Page 19 of Romancing the Orc

Yellow and black toucans chatter to each other in the trees overhead, their long, multicolored beaks moving in flashes of green, orange, blue, and red.

I could swear I catch sight of something else in the trees every so often, but I must be seeing the sunlight reflect off ofshiny leaves or something, because there’s no way I’m seeing a disembodied smile hanging in midair, right?

Damn. There it is again.

“Did you see that?” I gasp.

By the time Brokk turns to look where I’m pointing, it’s gone, if it was even there to begin with.

“What was it?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head, unwilling to admit I’m seeing smiles hanging in the middle of the air. Yep, it’s just me, the fantasy author with an overactive imagination.

We continue on, Brokk blazing a trail. I know he’s moving slower than he could, but I still struggle to keep up.

We finally make it to the river, which is wide and calm-looking.

“So we just go along the bank?” I ask. There isn’t much of one—the jungle grows all the way to the water’s edge in most places.

“No, we need to cross. Not only is the center of the island on the other side, but it will also make it harder for them to track us.”

“Swimming?” I wince. I’m not that great of a swimmer. “Do you think the current is strong?”

There’s another problem. I pull out my ancestor’s journal and check the seal on the ziplock bag three times. A niggle of anxiety eats at my stomach. I hope it’ll hold, because water will ruin the journal. Besides being an irreplaceable family heirloom, it’s also the only example of this language I know of—or at least the only one not carved into a stone wall on an isolated island owned by a complete asshole.

Brokk’s big hands cover mine, stopping me from checking yet again. “Don’t fret. I’ll carry you on my shoulders. You won’t get wet, and the book will be fine.”

My muscles unwind in immediate relief. “Oh, would you?”

“Of course, I will.” He sits to take off his boots, then pulls my shoes from his pockets. He ties the boot laces around the heels of my Christian Louboutons and knots them all together, then slings the entire thing around my neck.

Still crouching, Brokk spins around and presents his back. “Climb all the way up to sit on my shoulders.”

I lift one leg, getting it only about halfway up his back before the catsuit freezes all motion, refusing to stretch any farther. I lie forward, plastering my chest to him to get some friction as I cling to his shoulders and try to climb him. My legs keep sliding off, getting nowhere near his shoulders. Why do I always write size difference as so easy in my books?

“Let me get even lower,” he says.

Heat flushes my cheeks. God, this is too embarrassing.

He sits and folds forward until his back’s only a couple of feet off the ground.

I stand beside him, one leg half-cocked, and pause. “Are you going to be able to stand up like this?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

It’s going to take massive amounts of strength, but if he says he can do it… “Okay, then.”

I brush his long hair forward so I won’t sit on it, my fingers lingering for a moment on the silky black strands. Yep, dammit. He really does have shampoo-commercial hair. How does it look this good after roughing it for a night in the jungle?

Even with him bending far forward, my awkward ass still falls across his wide back as I try to climb on.

“Just mount me like a horse.”

“Can we not say ‘mount’? It’s not helping.” It makes me think of other, sexier uses of the word, and now I’m even more flustered, my leg sliding off his back.

“What’s wrong with saying mount?” he says with a husky laugh. “Mount me, Lara.”

That laughdoesthings to me, and when combined with those words… My clit throbs, the rub of the catsuit only making it worse. It’s just enough pressure to add to the tease without being enough to satisfy anything.

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