Page 20 of Thankful for My Orc
His gaze meets mine across the small table, and the air crackles between us. “You tell me.”
I set down my wineglass and look at him—really look at him. The careful way he’s watching me, like I’m something precious that might disappear if he moves too quickly.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It really is.”
I stand slowly, noting how his breathing changes, how his hand tightens on his wineglass. When I step closer, I’m face-to-face with him, though he’s sitting and I’m standing. The size difference sends heat rushing through my veins.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, his gaze speaking volumes about desire and restraint.
“I want to touch you,” I whisper, my hands hovering over his chest. “And I’ve been thinking about your hands all evening. About how it would feel as they mapped every inch of my skin.”
His sharp intake of breath is answer enough. When I finally place my palms against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my fingers, he goes perfectly still.
His warmth seeps into me, steady and grounding, and something inside me shifts—want, fear, and something dangerously close to hope tangling together.
“Is this okay?” I ask as I trace the edge of a tattoo on his throat with trembling fingers.
“More than okay,” he breathes. “I just… I don’t want to rush you.”
“Then don’t rush me,” I say, stepping even closer until there’s barely an inch between us. “Touch me back. Show me what those artist’s hands can do.”
Chapter Nine
Forge
Her hands frame my face, and the touch sends a pulse of heat straight through my chest. For a moment we just look at each other, and I can hear her heartbeat quickening, can scent the subtle shift in her pheromones that speaks of desire and decision.
“Forge,” she whispers.
“Are you sure about this?” The husky tone of my voice is new to me.
“So sure.” Her thumb traces along my jaw, dangerously close to the sensitive base of my tusk. “I want you. I want this.”
Before I can second-guess the wisdom of moving so fast, her lips are on mine.
The kiss starts gentle, exploratory, but there’s steel beneath her softness. She’s not asking permission—she’s claiming what she wants. Her tongue teases at my lower lip, and when I open for her, she deepens the kiss with a confidence that stirs something primal in me.
My enhanced senses drown in her—the spike of arousal in her scent, sweet and intoxicating, mixing with her perfume. An orc can scent his mate’s desire, and it awakens something possessive and hungry inside me. I hear her heartbeat racing, feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Every sense screams one word:mine.
“Jordan,” I breathe against her mouth.
“Mmm,” she whispers, her hands sliding down to grip my shirt. “I’m taking charge here.”
The authoritative tone sends heat shooting straight to my groin. This is the woman who dominates courtrooms, who never backs down from a fight, and she’s directing all that focused intensity at me. Her fingers work at the hem of my Henley with deliberate focus, each brush of her knuckles against my skin making me shiver.
My shirt hits the floor, and her sharp intake of breath makes me suddenly self-conscious. I’m large even by orc standards, and my chest and arms are marked with the traditional tattoos of my clan.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns inked across my pectorals. “God, Forge, you’re absolutely beautiful.”
No one has ever called me beautiful before. Intimidating, yes. Useful, certainly. But beautiful? That word on her lips unearths something tender I didn’t know I’d buried.
I stand, and she has to stretch on her toes to reach me, her small body pressing against mine. The contrast between us has never been more obvious—she barely reaches my chest, her delicate frame making me acutely aware of my own size and strength.
“You’re so small,” I murmur against her lips, my hands spanning her waist.
“And you’re enormous,” she says with a breathless laugh. “But don’t worry, I’m not fragile.”
I slide her zipper down, and the dress puddles at her feet with a whisper. She’s even more perfect than I imagined—honey-brown hair that catches the light, caramel eyes dark with desire, curves that speak of a woman who’s confident in her own skin. Her bra and panties are the only things left still covering the tantalizing part of her, a whisper of fabric against my rougher hands.
