Page 20 of Halfling
The stew filled her belly with warmth, and between it and the dagger, her exhaustion grew evermore persuasive, tugging at her shoulders, whispering that she was full and warm and as safe as she could be.
She watched through heavy lids as Orek stood to shake out the many blankets he’d folded inside or strapped to the pack. Over a bed of leaves he laid out a quilted bedroll that he piled with blankets and furs. His efficient movements were mesmerizing, and he was nearly done constructing his bed before she realized she’d better do something if she didn’t want to sleep in the dirt.
But when she began sweeping together her own bed of leaves, another huff.
She looked up to find Orek standing beside the bed he’d prepared, not quite meeting her gaze. It could have been the firelight and her fuzzy, tired vision, but she swore pink dusted his cheeks.
“You take these,” he said.
She blinked at the mass of furs and nearly fell into it. But, “I can’t take your bed.”
“I have more.” And to prove it, he did indeed pull out more blankets and a fur. But they were almost paltry compared to the cozy nest he’d built already. The fur he laid on the quick bed of leaves she’d gathered and dropped the blankets atop it.
When he stood stalwart at this smaller bed, his shoulders set and gaze hard, though not quite high enough to meet hers, she relented.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling the words deep in her chest. She blinked away the tears that pricked her eyes, sure it was from the tiredness.
She climbed into the bed with near reverence, just barely holding in her moan of pleasure. The quilted bedroll was even softer than she imagined, and she sank into it with a sigh of pure delight. Not wanting to soil his beautiful bedding, she kicked off her boots for the first time in days, unable to hold in her groan.
And it was beautiful. Rugged and simple, yes, but also her most favorite thing in the whole world right that moment. From under the mass of blankets and furs, she watched him settle into his own bed. His was indeed much less comfortable looking than hers, especially seeing his bulk barely covered with the blankets he’d spared himself.
The one he’d made for her was sized for him, swathing her in warmth and softness—and his scent. It wasn’t beastly or foul, oh no, she had to keep herself from burying her nose in the blankets to drag in the comforting smell of pine and clean wet earth and male. Her tired mind buzzed with pleasure, and she hugged the dagger and blankets to herself.
Her heart panged as she watched him settle in, though. Knowingthis orc gave up his bed, his fine bed…knowing he liked soft things…
Sorcha sat up, pulling the topmost fur off her bed. Tiptoeing in her socks around the fire, she spread it over the orc before retreating.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, settling again. “This is more than enough.”
“I will stay awake awhile. Keep watch.”
She hummed in acknowledgement, and it didn’t take long for the crackling fire and soft furs to lull her, finally, into sleep.
5
For all the female’s skittishness the night before, a long rest seemed to have cured her of her worst fears of him. Orek watched, in a bit of a befuddlement, as she bustled about their small camp, helping fold and roll up all the blankets, reheating the leftover stew from last night, and dousing the fire. This was all after she’d insisted on seeing to his wound again, and he’d stood in awkward silence, holding up his tunic as she cleaned it, reapplied the salve, and bound it for him.
She’d nodded in approval at her work and then set upon the camp with startling ferocity.
He was an efficient male, never one to lollygag or linger in the mornings, but between his practiced movements and her insistent help, they broke camp quickly—and then there was nothing to do but continue on.
She walked alongside him now, her eyes a bit brighter than the day before. Her rest had been deep and done her good. Her curls were still lank and her skin a bit wan, but she took everything in with an amiable sort of acceptance, asking him questions now and again. Gone were the sharper cuts of her gaze, for which he was grateful.
He himself had slept little. And it wasn’t the hard ground beneath his back nor the coyote pack that circled for about an hour. No, it was the soft sounds of Sorcha sleeping, her occasional little snore, the rustle of her hair against the blankets. She barely moved in her sleep, so tired she must have been, but Orek had found himself watching her across the banked fire, mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of the bedding with her every deep, slow breath.
He’d stayed abed later than he normally would, the sun beating him into the sky, as he thought to give her more sleep. A sharp inhale had been his only warning before she rolled to her back, sat up, and stretched her arms above her head. The movement had arched her back, and she groaned pleasurably into the stretch.
Orek felt his ears heating at the memory of how the move had thrust her heavy breasts out. He couldn’t forget the elegant curves of her neck and back, nor the timber of the satisfied hum she made deep in her throat.
All of those were burned into his memory now.
He was a little ashamed and a lot annoyed at himself that every time he glanced over at her, those memories played before his mind’s eye.
It didn’t help that she kept giving him an excuse to look at her, asking him questions, trying to coax him into conversation.
“And the river we crossed,” she began again, “it’s fed from the north?”
He grunted in assent.
