Page 49 of My Orc Billionaire
My little human’s style was so different from mine. I’d spent a decade keeping a tailor in business just so I could match the human image of a successful businessman. But Riven wore what was comfortable and didn’t care what others thought of her.
Part of me wondered, if she were to move entirely into my space, if I might learn that skill from her…and if I wanted to.
It was November 7th, a full week after my life had changed so completely, and I still felt as if I was living in a bit of limbo. Taking each day at a time, carefully feeling out interactions with Riven.
What we shared in the bedroom—and the bathtub, and the kitchen, and the living room rug—wasn’t awkward at all; it was the one time I felt as if we moved perfectly together.
And when we were able to just sit down and talk, like when we shared a meal, things feltright. I liked hearing her thoughts and questions.
But the other times? In the times when she cooked for me, and I sat in my office and thanked her for the coffee? That felt wrong.
Don’t get me wrong; I liked having her in my space. And I understood that it was in her nature to care for others. But dammit, I wanted to take care ofher!
And I couldn’t do that when I was just her boss, could I?
She’d taken this job, she’dstood up to me, because she needed it. If she was going to work for me, then the least I could do was make it worth her while.
I typed out an email asking Sylvik to increase her salary, then realized she might think I was paying her for sleeping with me. Would she? I needed to discuss this with her before I made such a big change, and I didn’t know how to do that. So I deleted it.
Ididorder little gifts for her—a new espresso machine, a high-end pasta maker, and an emerald pendant that matched her eyes. Each time, she laughed and thanked me with a gentle kiss, and told me she didn’t need gifts.
She was right; she didn’tneedthem. But what was I supposed to do otherwise with this itchy, uncomfortable feeling that I wasn’t taking good enough care of her? I wanted her, dammit, and myKteerwas telling me that despite all our fucking, she still wasn’tmine.
Claim claim claim.
I flicked my tongue against my broken tusk, the sharp spike of pain drowning out myKteer’sconstant chanting. Ihadclaimed Riven, hadn’t I? She’d learned to take my cock, I’d brought her pleasure in dozens of different ways. What was I missing?
“I still can’t believe you got this for me. I don’t mind rolling noodles.”
My attention jerked back to the project I’d volunteered to help her with. “Your pasta is delicious. But I do love angel hair in a creamy cheese sauce.”
“I know.” She laughed, handing me the manual. “I ordered more of that cheddar for you. And this is going to make homemade angel hairsomuch easier. Here, find some good recipes.”
Since she’d already struggled to get the machine out of the box herself, I scoffed. “Your recipe is perfect. All this Styrofoam, on the other hand…”
I began to break down the packaging and shove it into the kitchen trash as she fiddled with the base.
“There’s a place on the mainland that will recycle that crap,” she said without looking up. “I only get over there every few weeks, but if you’ll put it into a separate bag, I can stash it in the garage until then.”
Obediently, I hummed and pulled out another trash bag. I loved that my little human had the same respect and reverence for the planet that I did… My movements slowed. Did I, though? I remembered the deep scar of Vengeance Mine.Raping the land.
“Ooh, look at this! There’s a roller for lasagna sheets! I could use it for dumplings too, I’ll bet.”
I shook my head, then forced myself to smile at her enthusiasm. “Lasagna is one of Tarkhan’s favorites.”
“Sami’s too.” She grinned at me. “They’re well-matched.”
“Then lets invite them over to break it in. A lasagna dinner?”
Riven slowly placed the roller next to the base, her gaze dropping to my chest. “Um. Sure, if you want. I could definitely make some lasagna for you?—”
“For us,” I gently corrected, the idea sounding more and more right. “I’m talking about inviting them for dinner withus. We could invite your mother as well.”
She was chewing on her lower lip when she finally looked away, and I noticed her hand shook slightly when she picked the roller back up. After her second try to slide it into position, I stepped closer and closed my hand around hers.
“Riven, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer me, but I could see she was breathing too quickly, her attention on the pasta machine as if it were fascinating. “Riven,” I prompted.
