Page 37 of The Orc's Protection
At his nod, I help him remove the garment, revealing his torso to my eager exploration. His chest and shoulders are broader than seems possible, covered in smooth green skin a shade deeper than his face and marked with intricate patterns worked into the skin itself—not tattooed but pressure-etched, the lines raised slightly, darker where the pigment runs deepest. Defined muscles ripple beneath my touch, a testament to strength that far exceeds human capacity.
“These tell your story?” I observe, following one particularly intricate pattern that spans his right shoulder. “Like living history on your skin?”
“Family lineage,” he explains, voice roughened as my fingers continue their exploration. “Warrior commitments. Protection vows.”
I bend to press my lips against one of the markings, a spiraling pattern over his heart. When my hands slide down to his arms, my fingers find the bands—dark metal, warm from his skin, the stamped markings small and precise under my fingertips.
“Yes,” he says. “Those are earned. One at a time.”
The metal is warm from his body heat.
The taste of his skin is subtle but distinctive, something like cedar and earth, elemental in a way I can’t quite describe. He inhales sharply, his hands tightening on my waist.
“You enjoy this research, teacher?” he asks, a hint of teasing in his strained voice.
“Thorough investigation is the key to understanding,” I counter, continuing my exploration of his chest with both hands and lips. “Don’t you want me to be well-informed?”
His response is a growl that vibrates through my entire body as his hands finally move upward, cupping my breasts with exquisite gentleness. Even through the fabric of my bra, the heat of his touch burns like a brand, making me arch into the contact.
“May I?” he asks, fingers hovering at the clasp between my shoulder blades.
At my nod, he unfastens it with surprising dexterity for such large fingers. The garment falls away, exposing me fully to his gaze. For a moment, I fight the urge to cover myself, acutely aware of our differences—my human fragility against his orc solidity.
But the reverence in his eyes banishes any insecurity. “Perfect,” he murmurs.
I take his wrists, guiding his hands to my body. “You won’t hurt me,” I assure him. “I trust you.”
The simple declaration seems to touch something deep within him. His palms cup my breasts with exquisite care, his thumbs brushing across sensitive peaks that tighten at his touch. The contrast between his green skin against my paler tone is strikingly beautiful—different worlds meeting, connecting, creating something new between them.
“So soft,” he says wonderingly. “Humans are so soft.”
“Not fragile, though,” I remind him, arching into his touch. “Just different.”
His exploration becomes more confident, learning what draws sighs and small sounds of pleasure from me. When his mouth replaces one hand, the wet heat of his tongue against my nipple draws a gasp from my throat. The cool, smooth edge of a tusk grazes my skin and I shiver—not from fear, nothing like fear—just the startling intimacy of him, all of him, completely present against me. My fingers tangle in his long hair, holding him close as sensation spirals through me.
The hardening length beneath me makes his arousal impossible to ignore. I shift deliberately against him, drawing a rumbling groan that I feel through my entire body. His hands grip my hips, and for a moment I think he’ll guide my movements, but instead he stills completely, muscles going taut with restraint.
“Riona,” he says, voice strained. “We need to slow down.”
The words don’t match the hunger in his eyes, the tension in his body, the way his hands still grip my hips like he’s fighting not to pull me closer.
“Why?” I ask breathlessly, genuinely confused.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths, clearly struggling for control. “Because if we continue like this, I won’t be able to stop. And I refuse to claim you fully without proper preparation. Without certainty that you understand what it means.”
“I know what it means,” I protest, even as part of me recognizes the wisdom in his restraint.
“Do you?” He cups my face gently, forcing me to meet his eyes. “In my culture, physical joining isn’t casual. Full claiming is a declaration. A commitment. And you deserve better than hurried passion when we’ve barely begun to understand what we’re building.”
The formality of his words somehow makes them more powerful. My pulse still races, my body still aches with wanting, but I understand what he’s saying. This matters too much to rush the most sacred part.
“You’re right,” I admit reluctantly.
His thumb traces my cheekbone. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t give you pleasure tonight. If you’ll let me.”
The offer sends a shock of heat through me. “What do you mean?”
“Let me show you what I can do without claiming you fully,” he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes my toes curl. “Let me learn your body. What makes you sigh. What makes you moan. What makes you come apart in my arms.”
