Page 67 of Till Orc Do Us Part
His palm presses warm between my shoulder blades, guiding me inside. Not pushing. Asking.
I cross the threshold.
Moonlight spills across minimalist furniture, all clean lines and cold surfaces. But his touch burns through my shirt as he steps close, chest grazing my back.
“Wait,” he rumbles.
I turn.
His fingers find the hem of my sweater, lifting it slowly. Each inch of exposed skin hums. My breath hitches when cool air wraps my torso—then his hands replace the fabric, calloused palms skimming ribs, the curve of my waist. Reverence in every motion.
“Drokhaz—”
He quiets me with a thumb brushing my lower lip. Slides the sweater off completely. Lets it pool at our feet.
His gaze holds mine as he unbuckles his belt. The leather sighing free. His trousers drop—thick thighs, the heavy arc of his cock already stiff against olive skin. My mouth waters.
“Look at me,” he growls softly when my eyes dart down. “Always look at me.”
I obey.
He lifts me like I’m weightless, hands cradling my ass as I lock ankles behind his back. The wall meets my shoulder blades, cold granite against feverish skin. His tusks graze my throat.
“Please,” I whisper.
He hesitates. “Name it.”
“You. All of you.”
A shudder rolls through him.
He carries me to the oversized sofa, lays me down like something fragile. Kneels between my legs, peeling off my jeans with agonizing care. When his mouth finds my pussy, I arch off the cushions.
“So sweet,” he murmurs against my pussy, tongue circling slow. “Gods, Rowan?—”
My fingers tangle in his hair, silver threads glinting. He licks deeper, groaning when I tug. Works me with lips and tongue until my thighs shake.
“Wait—I need—Drokhaz?—”
He pulls back, chin glistening. Watches me pant. “You want this?” he asks, cock springing free.
I reach for him, guiding his cock to my entrance. “Gods, yes.”
He slides in with a restrained thrust, stretching me full. Buries his face in my neck as we groan in tandem.
“Look,” I gasp.
Storm-black eyes meet mine. He moves with deliberate rolls of his hips, each push dragging a broken sound from my throat.
“Mine,” he rasps, thumb finding my clit. “My Rowan.”
Our rhythm fractures. His pace quickens, grip bruising my hips. I claw at his shoulders, breathless, as the coil snaps?—
He follows me over, spilling hot and deep with a choked roar of my name. Collapses beside me, chest heaving.
His breath steadies first, warm against my temple. I trace the scar along his jaw. “Your combat trophy or drunken poker game?”
The rumble in his chest could be laughter. “Failed poetry duel.”
