Page 70 of Orc Me, Maybe

Buttons ping across the floor. I trace the tribal tattoos swirling down his collarbone, ink older than my college diploma. He hesitates when my nails graze the gold chain at his sternum.

“If you make me wait any longer I might?—”

“Shut up.” I press his hand to the lace creeping up my thigh. “Just… shut up and kiss me, you overgrown?—”

His growl swallows the rest.

The blueprint edges dig into my thighs as his hands find the zipper at my back. My pencil skirt splits like birch bark, the sound louder than his ragged inhale. His claws catch on the lace trim of my stockings—hesitation that lasts three heartbeats before I arch into the scrape of calluses against silk.

His teeth graze the hinge of my jaw. "Still wearing the?—"

I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste iron. The growl that follows rattles the drafting lamps. Blueprints flutter to the floor as he pins my wrists above my head, one massive hand spanning both my arms.

Cold air hits bare skin. His palm eclipses my ribcage, thumb brushing the underwire of my bra. I kick off a stiletto—it clatters against the coffee carafe, sending lukewarm dregs bleeding across supply manifests. His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back to expose the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his mouth.

The gold chain around his neck swings into my vision, the pendant catching lamplight as he bends me backward overscattered site plans. My nails score twin crescents into his forearms when he bites the strap of my camisole. Fabric tears.

"Torack—"

He stills, tusks hovering over the hollow of my throat. Hazel eyes meet mine, pupils swallowing the amber irises whole. For half a breath I think he'll speak, but then his mouth crashes into mine again, all heat and hunger and the copper tang of his split lip.

My remaining shoe falls. The heel snaps off. He laughs against my collarbone—a dark, breathless sound—before lifting me clear off the table. Blueprints stick to my bare back as he carries me toward the leather couch. We don't make it halfway.

His knee hits the floorboards first, my spine meeting the braided rug as he strips the ruined stockings down my legs. The tribal tattoos on his chest heave, ink rippling with each labored breath. I rake fingers through his cropped hair, tugging until his tusks press warning dimples into my inner thigh.

Somewhere beyond the office door, a nightjar calls. The camp's new flagpole rope clangs against metal in the wind. His hands map my hips like they're surveying disputed territory, claiming every inch with lips and tongue and the occasional sharp nip that makes my legs tremble.

When I finally claw at his belt, the leather snaps in my grip. My name fractures into three syllables as I work the button of his slacks, the sound strangled when my palm finds what's beneath.

His cock bounces free and I lick my lips, still impressed with its girth. I move to taste him again, but he forces me back down onto the rug.

"Not waiting this time," he growls.

I bite my lips in response, throwing my arms around his shoulders.

"Then take me."

He does.

His cock slides into me so firmly I audibly gasp. His weight envelopes me, securing me against the floor.

The rug burns my shoulder blades. His chain presses a crucible brand between my breasts. Every thrust drives blueprints deeper into the floorboards, graphite smearing our skin like war paint.

The world narrows to the rhythm of his hips turning my gasps into shattered syllables. My fingers find the notches along his tusks—smooth grooves from decades of clenching, of boardroom battles and bedtime negotiations.

"Deeper," I moan. "Deeper!"

"If you want it," he says, "take it."

I hook my ankles behind his knees and roll us sideways. I straddle him, his chain swinging wildly. His hands lock around my thighs, nails pricking skin through ruined stockings.

"Julie—"

I grind down, relishing the way his pupils blow wide.

He bucks hard enough to slam my spine against the drafting table leg. Pencils scatter. I bite back a yelp, nails digging into the tribal swirls over his heart. His smirk dies when I sink my teeth into his pectoral, the taste of salt and pine resin flooding my mouth.

"Feral little?—"

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