Page 68 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I snort. “Sonnets or haikus?”
“Limericks.” His hand drifts down my flank. “They cheated.”
Moonlight catches silver strands in his hair as he rolls us both upright. My back presses against his chest, his erection already hard against my spine. Calloused palms glide up my thighs, spreading them wide.
“You heal fast for an old man.”
A tusk grazes my earlobe. “Never said I was finished with you.”
His fingers dip between my legs, testing slickness. I arch into the touch.
The growl vibrates through my bones. He yanks my hips back, sheathing his cock again in one brutal thrust. My gasp smothers into cushions.
“Look.” His hand fists in my hair, angling my head toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the penthouse. “Watch me ruin you.”
Our reflection blurs—his olive skin gleaming under pendant lights, my knuckles white on the armrest. Each snap of his hips jostles the leather sofa.
“Still mocking my age?” He nips my shoulder.
I choke on a moan. “Act your years—use the bed next time.”
His thumb circles my clit rough enough to make my knees buckle. “Should’ve negotiated better terms, little hawk.”
The nickname unravels me. I clench around him hard.
“No.” He stills, chest heaving. “Look.”
Forced to meet my own gaze—flushed, fucked-out, his possessive grip branding my waist. His free hand slides up to cup my throat.
“Mine.”
“Yours,” I gasp.
He rewards the admission with deep, grinding rolls that torture us both. Our twin roars sync—his bass thunder to my shattered soprano.
“Drokhaz—"
“Shatter,” he commands.
The orgasm rips through me like wildfire. He follows moments later, teeth sunk into my shoulder as he spills hot and endless. We collapse sideways, tangled in each other.
His heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath my cheek. Moonlight stripes the tangled linen clinging to his hips, the scar along his jaw gleaming like molten silver. I trace it with my pinky. "Still mad about the limerick betrayal?"
The arm beneath me tightens. "Marlok had third-rate rhyme schemes. Should've won by default."
"Guess we'll need to workshop your verse."
His fingers skate up my spine, callouses catching on sensitive skin. "Doubt that's the craft you want me practicing tonight." The gravel in his voice stirs heat low in my belly.
I flatten my palm over the steady thump-thump of his heart. "This your way of confessing prior experience with bardic seduction?"
A rumble shakes his chest—orcish approximation of a laugh. "Swooned three grandmothers at the Midsummer Trials. Set a clan record."
"Charming. Were their hearing aids?—"
"Rowan." His thumb tilts my chin up, storm-black eyes gone serious. "Are you afraid?"
The question hangs between the smudged lipstick on his collar and my bare legs tangled with his. I press deeper into his warmth. "Only of wanting this too much."
