higher, angling deeper. Her gasp fractures into a scream I swallow whole.
She rips my shirt open—buttons ping against copper kettles. Her palms map every scar, every ridge earned in her absence. When her thumb brushes my nipple, I snarl, pinning her wrists above her head.
"Cheat all you want." Her heel digs into my ass, urging me on. "Still won't...outlast me."
The challenge ignites my blood. I let go, fucking her in earnest now—the wet slap of skin echoing through the shop. Her ankles lock behind me, pulling until every thrust grinds her clit against my pelvis.
"Tessa—"
Her back bows off the counter, curls sticking to her flushed skin. "Don't you dare...stop..."
My thumb finds her swollen clit, circling rough and fast. She comes with a shattered cry, her cunt milking my cock in ruthless waves.
She clenches around my cock like she’s trying to wring the soul from me. I drive deeper, my calloused palms framing her flushed face. She sucks in a breath as my thumb strokes the damp hollow beneath her earlobe—that spot that always makes her shiver.
Her legs tighten around my waist. A bitten-off moan escapes as I shift angles, the swollen head of my cock dragging over thatsweet ridge inside her. The counter groans beneath us, jostling jars of yarrow oil that spill their sharp, peppery scent into the air.
“This—” I pant against her mouth, hips snapping in brutal rhythm, “—isn’t the half of what I’d raze for you.” Her back arches, crushed petals catching in her curls. Lightning flares through the window, gilding the sweat-slick valley between her breasts.
I hoist her off the counter, her startled gasp dissolving into laughter as I carry her toward the worktable. Jars scatter—dried sage, chamomile buds, the acrid tang of valerian root erupting around us. Her thighs tremble when I set her down, her pussy glistening around my cock.
“Quit stalling,” she breathes, hips canted up to take me deeper. Her fingers knot in my beard, tugging hard enough to make my tusks ache. “Or are you as rusty as your diplomacy?”
I snarl, slamming her hips against the edge. Her cry splinters into gasps, the table shuddering with each thrust. She’s tight, desperate, inner walls fluttering as I grind the base of my cock against her clit. Her heel digs into my lower back, urging me faster, but I slow—savoring the way her breath hitches, the wildflower flush creeping down her neck.
“Drogath—”
I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her pulse thunders against my palm, a frantic bird caged beneath her skin. “Say it.” My mouth finds the scar on her shoulder—three claw marks from a wolf she wrestled off my flank a lifetime ago.
I release her hands, sweeping an arm under her back to crush her against me. Her breath stutters as I stand, her legs locked around my hips, my cock buried to the hilt. Rain lashes the windows, but her heat drowns out the storm. I walk us toward the hearth, each step jolting her body against mine.
“Slow,” she whispers, lips skimming the notch of my throat.
“Glacial.” I lower us onto the rug, her spine curving into the hearth’s warmth. My hips roll in slow, deep circles, stretching her with every tortuous lift and fall. Her fingers trace the tribal marks along my shoulders, slick with sweat and rainwater.
“Here.” She guides my hand between her legs. “Again. Just—there, yes—Drogath!”
Her climax crests in waves, her cries muffled against my chest. I swallow her name, thrusting through the convulsions until my own release tears through me—hot and primal and hers. Her teeth sink into my collarbone as I spill, the sharp pain a brand I’ll wear for days.
We lay back sideways, her sweat-damp curls sticking to my chest. Her fingertip traces the edge of my mother’s pocket watch denting her hip. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The fire crackles, our ragged breaths syncing as the storm grumbles its retreat outside.
Her palm settles over the scar above my heart. “You’re trembling.”
“You’re lethal.”
CHAPTER 11
TESSA
The sky outside my kitchen window is soft with that watercolor light you only get after a hard storm. The kind that drags the clouds low and streaks the horizon with muted pinks and sighing blue, like the world is catching its breath. The leaves are still dripping, the gutters along Maple Street gurgling with leftover rainwater, and the wind has finally gone still.
