Page 25 of Orc'd At A Wedding
She's not my client anymore.
She's mine.
"Olog," she breathes, her voice trembling. "It doesn’t matter about the contract. Who cares about the performance. I just—I need?—"
"Tell me what you need."
Her hands come up, fisting in the ruined fabric of my wine-soaked shirt, and she pulls me down until our mouths are a breath apart.
"You," she whispers. "I need you."
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. It's not professional. It's raw and desperate and fueled by a full day of forced distance and unspoken tension, and the moment our lips meet, I lose the last fragile thread of control I've been clinging to.
She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist and hauling her flush against me. She's so small compared to me, her body fitting perfectly against mine, and the feeling of her soft curves pressed to me sends a primal, possessive surge through my veins.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, and she makes a sound, half whimper, half moan, that goes straight to my groin.
My hand tightens in her hair.
She arches into me, her nails digging into my shoulders through the wet fabric of my shirt, and I lift her effortlessly, setting her on the marble counter so she's closer to my height.
Her legs wrap around me instantly.
I groan into her mouth, my hips pressing forward, and she gasps again, her head falling back as I drag my lips down the line of her throat. She tastes like champagne and salt, and I can't get enough.
"Olog," she breathes, her hands sliding into my hair, tugging hard enough to make my scalp prickle. "God, yes?—"
I bite down gently on the curve of her neck, and she moans, loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the marble walls.
My control snaps.
I pull back just enough to look at her flushed face, panting, her lipstick smeared and her eyes dark with need—and I have to force myself to speak through the haze of raw, primal hunger clouding my brain.
"Bliss," I rasp. "If we do this—if I touch you the way I want to touch you—there is no going back to the contract. No more pretending. Do you understand?"
She nods frantically, her hands already tugging at the buttons of my ruined shirt. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I want this. I want you."
I capture her wrists, pinning them gently against the mirror behind her, and she whimpers, her hips rolling against me in a way that makes my vision blur.
"Say it again," I demand.
"I want you," she gasps. "Please, Olog, I?—"
I release her wrists and kiss her again, harder this time, claiming her mouth with a possessiveness I've never allowed myself to feel for anyone. Her hands fly to me, yanking the buttons of my shirt open with enough force that one pops off and clatters across the marble floor.
I shrug out of the ruined shirt and let it drop, and her hands are on my bare skin immediately, tracing the lines of my tattoos, her touch sending sparks of heat racing through my nerves.
"God," she whispers, staring at my chest. "You're?—"
"Too much?" I finish roughly.
"Perfect," she corrects, her voice breathless.
I growl low in my throat, my hands sliding down to grip her thighs, spreading them wider, pulling her to the very counter. The silk of her dress bunches between us, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric.
She's trembling.
