Page 42 of Built Orc Tough
"Gorran," she whispers.
A shudder runs through me. My own clothes feel suddenly suffocating. She helps peel away the layers, her palms smoothing over the thick scars mapping my torso, battle-earned grooves she never signs. A thumb traces an old puckered stab wound near my ribs. My stomach muscles jump.
The dress pools around her waist, then lower. The air bites cool, but she burns. I feel her tremble as I trace the soft planes of her stomach, lower still, fingers skimming the lips of her pussy, finding damp heat. Her hips arch, off the moss. A small, choked sound escapes her.
"Look at me," I rasp. My voice is a stranger's.
Her eyes, dark pools reflecting the crackling flames, lock with mine. There’s a challenge there, yes, but deeper: trust. Utter, terrifying trust. Mine to honor. My fingers stroke deeper inside, delving gently into slickness, exploring the tight coil of nerves. She gasps, head tilting back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.
"Been waiting weeks," she breathes, the words shaky.
The confession ignites something primal. My cock aches, hard as seasoned ironwood against her thigh.
My clothing is gone now, discarded in the breathing shadows beyond the firelight. She guides me, trembling herself, not pushing, just positioning. I catch her wrist, hold it for a heartbeat over my own pounding pulse.
"Slow," I manage, the word grating.
"Gorran," she says again, softer now. Her free hand cups my cheek, pulling my gaze back down.
And then she arches, guiding my cock towards her entrance. My tip catches at her wet heat. I lower myself, bracing on trembling forearms. The press is exquisite resistance, a tight, hot sheath yielding inch by impossibly slow inch. Her breath stutters into a low moan. Her eyes never leave mine.
I sink deeper, deeper still, until our hips meet, and I’m buried fully inside her. The fullness steals my breath. Her pussy clenches around my hard cock like a velvet fist, drawing a ragged groan from me.
We stay locked like that, fused skin-to-skin, breathing harshly into the shared space between us. Exploratory, like charting sacred ground. Buried emotion; a dam cracking wide, flooding us both with the terrifying, undeniable truth neither dared speak.
She moves her hips, tentative, and the friction sends sparks straight down my spine. My mouth finds hers again, muffling the soft sighs that are my undoing. My hands are careful as theyslide down her ribs, finding purchase on her hips, holding her steady.
The taste of her tongue still fills my mouth – summersby wine and hunger. My hips move without permission. A deep, slow pull that makes her gasp break against my teeth. Then deeper again, forcing her open. Tight heat clamps down around my cock, slick and perfect. Her back arches off the moss, pressing her breasts hard against my chest.
Control frays with each thrust. The careful herbalist folds beneath the animal need roaring in my blood. My rhythm loses its precision, becoming rougher, faster. The slide of my cock into her pussy is primal, wet and deep. Her blunt nails scrape my shoulders.
“Harder—” Her demand comes on a fractured breath. Her legs lock around my waist, ankles pressing against my lower back, pulling me impossibly deeper. Begging my weight onto her. A challenge and surrender.
I drive into her. The force of it shakes the cushions beneath us. Each slam of my hips jolts her body. Her head thrashes side to side, dark hair tangling. The firelight paints feverish streaks across her closed eyelids, over the frantic pulse jumping in her throat. She bites her lower lip, then moans, the sound long and desperate. “Gorran. Gorran.” My name isn't a plea now; it's an anchor thrown into a savage sea.
My hands grip her hips tighter, lifting her slightly to meet my thrust. The angle shifts. My cockhead grinds deep inside her, finding a place that makes her cry out. Her internal muscles flutter and spasm around me. "There!" She gasps, her hips snapping up to meet mine. "Rightthere!"
The world burns down to the feel of her surrounding me. The electric drag as I pull back. The breathtaking fullness as I surge forward into her hot grip.
Her fingers fist in the moss beside her head. Her body writhes, demanding, bucking beneath mine. Sweat rolls down my temple onto her collarbone. Every tendon in my neck, my back, screams with the strain of holding on. Of holdingback.
The urge to utterly consume is a beast gnawing at its chains. But her gasps, her tightening grip, the way her pussy pulses and grips my cock… she demands the storm. She welcomes it.
"Look at me." The growl scrapes my throat raw. Her dark eyes fly open, wide, fever-bright. Seeingme. Not the orc, not the gladiator – just the desperation coursing through my veins, mirrored in hers. Her breath hitches as my pace turns brutal, the slap of skin soaking into the night air. Her cries become a constant, escalating chant against my throat. Building. Cresting.
"Gorran..." Her nails rake across my nape. "I'm— Gah!—" A choked gasp cuts her off as her body locks rigid beneath me. She throws her head back, exposing her throat as an endless, silent scream contorts her face. Then the tremor starts. Deep inside the wet clutch of her pussy, a wave of spasms ripples through her core.
A low shudder runs through Ivy as the aftershocks fade, her body pliant against mine. The fire pops, scattering embers skyward like fleeting constellations beneath the real ones shimmering above the birch canopy. I shift, pulling her closer, her spine curving into the wall of my chest.
One of my arms rests beneath her neck, the other curved protectively around her ribs. Skin slick with sweat cools rapidly in the night air. She lets out a contented sigh that dissolves against the thick scar tissue over my bicep.
Her fingers find mine where they rest against her ribs. Small, blunt-tipped nails trace the heavy knuckles, the ridges of newer scar tissue pale against my green skin.
The tangled mess of cushions, our hurriedly discarded clothes, the glint of emptied wine bottles by the cooling fire pit—they recede into the periphery. Only her matters. Her warmth, solid as loam. The rhythmic rise and fall of her breath beneath my forearm. The faint scent of crushed moss mint in her damp hair. A firefly drifts lazily past, a bobbing coal in the dark, illuminating the relaxed curve of her cheek.
She tilts her head back, just enough. In the dim glow, her eyes find mine. No words. Only a profound calm in the whisky-dark depths, erasing weeks of meticulous calculation masking vulnerability. She shifts slightly. Her bare leg hitches over mine, seeking more contact, skin against skin. Content.
CHAPTER 19
