Page 53 of Torgash

"Beautiful," he murmurs, crawling up my body, all muscle and intent. "You’re absolutely fucking beautiful when you let go."

He captures my mouth in a kiss that lets me taste myself on his tongue—salt and musk and something uniquely mine. The intimate flavor should embarrass me, but instead it makes me feel claimed, marked in ways that have nothing to do with the physical.

"That's just the beginning," he promises against my lips, then starts to stand.

But I'm already moving, sitting up and catching his wrists before he can step back. "My turn."

I push his palms away and pull the shirt over his head myself, revealing the expanse of green-tinged skin I've been fantasizing about. Scars crisscross his chest and arms—some old, some newer, all telling a story. Tribal tattoos wind around his biceps and across his shoulders in intricate patterns and bold lines. But it's the tattoo directly over his heart that makes me pause—circles within circles creating a never-ending loop of rings that are hypnotic in their perfect symmetry.

I trace them with my finger, feeling him shiver under my touch. His eyes never leave my face, watching my reaction to each mark, each piece of his story.

When I reach for his belt, his hands cover mine.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." I look up at him, seeing the careful control he's maintaining. "I want to see all of you."

I work his belt free, then his jeans, pushing them down thick thighs and muscular calves. When I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, I meet his burning gaze instead of hesitating.

The fabric slides down his hips, and my breath catches.

He's magnificent. Larger than I expected, but somehow perfect for the feel of his erection when I was sitting in his lap days ago. Surprisingly human in some ways—the dark hair thattrails from his navel, the smooth shaft—but it's the underside that makes my core clench with anticipation.

Ridged texture runs along his length, pronounced enough that I can see it, tactile enough that I know I'll feel it when he slides inside me.

I reach out confidently, circling my fingers around his length. He's hot, harder than steel, and when I give him one deliberate stroke from base to tip, he groans deep in his chest.

"Nova," he hisses, my name torn from his throat.

My fingers trace those ridges with fascination, imagining how they'll drag against sensitive places and drive me wild. His powerful hand drops to my hair, gathering it into one fist so he can watch my face.

I meet his burning gaze as I lean forward, taking just his tip into my mouth. He tastes of salt and something uniquely him, clean and masculine and intoxicating. My tongue laps at the smooth head, exploring, learning.

His groan this time is lighter, more controlled, but I feel his hips begin to move, pressing forward incrementally. I take him deeper willingly, letting him fuck my mouth with careful thrusts that make me moan around him.

"Fuck," he breathes, free hand bracing against the wall. "Your mouth, Nova—"

I work him with my mouth, hollowing my cheeks, using my tongue to trace those fascinating ridges. His control fractures, hips bucking forward, and I breathe through my nose as his substantial length fills my mouth completely.

His head falls back, eyes closing as his breathing turns ragged, the hand in my hair tightening as he fights for control. Then his hips still.

"Stop," he gasps, pulling back. "Stop or I'll come, and I need to be inside you first."

"I want to taste you," I protest, reaching for him.

But he's already lifting me easily, settling me back onto the bed before covering my body with his. The sheer size of him, the heat radiating from his green skin, makes me feel small and protected in ways I've never experienced. When he settles between my thighs, I can feel him pressing against me, hot and hard and perfect.

"Look at me," he commands, one broad hand cupping my face. "I want to see your eyes when I take you."

I meet his gaze as he guides himself to my entrance. The first press of him makes me gasp—even knowing how big he is, feeling those ridges stretch me is overwhelming. This is what it means to be with an orc.

"Breathe," he murmurs, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Let me in, Nova. All the way in."

I breathe through the stretch, my body adjusting to accommodate his size. As he sinks deeper, I feel every ridge along his length dragging against sensitive places that make me cry out. The friction is intense and threatens to unravel me before we've even begun.

"God," I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can feel—the ridges, they're—"

"Perfect for you," he finishes, voice rough with possession.

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